(Tristan Tarvernal)
I stealthily moved away from the disastrous mess that constituted my stepmother's public meltdown and headed for the bar in the nearby open area.
Nearing my destination, I wrinkled my nose as I saw the two expensively-dressed young women who posed there in stances of fake relaxation, preening for all to see and admire. According to the standards of our elitist society, they were beautiful. At a glance, I estimated that they were most likely insular, self-centered, and expectant of no small amount of appreciation and envy.
The russet-haired one on my right, clad in a lacy white gown that was embroidered with glistening metallic snowflakes, cast her eyes downwards as if she were oh-so-modest, but her smile was nothing short of a smirk and the way she held her body couldn't hide that she expected worship as her due (and I would bet anything that she was likely to turn ugly if she didn't receive it).
The other girl, with dark wavy hair and smokey eyes, displayed a frontal view to her audience and wore a metallic copper sheath that clung to her every curve. She rested her elbows on the bar in a calculated posture that thrust her chest outwards. She had her head partially turned towards her companion in an unnatural angle, showing her profile to best advantage. (She'd probably have a stiff neck later.). She kept her eyes on her friend, innocently pretending she was unaware of drawing attention.
However, her underlying expression had all the glee of a corrupt businessman that had just cheated his competitors and was ready to rake in his rewards.
Admirers, both male and female, had gathered; some content to admire at a distance, the more aggressive ones drifting in for the kill. I changed my direction to give them a wide berth and headed for the business end of the bar. (I couldn't stand women of that type.)
"Trist," called a well-known voice from behind me in too loud a tone -- and I was forcibly grabbed by the elbow. "Let me introduce you to the two most beautiful women in Old Manhattan." Malicious chocolate-brown eyes bore into mine. Heads swiveled in our direction. I recognized then, that these girls were part of his little circle; not that I generally paid much attention to Malcolm's snobbish cronies.
It was the day before Christmas and I knew one thing for certain. My brother Malcolm hated me more than ever.
I couldn't blame him. His world had irreversibly changed, and not to his advantage, just a few moments ago.
Although third-born and carrying questionable bloodlines, I had just become heir to the substantial Tarvernal financial empire, which had been built upon our ancestor's invention of the device which could quickly verify the Goldilocks zone for any planet, as well as extracting the other key environmental information that would ascertain the suitability for human settlements.
It was almost two centuries ago that, with money, advanced technology, political leverage, unsavory military partnerships, and no small amount of conniving, the House of Tarvernal had planted their flags on numerous "unclaimed" superhabitables. In what soon became a network with other great houses, both established and emerging, they conquered where they could and sought to form profitable alliances when they could not overcome the natives by force. (It would not be unfair to say that my family had suborned the lawmakers who passed the early laws and policies that governed our piracy between galaxies. One hand greased the other.)
Generation after generation did their duty in our family, with the eldest child (carefully schooled and groomed) traditionally ascending to become head of the House upon their 25th birthday. That is, until our generation.
My eldest brother, Shanal, had retreated to a free-love religious order in the Andes mountains several years ago. The sect was governed by a vow of silence as they raised llamas--saving the poor creatures from a looming extinction which had been accelerated by the stealth raids of ruthless iwakuians (alien fanatics who viewed the animal's flesh as a delicacy), made their famous fruitcake annually, and expressed themselves through interpretative dance. In fact, it was around this same time of year that Shanal had told our father that he didn't want to rule our little kingdom, he didn't want money, and he didn't want toys (spaceships, land rights, and the whole damn lot). All he wanted for Christmas was to join up with the head priest, his boyfriend Yuma Ragehair.
For some time after Shanal's departure, our father refused to see him, until finally he had relented last Christmas (not out of the goodness of his heart, but because his attitude made him look ridiculous to the other families) and invited Shanal and his boyfriend for a visit. Yuma and Shanal waxed a little too enthusiastic with their non-verbal communications expressed by dance. The pantomime of their shared love had an over-abundance of detail that had father clutching his chest and swearing never to have the two of them set foot in one of his homes again.
The year after Shanal's escape from tradition, the next-eldest, our sister, Mavreen, who had been quite the frivolous playgirl, shockingly ran off with a non-human in the pay of one of our greatest enemies. Within a few months of her desertion she had happily born her lover triplets (all with furry ears) and had celebrated her marriage to him off-planet (a ceremony that was non-binding in the eyes of our community).
