skin, bone, and arrogance
CERULEAN GATE PALACE
NEW STERANDEL, AEGIS, THE RENASCENT HEIRATE
2236 LOCAL TIME
Evening settled like a cool blanket around New Sterandel. It would be one of the last of the cold nights before early spring -- really, late winter, whatever the calendar said -- gave way to spring proper. It had been a busy day for Natasi Fortan. The usual war room meeting to monitor the galactic situation had gone long, and a rather prickly wedding-planning session with Reima had resulted in a decision delayed, requiring a further follow-up. Then it had been across the city to a gallery opening featuring a celebration of emerging Renascent artists, a luncheon at the Foreign Office, a speech at the Amsel Parade Grounds, followed by a quiet dinner at home with
NEW STERANDEL, AEGIS, THE RENASCENT HEIRATE
2236 LOCAL TIME
Dyrn Grav
. After that, the dispatch box had demanded her attention. In truth, it had probably taken her more time than she ordinarily would have spent, but the truth was Natasi was avoiding something. And now that she had biolocked the dispatch box with her notes and royal assents to be transmitted to the Cabinet Office, she was confronted with the elephant in the room that she could no longer avoid: the sealed leather trunk that had been delivered that morning, addressed to her in the measured, looping hand that she recognized. Lydia -- whose surname had been Reed thanks to an advantageous marriage into the Reed family, but who Natasi would know always as Lydia Finn-Camden -- had addressed the trunk herself.
Lydia's death had come as a surprise to all. Accidents happened, of course, but Lydia had only been in her seventies, and a tumble down the stairs -- even the treacherous attic stairs at Sterandel House -- shouldn't have been enough to finish her. But an unlucky landing had broken the poor woman's neck. Natasi had returned to Galidraan for the funeral, of course, where Lydia's sister-in-law Charlotte Reed had warned Natasi that papers and effects would soon be forthcoming, and now here they were, packed efficiently -- Natasi assumed -- into this very old-fashioned Galidraani traveler's trunk.
Something about it felt like saying goodbye to Lydia again. Another link to the old days -- good and bad in equal measure -- of the First Order was gone. More and more Natasi felt the connection to those days evaporating. The galaxy had changed so much since then, and so had Natasi. Somewhat paradoxically, Natasi was now a monarch herself and yet also more of a democrat than either. She had never warmed to the idea of government by collaboration as was the mode of the Galactic Alliance (and she felt no pleasure at having observed that before the struggles it currently experienced) but there was something to be said about obtaining the consent of the governed. The system here in the Renascent Heirate seemed ideal; the Prime Minister governed so long as she had the confidence of the House, which was a direct representative of the people. A few layers of bureaucracy didn't mean that things couldn't get done.
But that was neither here nor there.
Natasi stood at the front of the crate, a letter opener in hand. It seemed a pity to break the heavy wax seal over the lock, so Natasi slid the letter opener behind it and slowly worked it loose, then tugged it open with the ribbon, working it off the edge of the trunk. She set it aside in the empty in-box on her desk and then picked up the letter that had been sent ahead. She had read it through already, so what she was after now was the small brass key that she used to unlock the trunk. Finally, she lifted the lid on the trunk. Immediately, Natasi was enveloped in the familiar smells of Sterandel House, the Reed family seat. Old wood and old books and the rose-and-jasmine perfume that Natasi associated with Charlotte Reed the elder, but which had somehow permeated and lingered in the house long after her death. The smell reminded her of her own mother, Reima, who had been bosom companions with the older Charlotte Reed, closer even than Natasi herself was with Charlotte Reed the younger. The elder had become a kind of second mother after Reima's passing, and Natasi's chest ached with the fond memories of visits past.
She fully opened the lid, letting the brass hinges keep it fully open in its vertical condition, and peered inside.
Natasi instantly recognize much of the top layer. Lydia had been, by the terms of her last will and testament, Natasi's literary executrix, and had received a boatload of papers and files and letters in preparation for an authorized biography. It had become something of a running joke that Natasi's resurrection had rather spoiled Lydia's publication plans and forced a rework of the biography just when it had been on the eve of publishing. Natasi smiled fondly as she allowed her hand to run across an embossed First Order emblem on a memo in her own hand that read, simply, Be accurate, not kind - N.
Next was a copy of the first edition of the manuscript, with a sticky note on the front in Lydia's hand: Overtaken by events. Thanks a lot, Fortan. She could almost hear the sarcasm in Lydia's voice. She picked up the book, peeled back the sticky, and examined the front cover. She looked young there. It would have been the early First Order days, maybe the very beginning of the first war. "You couldn't have found one of me in uniform?" she muttered, shaking her head.
The next hour was passed in quiet reflection on those early moments. Old photographs, old speeches, old state papers retelling the glories and struggles of the First Order, from the growing pains of Eriadu to the triumph of the dedication of Avalonia. A postcard Natasi's office had sent to citizens of Dosuun for Life Day picturing George as a little boy. Here was Natasi taking the salute of the First Imperial military after their victory over the Galactic Alliance; there was the very last photograph of her ever taken in her first life, a candid of her in quiet conversation with Admiral Hersch in the situation room of the Imperial Palace, an hour before her death. Both looked grim. A transcript of the telemetry and comms chatter from those last chaotic minutes. The transcript of the situation room in the immediate aftermath.
