Chapter 3
“While mate selection was once widely held up as an example of ‘evolutionary psychology’ at work, a moment’s examination reveals tastes wholly divergent by culture. Additionally, no culture has ever elevated the desirability of women who demonstrate an eagerness for hard physical work immediately following parturition, which would certainly be a key survival trait of our teeming forebears. Rather we see divergent tastes of desirability strictly driven by intra-tribal dynamics alone.”
—Dr. Georgette Hester-Vicary, Irresistible Puppeteer: The Motivational Primacy of Tribe
For more than six centuries, Pomeroy & Watt remained the preeminent gentry club within Imperial City, its membership limited to truly exclusive numbers. Those possessing a coveted place on the lists of Pomeroy & Watt not only spent an absurd sum for the privilege, but must have also somehow attained a nod from sponsoring members, who voted to admit only a small coterie of new peers each year.
Walking through the vast, bronze double doors of Pomeroy & Watt as a full member had remained an ambition of Richard Sinclair-Maru for years, and he would not allow a couple of nagging irritations to diminish the fulfillment of this glorious moment. Only substantial powers among the Great Houses patronized Pomeroy & Watt, not the outer circle of lesser lights where Houses like the Sinclair-Maru had been relegated for centuries, and Richard intended to squeeze every drop of influence and prestige from this advent.
At last…
Richard’s garments flowed across his slender frame in just the way his haberdasher had intended, and his every fiber was manicured for a particular effect. For nearly twenty years Richard had complained in vain within the Family, arguing that the Family’s insistence on heavy-grav conditioning and an overemphasis on martial pursuits left an unappealing, cloddish stamp upon every member of the Sinclair-Maru, placing them socially down with the poor heavyworlders and other fringe parties.
No longer, thanks to Richard’s own private rebellion.
Richard permitted himself a quiet smile at the memory of his petty battles, his petty victories, cheating his way out of much of the requisite heavy-grav time, sneaking his way into light-grav treatments during his youthful growing years where its height-increasing effects were the most effective. Those little tweaks earned smirks and slights within the Family, and caused real physical pain through the Family’s brutish insistence on so many regressive martial contests among the young.
Still, as Richard’s finely crafted boot strode upon the glossy marble inlays of Pomeroy & Watt’s entrance hall, he accepted every barb and nettle it had cost him to attain this moment.
The liveried attendant—a Vested Citizen, of course, no demi-cits setting foot within this hallowed refuge—greeted Richard with a stiff bow, passing Richard one of the mandatory hedge bands. Richard settled the transparent golden loop over his eyes, feeling the giddy delights even a hedge band promised: unmonitored conversations with fellow club members—important conversations. The feeling of finally penetrating within the inner circle felt more intoxicating than any substance Richard had ever imbibed.
Moving on through the chamber, Richard possessed only the slightest appreciation for the rich heartwood paneling or the gleaming brass wager bill, where bets of questionable moral character had been continuously posted since before the first Shaper armada arrived centuries before. The antiquity held little appeal for Richard, as the Sinclair-Maru already seemed to fetishize antiquity, their ancestral home, Lykeios Manor, being little more than an oppressive mausoleum—at least to Richard’s thinking.
No…modern influence, fresh, dynamic powers are what drew Richard to Pomeroy & Watt, and the antiquated setting provided more contrast than anything, filled with important people who mattered today.
A pair of unfamiliar members stood at the wager bill as Richard approached, and he schooled himself to a pose of well-bred disinterest. His intent to offer nothing more than a cool nod faltered when the two at the wager bill glanced at Richard before turning their full focus upon him.
“You’re Sinclair-Maru, aren’t you?” a man of indeterminable age asked, the tall woman at his side eyeing Richard skeptically, her lips pursed.
“I—uh—yes. Richard Sinclair-Maru.” Richard dipped a slight bow as he realized how greatly he had come to rely upon the systems provided through his Shaper implant and its provided UI. The hedge band conferred immediate anonymity upon strangers, whether they had their own identity masked or not, forcing Richard to rely upon a foggy memory to place the faces before him.
The man glanced at his tall companion with a satisfied grin. “Ha! Thought as much.” He turned his attention back to Richard as he jerked a thumb toward the wager bill. “Cast some light on this wager for us, then?”