Although father felt he had to turn his back on her publicly, they still secretly communicated via dad's scrambled holo system, as she had been quite his favorite. I had unintentionally witnessed their exchange one day-- with Mav expressing tearfully that she didn't understand why he didn't want her gift of grandchildren, lovingly given. Father was a complete bastard about it, of course, shouting that she had the wrong recipient for her "gift," and that she should had drowned those horrific animals at birth.
Mav went completely underground after that. Dad, never a magnetic personality to begin with, became more morose and unpleasant, while still keeping a firm hand on the reins.
My younger brother Malcolm grew increasingly cheerful however.
With Mav disinherited (and Shanal disinclined), Malcolm (ambitious even as a toddler), had no reason to believe that I would be named heir on my 25th birthday.
My ineligibility was due to my mother (dad's second wife) being an exotic half-breed, whom he shockingly married for love. It created quite the stir. The great houses placed enormous store on keeping their lines "pure." Among the houses, half-breeds were considered in the same light as formally-acknowledged bastards: they were tolerated in our society as long as their appearance and manners were pleasing and they knew how to play the game. Many of them formed liaisons with the purebloods that could be interpreted as that of courtesan and client. (How the purebloods loved to sup on illicit pleasures!)
I lost my white-haired, green-eyed mother when I was five. Two years after my mother's death at the hands of an outworld assassin who had targeted my father (and for whom she had sacrificed her life), Dad remarried a proper human--brown-haired, brown-eyed Lynna Daynen, sole heiress to the Daynen fortune which was immediately siphoned into funds of the House of Tarvernal. And thus were two great houses united. To further the joy, my stepmother quickly become pregnant with my brother Malcolm.
Lynna (a privileged, materialistic bitch) urged my father to send me off-planet to be fostered. They fought about it constantly, the quarrels often escalating into physical violence (with Lynna being the aggressor). She made my life hell and my bodyguards had to constantly be on the alert. There was a point, after the last attempted poisoning (perpetrator "unknown"), where I didn't think I would live to be fifteen, let alone twenty-five. I'm not sure if she believed I was a threat to Malcolm's place in line (whom she made sure to separate me from) or if she just despised me for my mixed bloodlines.
Somehow my father managed to put a stop to the murder attempts, but Lynna always found new ways to torment me. However, over time, I believe she grew used to having a despised mongrel in her household and became slightly bored with persecuting me, since there was so much else that cried for her attention – such as shopping, gossip, and political scheming.
It was during tonight's elaborate holiday party (costumes optional) that things had come to a head.
Lynna definitely had had too much to drink even before we left for the grand affair. That was unlike her. I suspected she let down her guard because I had turned twenty-five in November and had not been named heir. What a relief, that must have been to her and Malcolm!
Plus, no doubt her spies had reported my arrangements to travel to my mother's home world before the year's end—that is, within the week. I had always felt incomplete, not knowing more about that part of my heritage and father simply refused to speak of it. I didn't intend to come back home once I left, but I kept that tidbit to myself.
Teen-aged Malcolm became quite cocky after November and all eyes were upon him as the rising star in my father's empire. I, of course, immediately became the target of malicious remarks after my 25th birthday had come and gone. Most of these I could ignore, though it truly hurt when people, who I had naively believed to be friends, dropped me with a thud. I couldn't wait to take flight from this corrupted excuse of a world.
Before leaving for the party of the year (as they were heralding it), I celebrated my own private winter ritual.
I had not been able to find out much about my mother's people but apparently they worshipped a horned deity around this time of the year (sometimes seen as a man, sometimes as a white stag), traveling to his shrine with offerings, and whispering a wish to him for the coming year. When I was about thirteen, I had sculpted my imagined version of such a god and in memory of my mother, made such offerings as I hoped might be acceptable, and whispered my dreams to him.
Tonight I had whispered, "I just want to be free."
The party started decorously enough (of course, this was before the drink and drugs started circulating in earnest) with the usual chit chat and social climbing prior to dinner being announced. Then it turned odd, beginning with the current rage to dig up customs of centuries past and reenact them.
"Oh I do so miss these fine old traditions," twittered Albisho Melkior as he viewed the spectacle of the near-naked "first footer" entering the hall with pageantry, craning his head to appreciate the full presentation. (Dark-haired men were seen as lucky according to this superstition, but a fair-haired one was deemed unlucky.)
Then everyone was invited to view the "kissing ball." I stood well back from the proceedings, but to my disgust, my stepmother (supposedly dressed as Mrs. Santa Claus, in a form-fitting red silk outfit with a plunging neckline) was the first to place herself directly under the kissing ball as she flirtatiously solicited participation.