She set them aside and continued until she reached the bottom layer, which featured some document boxes she didn't recognize. inside, Lydia's hand-written notes and documents. Some about the early days. Interviews with the people who had populated Natasi's early life that had survived her. People who had known her first husband, her parents, her brother. University classmates and professors. Then, notes from the Sith Empire's conquest of Galidraan. Natasi hesitated a moment, then picked up the box. She sat for the first time in awhile, balanced the little box on her knees, and lifted the lid.
These notes were less nostalgic. The details of the agreement wherein Galidraan would not resist the Sith Imperial invasion of Galidraan, in exchange for a privileged position in the Empire. It was not Natasi's proudest moment, she had to admit, but even in retrospect, even with the benefit of 20/20 hindsight, she couldn't think of the alternative. Not when the Sith Imperials having scourged Mon Cal and various other worlds. What was to be gained by subjecting Galidraan to the same, only to have it conquered anyway? At the time the First Order was not in a position to guarantee Galidraan's independence, militarily or politically. They had done the best they could.
But the road to hell was paved with 'we did our bests.'
The informal memorandum memorializing the Foxfield Concord, its edges foxed, was there, followed by some notes from the day. Natasi recognized her own slanting hand, the aggressive hand of her brother-in-law Thaddeus Vitalis, and Talbot's notepad, which had a few notes but then a rather bad sketch of Natasi's profile. She smiled fondly at that and continued rifling through the pages. Eventually she got to the end, a manila folder that she tugged out and opened. Inside were a sheaf of notes in Lydia's looping hand -- often clipped to photos or other documents. Natasi had never seen these before.
Pale Harvest, Natasi read in Lydia's handwriting. The notes and the papers told a grim story: that the Reeds had bankrolled a famine-profiteering scheme with the Ellingroves of the breadbasket of the center of Galidraan's southernmost continent, to hoard grains and then sell them at ruinous prices, leading to death by malnutrition of hundreds. Sublevel Twelve -- a plot by the Earl Calderwyn in the Stony Reach to take advantage of forced labor to mine a mineral seam vital to Sith Imperial interests in a mine shaft they knew to be unsafe. An improvident explosion had sealed the mine, filling it with water and drowning the three hundred miners within. Black Bonds: the Davenholts -- of Davenholt Savings & Loan fame -- underwrote war-bonds for Sith Imperial garrisons, using the estates of their political rivals as collateral. When some of the families were unable to make the payments, the Davenholts foreclosed. It looked a lot like collaboration and asset-stripping. Winter Salon -- the Blackmeres, the Draycotts, and the Harrowells had purchased the confiscated art looted from noble families suspected of resistance collaboration by the Sith Imperials and displayed it at the notorious Winter Salon. Finchley Vent -- to meet Sith Imperial production quotas and earn financial rewards, the Penderlow Chemical Works led by Emmet Oakendale vented a chemical reactor line, releasing a toxic plume that killed over two thousand people in the nearby wards.
There were others, of course. Perhaps it was coincidence, or perhaps it was a warning, that the first few of these plots were those still in Natasi's orbit. Charlotte Reed was her closest friend. Martin Dravenholt was the Chancellor of the Exchequer. Carys Calderwyn was a trade envoy -- the duplicitous Earl's daughter. Two of the Harrowell boys were serving in the Navy, one as Chief of Staff. Byron Blackmere was the head of the Renascent Refugee Committee and the wizened Moira Draycott, who was alleged to be a ringleader in the Winter Salon plot, was Archzanazi of New Sterandel. Imogen Oakendale was a member of the Concordiate Commons! Was it possible that these people -- leaders of society, entrusted with the secrets and resources of the Renascent Heirate based on their trustworthiness and vouched for by Natasi herself -- were all descendants and beneficiaries of and potential perpetrators of what amounted to, at the very least, war profiteering and collaboration, and possibly war crimes?
She dropped the envelope on the coffee table next to the trunk and stood, covering her mouth with one hand. Natasi turned, paced away from the trunk, as if putting distance between herself and the trunk could somehow make what she had read less true. She thought she might be sick. She pushed the window behind her desk open and took a deep breath, allowing herself a moment of peace before she turned back to the trunk. She continued rifling through the file until she reached the bottom, reading the list of purported crimes and atrocities committed against Galidraan -- usually the working classes of Galidraan -- by those accused of collaboration with the Sith Imperial occupation forces. At the very bottom was a note in Lydia's hand, dated just six weeks earlier:
Natasi sat on the edge of her chair and studied the note thoughtfully. The contents of this trunk were explosive; it could well destroy her legitimacy in the eyes of the Heirate, with its peculiar mixture of First Order and Galidraani culture and history. It was impossible to separate the occupation of Galidraan from that historical mix, and if these allegations were true, Natasi's oldest friends and allies had perversely profited from the occupation. And there were suggestions in some of these notes that the Vitalises had approved of, or at least been aware of, the schemes. That implicated Natasi directly, because no one would know or care that she and Thaddeus Vitalis despised each other, and he never involved her in any of his work as Governor, however brief his tenure. Appearances would be what mattered to the court of public opinion.
Carefully, Natasi repacked the papers, except for that last folder. She carried that to the mantle, pulled the portrait open on its hinges, and tucked that folder into the safe before locking the safe and closing the portrait.
What to do?