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Chapter 25


“Human culture must finally provide true pathways either to excellence and accountability, or mediocrity with oversight, and the freedom for each citizen to choose their respective pathway for themselves.”


Legacy Mandate by Emperor Yung I


Richard Sinclair-Maru exited the Family skimcar and walked toward the small but fashionable apartments maintained for the Family Trade division. Richard possessed all the attributes his brother, Saef, lacked. His face nearly always wore a good-natured smile beneath a rakish blond coif, his figure, though lanky, bore a certain grace, and he always dressed fashionably. The frown he wore as he walked between the unwanted Family security agents represented a rare departure from his usual disposition, at least in public.

Long-term planning formed a fundamental part of the Sinclair-Maru, and if every other aspect of the Family doctrine failed to impress Richard, planning and farsightedness had not. The Family doctrine called for regular heavy-grav sessions that strengthened and compressed the Sinclair-Maru into a familiar mold. Through meticulous neglect of this training, Richard now stood half a head above nearly every member of the Family, as far from the near-heavyworld image as he could feasibly get. Through cultivation of friendships since childhood, Richard’s associates and habits also appeared unlike the common Sinclair-Maru mold. He was a swan among ravens…but just now the ravens cluttered up his environment unacceptably.

Richard abruptly stopped walking, causing the security team to react, positions shifting, hands moving.

“Look at that,” Richard said, nodding up the street that ran toward the Imperial Close, far up the hillside. The security team were Sinclair-Maru to the bone, so only the team leader looked where Richard indicated, while the others continued to scan their sectors. He looked up the street, then to the walled estates rising up to the Imperial Close.

“Is there a particular threat?” the team leader asked.

“You see the walls of the ancestral estate, there?”

“Yes, Richard. The shimmer field we are generating renders attacks from that range ineffective.”

“You see? That’s the problem I’m talking about. The issue isn’t violence, it’s economics. We didn’t lose the estate from a frontal assault. We lost it to compounding interest.”

The team leader regarded Richard without expression. “Can we continue indoors, please?”

Richard sighed, shrugged, and continued walking.

Inside the modish collection of rooms, Richard discovered a surprise guest awaiting him, something the security team certainly knew but had chosen not to share with Richard.

“Richard,” Grimsby Sinclair-Maru greeted him, “we have a guest from home, see?”

Richard beheld Claude Carstairs rising to his feet, a wineglass in his slender hand. “Well, well, Claude,” Richard said, “to what do we owe the honor?”

“No honor, old boy,” Claude said. “It’s just me, come to the metropolis, you see.”

“Um, yes,” Richard said. Although Claude Carstairs could only be called a foppish idiot, the unlikely friendship between Claude and his brother was just about the only element in Saef’s life of which Richard approved.

“But, Richard, I do have some news…” Claude paused, his gaze lowering to fix upon Richard’s jacket. “I say, Richard, that’s a damned fine jacket… What color would you call that, exactly?”

Richard restrained his exasperation with great effort, glancing down at his jacket. “Color, Claude? Olive, I suppose. But you have news, you say?”

Claude stared fixedly at Richard’s garment and shook his head. “Olive? Oh, I don’t think so, old fellow, really. Don’t tell me that came off a fab either, Richard, for I won’t believe it.”

“It’s bespoke, Claude. I’ll give you the name of my tailor.”

“Bespoke? Of course it is! Well, Richard, that’s uncommon generous of you, I must say, uncommon generous. Not olive, though. No.”

“Claude?” Richard said, clenching his hands behind his back as Grimsby smiled on. “You said you have news.”

“Did I?” Claude said, staring at the coat again with a frown. “It’s on the tip of my tongue.…

“Yes?”

Claude exhaled. “Can’t think of it. You know my poor brain. And m’father, such a sharp one. You’d think Mother played him false, but no, pure Carstairs through and through.”

Richard ground his teeth for a moment before managing, “So you can’t remember what news brought you here?”

“What?” Claude said. “No! I can’t remember what that color’s called. What a lunk I’d be to forget why I came here in the first place.”

Grimsby smiled even more, but Richard took a calming breath. “Claude, please, what great tidings do you bring, then?”

Claude smiled affably for a moment before his expression shifted to a perplexed grimace, squinting as if to remember something. “Hmm,” Claude said. His eyes widened and he smiled. “Oh yes! You remember that bit of seed oil you bought from m’father?”

“Yes,” Grimsby said, his smile fading. “Five hundred tons of seed oil to be delivered at harvest.”

“Yes, exactly. That’s the bit,” Claude said, smiling. “Well, you don’t get it.”

What?” Richard exploded.

“Gods! Richard, you got spit in my eye just now. I hear perfectly, you know. No need to shout.”

“But Claude,” Grimsby said, striving for calm, “we have a contract. Why would your Family violate our agreement now?”

Claude opened his mouth to speak, then closed his mouth, his brow puckering. “Do I know why? I’m not sure I do. Seems like a damned shabby thing for us to do, when you come to it.”

“Shabby? Shabby?” Richard demanded. Richard had known Claude since they were children, the smaller Carstairs estate adjoining the vast Sinclair-Maru lands, and as a child Claude had seemed clever enough, though exotically different from the stodgy Sinclair-Maru. Claude’s teen years spent on Coreworld, though, seemed to spell the difference. When he returned to Battersea, Claude’s childhood predilection for fashion and high society seemed to have elevated, crowding nearly every other thought from his head. Four years on Coreworld had apparently converted Claude’s brain into a weighty ornament.