Richard’s eyes traveled over the diverse, sometimes absurd wagers posted upon the gleaming brass expanse. Between the impending Mendel-Norde duel, and the questioned identity of beautiful Tamorra Sato’s mysterious new suitor, Richard caught sight of the Sinclair-Maru name: Captain Saef Sinclair-Maru, IMS Hightower.
Beside the name of Richard’s infuriating younger brother, the wager listed a bevy of speculative outcomes for Hightower, and Richard felt his face go rigid at the thought of Saef, here in the heart of Pomeroy & Watt, where he did not belong. The nagging voices of irritation that lay barely quiescent within Richard’s mind came roaring to the fore.
Through stiff lips Richard managed to say, “I’m afraid I know nothing more than common Nets babble.” At their politely disbelieving expressions, Richard hastened to add, “You know how it is with Fleet—obsessive security and all.”
The two citizens clearly remained skeptical, but merely sniffed, dismissing Richard with their bored expressions.
Richard fell silent, moving away from the pair, his cheeks burning from more than this one source of chagrin. He could scarcely admit to himself that this triumphal step into Pomeroy & Watt only arrived from the largesse of Saef’s industrious, warlike behavior. The rich prizes Saef had secured directly arose from the worst Family traditions of barbaric violence. Now, to have Saef’s name and martial obsessions cast in his face even here…
Richard strode blindly forward, moving toward the grand gallery and dining hall. To his right and left, stairs ascended and descended to nested alcoves—intimate sitting rooms where members might assemble a few powerful companions to hash out the important business of Trade, finance, or governmental wheedling, all in relative privacy.
From one of the sunken alcoves a tall, resplendent figure ascended and Richard almost froze in his steps, recognizing the face of Preston Okuna, one of the brightest lights of one of the ascendant Great Houses.
Yet again, the brutish behavior of Saef invaded this refined sanctuary, in Richard’s mind at least. Though the details had been quickly hushed by some mutual act of the Okunas and the Sinclair-Maru, Richard knew the rumors: Saef had somehow embroiled himself in a needless conflict with the Okunas that had resulted in a pair of Okuna principals dead…and now Richard faced the shameful implications of Saef’s barbarism.
Richard lowered his eyes, intending to continue onward to the main lounge and the illusion at least of anonymity.
“Richard Sinclair-Maru, aren’t you?”
Richard stopped and turned to face Preston Okuna, feeling more off-balance than ever. The nonsense twaddle from old Devlin’s book of strictures fluttered around Richard’s thoughts but found no sure grip. It wasn’t really fear making Richard’s mouth dry, surely, but an understandable nervous flutter—and that only driven, caused, instigated by the Family savages like Saef, all stamped out of old Devlin’s jingoistic mold.
“I, uh, yes, I am Richard Sinclair-Maru,” he managed, hearing that nervous flutter in the strained tone of his own voice.
Preston Okuna’s dark, rather severe expression broke into a rueful smile. “I do apologize for accosting you like this, especially after an”—Preston spread his hands—“an unfortunate misunderstanding between, er, impulsive members of our respective Families.”
Richard felt his embarrassment transforming directly into astonishment. Without possessing the actual details of Saef’s deadly collision with the Okunas, he would have bet anything that Saef and that strange, disturbing Inga Maru were to blame for the violent outcome. Between the polished, urbane Okunas and a pair of regressive throwbacks like Saef and Inga, there could be little doubt of responsibility.
“N-not at all, sir,” Richard stammered. “I’m pleased—honored—to make your acquaintance.”
“Oh?” Preston’s smile broadened, and Richard thought he detected a suggestion of amusement in his eyes. “Excellent, then, Richard. I’m Preston, by the way. I’ll never grow accustomed to these damned hedge bands, I’m afraid. Always tardy on the polite introductions here.” He laughed, and Richard found himself laughing along, pleased and amazed at the turn of events.
“Join me for a drink, then, Richard?” At Richard’s shy acceptance, Okuna barked to the velvet-gloved servitor standing nearby. “Boodle? A bottle of that gold-label Excelsior, if you please.”
The servitor bowed, and Richard found himself swept along with Preston, down to the private alcove where a stunningly lovely woman lounged, her bored expression swiftly transforming to one of piercing inquiry as her gaze traveled from Preston to Richard.
“Richard Sinclair-Maru, allow me to introduce you to my sister, Paris.”