My father's neck turned red with rage and embarrassment when a junior partner in a rival house stepped forth, riveting his thick lips to Lynna's while people shouted salacious comments and suggestions. Letting his hand drift to her ample posterior, the man had the audacity to pinch her, while Lynna twisted suggestively and whispered something in his ear that put a lewd grin on his face.
I could see our hostess take alarm, her head swiveling from my father's face to my stepmother's antics, and she hurriedly announced that dinner was now being served (no doubt giving her chefs quite a shock), and would everyone please follow her into the dining hall?
Obediently following the rest of the crowd, I noted out of the corner of my eye that my father had grabbed Lynna and that they were close to creating a scene. Again. Fortunately, our hostess was enormously talented in manipulating her guests and managed to shepherd them into the dining hall without bloodshed.
Once seated, the guests ogled the enormously expensive decorations, the exotic delicacies set forth as appetizers, and the extravagant wine selection.
"My dear," cooed Lady Nosobrite as she sipped the Chateau Ladefeat 2016, "you must have paid a horrific price for this!" Those around her murmured in agreement, as they lapped up one of the rarest wines in existence.
Our hostess smirked and let the guests believe what they wanted to, but the fact was that her husband's scientists, while not yet developing a reliable method of time travel, had at least created a method that could retrieve (steal) small objects (say, an object as large as a wine bottle) from years past. It had not cost her one penny of her household budget. While I admired thrift, I was aghast when I heard that the fools were muddying the footprints of history with their petty larceny. How could they be so stupid!
(As you may surmise, I pretty much had my ear to the ground, as did most of the outcasts and half-breeds that attempted to survive in this cut-throat world.)
It was after the final course had been served that my stepmother, not content with embarrassing our house with her previous behavior, proposed a toast to her son Malcolm --"To the future leader of the House of Tarvernal!" and then, not waiting for her toast to be seconded, drunkenly burst into song (her dark brown hair now disheveled and tumbling into her half-closed eyes) – a rousing holiday melody of antiquity, still familiar to most of the assembled guests --"Deck The Halls."
However, horrifically, instead of singing "Deck the halls with boughs of holly," she heartily sang: "Deck the halls with heads of Tollies." (Tollies being one of the nickname for my mother's people.) I gasped as if someone had slid a knife into me and Malcolm smiled maliciously, while his mother continued soloing (joyously unaware that no one was joining in). "Tis the season to be jolly!"
My father walked over quickly and slapped her hard, while the other guests tittered, highly entertained, and our hostess momentarily buried her face in her beringed hands, as her composure finally shredded.
"Enough!" my father roared, his face suffused with anger. "I have named Tristan as the heir of the House of Tarvernal and I'll suffer no disrespect from you, woman!"
Lynna turned deathly pale, while Malcolm looked like he had been shot in the vitals. "What? When! No, you can't have!!!" wailed Lynna, her hands curved like a harpy's claws upon my father's suit jacket.
My father smiled, a hard unpleasant smile. "It was finalized an hour ago," he stated crisply. "Declared, witnessed, and now sealed. It's done. And there's no going back. I've also filed for a divorce, my fine lady. So, I advise you to mind your manners and give your obedience to the new head of the house if you want to continue receiving an allowance."
I had seen my father slip away from the dinner table for a lengthy absence and return, but had no clue that this was what it was for.
In just as much shock as my unpleasant step-relations, I slid away from the table, away from the watching eyes, and headed for the old-fashioned bar near the ballroom as my stepmother began to scream hysterically and smash our poor hostess's crystal on the gleaming floor. I needed to be away from Lynna's madness and my father's revenge on her. I needed to think.
What I didn't need was any more of Malcolm's malicious little games. Ever.
True, I was in shock and all at sea. I was unsure where my future lay or how I was going to proceed. But I no longer had to play the subservient fool or anyone's victim in order to merely survive. Something my spoiled popinjay of a brother hadn't seemed to yet grasp. As they say, old habits can be hard to break.
Malcolm and his little friends were in for a shock if they believed they could lead me around by the nose. And a very surprising New Year....
(Moody, this should cover all challenges except for the superbonus which I'm not in a position to carry out right now! XD )
, you have done me an important service here and I groaningly thank you for that too. (Checks fictional bruises on self.) (Edit: Just kidding about the harshness - hopefully that is evident!)