“Yes, Richard,” Claude mused, rubbing his chin meditatively, “shabby. Especially since it’s so expensive for us.”

“What are you saying, Claude?” Grimsby asked, staring evenly, while Richard shook his head, his features flushed.

“Let’s see if I can recall how this went, now,” Claude said. “M’father sold you this seed oil.…

“Yes,” Grimsby encouraged.

“What do people do with seed oil, anyway? I’ve never seen any of it about. Have you?” Claude said.

It was Grimsby’s turn for a calming breath. “Can we leave that for now, Claude?”

Claude shrugged. “I daresay. Puzzler, though.” Claude resumed his meditative expression. “So…you bought this silly oil that no one uses…but we can’t give it to you because…hmm…someone else bought it. Yes! That’s it. Hah!” Claude smiled. “Someone else bought it. So you can’t have it. All makes sense, see?”

Richard strode angrily across the room, striking his hand on a large ornamental desk and growling.

“But Claude, this violates our contract,” Grimsby said in a calm voice. “I would think your father might consider, um, his Family’s long relationship with the Sinclair-Maru before breaking a contract this way.”

Claude took his perplexed gaze from Richard’s explosive actions and turned back to Grimsby, nodding enthusiastically. “I would too…and consider his neck, too, you know? You might not credit it, but you Sinclair-Maru have a devilish bad reputation for calling people out on things like this. Dueling swords at dawn and all that.”

“Oh really?” Grimsby said in a dry voice.

“But, can’t be helped, see?” Claude continued. “The Emperor, you know. Does what he wants, I daresay. Wants seed oil for some damned reason.” Claude paused, frowning. “Does it taste good? Is that it?”

“The Emperor?” Grimsby said, and Richard spun, staring between Grimsby and Claude.

“Not the Emperor himself, I think,” Claude said, sipping from his wineglass. “Doesn’t get out much, I hear. Probably one of those grim government types in the dreadful trousers.” Claude squinted into the glass. “With all the handsome uniforms about, how those poor sods got saddled with such trousers—”

“The List!” Richard hissed, ignoring Claude and staring at Grimsby with a stricken look. “They give with one hand, take away with the other, damn them!”

“Factions, perhaps,” Grimsby said, rubbing his temples as his eyes flickered through a UI feed. “We have two of the line items secured already, thankfully.”

“But Takata’s shipment should have been in our hands days ago. And Wychwood’s contract is on harvest, too. I’ll bet they’re both gone.” Richard clenched his fists, scowling more like his younger brother. “They are going too far this time. Just because there’s a rebellion kicking up doesn’t give them the right to break contracts like a damned demi-cit!” Richard punctuated his sentence by striking the desk again with a loud thump, startling Claude in mid-sip and prompting him to choke.

“Two out of the five items,” Grimsby said as Claude coughed. “That should be enough, even with this treachery.”

“I say, Richard,” Claude said, dabbing his mouth with a colorful hanky. “Why is your fellow glaring at me that way? I’m not the one punching furniture and startling fellows half to death.”

Grimsby and Richard glanced over at the security leader, who was indeed glowering, staring at Claude’s presence in the midst of a Family conversation. “Oh yes,” Grimsby said, chagrined. “Perhaps it would be best if you permit us to get back to work, Claude.”

“Lord, yes!” Claude said, disposing of his wineglass, clearly relieved to be going. Claude paused and turned back to Grimsby. “So…I can tell m’father that…?”

Grimsby smiled reassuringly. “We understand he had little choice.”

“Well, that’s a weight off,” Claude said. “Not ready to step into m’father’s shoes. Tedious. Lot of numbers. Not my thing at all, you know.”

“Of course,” Grimsby said in a reassuring tone, leading Claude through a cluster of security agents. “Troubling times.”

“Daresay you’re right.… Emperor guzzling seed oil at a cut rate. Damned irregular, if you ask me. House Barabas trying to buy our south field. Smoky! Impertinent! Been in our Family a century or more.”

The security team leader stopped short and turned to stare at Claude. Grimsby paled and shot Richard a questioning glance.

“Barabas is trying to obtain your south field on Battersea?” the team leader asked.

“Did I say that?” Claude said. “Not sure I was supposed to. Private Family matters, I daresay.”

“Excuse me,” the security man said, nodding to one of his people and rushing away.

Claude turned a puzzled look after the man for a moment before turning his vacuous gaze on Richard. “Fellow’s all in a flutter, Richard. What’s his fizz about our south field?”

Grimsby forced a false chuckle, but Richard’s face remained a tight mask. “You know security types, Claude,” Grimsby said. “Always fretting about one thing or another, imagining things to frighten themselves.”

“Daresay you’re right, old fellow,” Claude agreed, shrugging. “I once imagined I went on the town wearing puce. Put me in a muck sweat. Wonder what security blokes imagine?”

Richard stared sightlessly after the team leader. “Your south field adjoins our land, Claude.”

“You’re right there, old fellow,” Claude said. “Been there, you know. Raised there. Got bucked off that cursed pony there, remember? Evil beast.” Claude paused, musing. “Maybe your fellow’s imagining that furry devil. Puts me in a flutter thinking about the beast, I confess. Bit. Kicked. Evil.”

“No, Claude,” Richard said. “I believe he’s imagining a frontal assault.”

Grimsby shot Richard a distressed look, and the security agents frowned disapprovingly. Claude nodded. “Oh, I see. Well, Richard, put your fellow’s mind at rest. Pony’s been gone years now. Won’t assault anyone now, frontal or otherwise, see?”


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Framed