Before Richard could speak, Paris said, “You don’t look like Sinclair-Maru stock to my eyes, Richard.” Her voice contained a sultry sophisticated underpinning that one only found among the most elite Families of Imperial city.
“Sadly, Paris is not noted for her tactful diplomacy,” Preston said in a wry tone.
“I do hope I’ve given no offense,” Paris said, her very red lips shaping a teasing smile.
Richard dipped a shallow bow to cover his awkwardness. “Not at all. I—I take your observation as a—as a compliment.”
The smile broadened on her lips. “You see, Preston? Richard understands me, at least.”
Boodle appeared then with the bottle and glasses, and Richard settled slowly into a cozy hour with the Okunas. It comprised an interlude he had only dreamed he might one day experience, freed from the stuffy habits of his Family. The choice Excelsior brandy flowed, the crystal glasses glistened, but more intoxicating than this, the Okuna siblings seemed to enfold him in their gently cynical intimacy.
The most consequential names in Imperial City rolled off their tongues with an indifference Richard longed to feel.
“The Brogan-Moores are awful bores,” Paris declared in a singsong voice, “and the Browers are such shameless bounders.” Richard stared at Paris, half shocked but thoroughly enticed by everything Paris represented. Her eyes flashed, her cheeks flushed as she filled Richard’s crystal snifter and her own.
Preston laughed. “Paris thinks everyone is a bore or a bounder.”
“Not everyone,” Paris said, sipping from her glass, her eyelashes all but hiding her eyes as she seemed to search Richard’s face. “I never before thought anything interesting existed on Battersea.”
As Preston groaned in mock condemnation, Richard steadily regarded Paris, saying, “Nothing interesting does exist on Battersea, Paris.” With those words, Richard consigned Lykeios Manor, the ancient seat of the Sinclair-Maru, along with much of the Family, all with sincere disdain.
“We have a revolutionary in our midst, Paris,” Preston laughed.
“Hmm, a glass with you, Lord Renegade.” Paris smirked, raising her snifter. Richard smiled at her, his glass ringing musically against hers. They drank, the smooth Excelsior flowing, and in that flow Richard felt years of frustration fragment and collapse.
The words seemed to bubble up from Richard’s subconscious without effort or thought as the three of them laughed, drank, and shared irreverent observations on every aspect of the culture, their history, and their respective Families. At times Richard looked dazedly about the small alcove half expecting to see a stoic Sinclair-Maru security operative glaring at him in the midst of his somewhat inebriated chatter, but each time he was drawn back, Paris placing one graceful hand on Richard’s wrist, Preston laughing as he asked some inappropriate question.
The costly bottle of Excelsior brandy held only a splash when Richard heard Preston diverging on a conversational tangent about the Shapers, of all things, seeming to recite a needless history lesson.
“…and so upon that blessed day, the Shapers appear…right up there.” Preston pointed a finger skyward and Paris dropped a napkin ring over the upthrust finger with a tipsy chuckle. Preston rattled the ring around his finger a few times. “Right up there, I say, in their huge bloody ships, all packed full of gadgets we’d trade our very souls for. But…” He dropped the napkin ring and poured the last few drops from the bottle equally into their glasses. “But in the centuries since that day, every particle of that precious Shaper loot flowed through Imperial hands…didn’t it?”
Richard lifted his glass, matching Paris, though he felt no need for more, his head swimming. “Yes, Imperial hands, of course,” Richard said. “The, um, Imperial House…Trade…the Shapers’ bloody shopping list. It’s—it’s how it all works.”
“You simply bow to the fates, Richard?” Paris swallowed a sip of brandy, her arching eyebrows raised as she critically surveyed him. “Hmm, where has Lord Renegade gone now?”
Richard shook his head, confused. “I—I don’t understand. The Shapers communicate only with the, uh, the Imperial House. The list comes through a…a quantum-entangled comm set—”
“And all the Families scramble for a scrap of Imperial favor,” Preston broke in, his tone low, his penetrating gaze fixed upon Richard. “We spend every damned moment between Shaper armadas scrambling to secure whatever odd little bits we think the Shapers will demand, or whatever bits the Emperor deigns to share from his lovely, lovely list. A correct choice”—Preston waved his nearly empty snifter high in the air—“and your fortune is made. A wrong choice”—he snapped his fingers and paused to drink from his glass—“and disaster, insolvency, dissolution.”
Richard looked from Preston to Paris, confused, his thoughts filtering through fumes of Excelsior brandy, trying to understand why they described a process that defined Richard’s whole adult life. Trade—the consortium of Houses—served as a vital link for the Imperium, sourcing, collecting, and transporting the commodities demanded by the Shapers. Only by doing so did the vital wealth of the Shapers filter into human worlds and provide so much that humanity demanded. Most notable among the demands, the life-extending rejuv tech that every citizen sought flowed only through Trade.
Richard’s muddled thoughts settled upon another question: The Okunas prospered within the Trade consortium more than nearly every other house in recent years, so why ridicule the system that empowered and enriched their own House?
Instead of asking this question that seemed so rudely pointed to Richard, even through the warm haze filling his mind, he said, “No matter how I—uh—feel about the—the current state of Trade, there’s just the one true list, and that list only arrives from…um…one source.” With a hot rebellion cooking, several worlds rising up against Imperial rule, and the House of Yung, it seemed wise to speak no more directly about that one source.
The Okuna twins didn’t acknowledge Richard’s delicate approach to the Imperial communication monopoly with the mysterious Shapers, both staring at Richard with a shared look of conscious amusement. Preston looked down the crystal snifter as he spoke. “What if there is actually more than one source?”
“What?” Richard looked between the twins, attempting to understand what Preston suggested.
“If another House possessed direct contact with the Shapers,” Paris said, her sultry voice low and soft, “what precisely could that mean, Richard?”
Richard moistened his lips, fixing his swimming eyes on Paris, trying to detect the telltale signs of the joke these two aristocrats surely shared at his expense, but he saw only a serious, appraising expression steadily regarding him.
Richard felt his muddled thoughts spinning out of control, unable to find a solid purchase.…Were they suggesting they possessed such access? If not House Okuna holding such a power…then whom?
No…regardless of the source, a second path to the Shapers comprised a world-splitting weight that changed everything.
“That would…it would be the end of Trade, at least the stranglehold,” Richard carefully enunciated, his lips feeling numb, his mind a kaleidoscope of fragmented imagery.
Paris seemed unimpressed with Richard’s answer—he could see the disdainful expression cross her face—and he hastened to add, “And it would…uh…alter the balance of power between the Great Houses and the…uh…Imperial Family.”
“At a minimum,” Preston said, staring into Richard’s eyes.
Richard swallowed, blinking his eyes clear. Why had he drunk so much?
“Uh…” Richard struggled to form the spinning thoughts into words. “Do you…? Has someone…? Has someone got access to…?”
Paris ignored his mumbling. “To the right Family,” she said, resting her cool hand atop Richard’s, “and to the right individual, this is the chance of a millennium. But…we don’t need just any ally, Richard. We simply need one Great House; one with significant natural holdings and the infrastructure to step up at a moment’s notice.”
“You, Richard,” Preston said. “You might be a good fit…maybe.” Preston stared skeptically at Richard. “The Sinclair-Maru haven’t mortgaged all productive lands, or shut down that old asteroid mining operation…what was that place called again?”
“Hawksgaard,” Richard supplied. “No, no, Preston. Our lands are—are fully intact, at least on Battersea. We still, um, still have most of our production capacity.”
Preston and Paris seemed to share a disbelieving look, and Richard began speaking, his tongue suddenly freed and voluble, detailing the hidden strengths of the Sinclair-Maru. Hawksgaard wasn’t merely a mining operation, as commonly thought, but a very capable manufactory, staffed more comprehensively than outsiders would credit. Richard knew his Family superiors would be more than horrified as he casually described Sinclair-Maru operations that lay shrouded in Family secrecy, but that absurd paranoia was exactly what kept the Sinclair-Maru diminished, atrophied, unimportant. If Richard must break the oppressive mold to rescue the Family from its terminal decline, then he would.
As Richard spoke, he knew it was the correct decision. Preston and Paris shook their heads, impressed at each new revelation.
“You know,” Preston said when Richard completed his recital, “Paris didn’t originally credit my suggestion of speaking to you, right, Paris?”
Paris regarded Richard through her eyelashes, her lips crooked in an intriguing, appealing smile. “You were correct, Preston. Richard is just the man we need.”