He dreamt about the girl again, the one from a different time, a different place. She looked back at him from the top of a grassy hill. The skies were unlike Arcadia's—clear, bright blue, with a yellow star shining at the zenith.
"Come here, Lewis," she said, her voice soft as silk. "Come here."
She was in a long pink dress, her black hair tousled in the soft wind, her eyes just as dark. She was beautiful, slender, porcelain-skinned. He had never seen a girl like her before—never in his life.
"Lewis," she whispered. "Find me."
The memory lingered as Sir Henry's voice droned on, reciting the names of hyperlanes and their corresponding systems. Lewis leaned in, resting his chin on his crossed arms, gazing out from the jade-stone terrace. The evening light painted the crenels in soft gold, and the palms swayed lazily under Arcadia's violet sky. The blue light of Eryndor dimmed, setting over the glittering expanse of the Bay of Starfall. Bells chimed faintly from merchant vessels below, their symphony of disordered clicks and distant howls drifting on the salty wind. Skingliders broke the water's surface, vanishing with their prey before bursting back into the air.
"The closest system to Sol?" Sir Henry's voice pulled Lewis back to the present. The old tutor sat nearby; his white robes gathered neatly around him as he marked a map spread on the table.
"Alpha Centauri," Lewis replied absently, his eyes still fixed on the horizon. "Its colonized planets are Proxima Centauri b, c, and d. The capital, New Columbia, is in the northeastern hemisphere of Proxima Centauri b."
Sir Henry grinned, the lines on his face deepening. "Well done, my lord. And the name of its state?"
"It's under Sol's administration. The old capitol."
"And what is its state?" Sir Henry pressed.
Lewis sighed. "Terracorp. Or what's left of it after eighty years of decay." He shook his head, a wry smile tugging at his lips. The legends of a guild of merchants ruling the galaxy seemed more like fairy tales. Believing in the gods of old Terra felt more plausible.
"And the closest system to Eryndor?"
"Vulcanis," Lewis replied curtly. "You've already drilled this into me a thousand times."
Sir Henry chuckled. "Indeed, but skilled as you are, you'd falter with lesser-known stars, my lord. One day, you might need this knowledge—if you ever cross the hyperlanes yourself, like your grandfather and his father before him."
Lewis rolled his eyes. "I'd rather not. I never wanted to be a pilot or some star explorer…"
Henry tilted his head. "Then what, pray, would you rather be? After five Arcadian cycles, fifteen earth years, you must have found your calling, surely?"
Lewis scoffed. "We are more than our legacies. You are Sir Henry. I judge you by your actions, not your father's or his father's. I'd expect the same courtesy."
"An interesting notion," Henry said, smiling faintly. "But you've still not answered my question."
Lewis shook his head. "I don't know. I never thought about it. I just want to live in peace, laze about all day. Everyone's obsessed with purpose, accomplishment. What's wrong with simply existing?"
Sir Henry laughed. "My, my. If I didn't know better, I'd say you've fallen into melancholia."
"Hardly," Lewis muttered. "I'm just tired of stars and hyperlanes. I'm rich. Isn't that enough? Let me spend my fortune and die. Don't tell me you have some grand dream."
Henry smiled. "I have my share of aspirations, my lord. Unlike you, I lack a name carved from a saga of war and conquest. I must make do with my merit as a man and my desire to teach the next generation—you, for a start."
Lewis shrugged. "By all means, take my name if it suits your purposes better."
Sir Henry tutted, gathering his charts. "Well, I hope your mood improves for our next lesson. You did well today, but I'll prepare a harder chart next time, and we'll recite the histories of the great houses of Arcadia. Think you'll manage?"
"Whatever," Lewis muttered. Hyperlanes and star systems were the last thing on his mind tonight.
Sir Henry gave a polite nod. "I'll see you in twelve rotations, Lord Styne."
Lewis waved him off, not bothering with a formal dismissal, and walked away from the terrace into the courtyard of Styne Palace. The black marble gleamed in the twilight. Servants in grey and white tended the hedge bushes and rows of palms lining the main path to the central wing.
Those who saw him quickly bowed their heads, while guards at the doors followed suit, lowering their bolt-rifles and stepping aside to push open one of the grand doors. "My lord," one guardsman said. "Your father is in the main hall."
"These fools in the neo-falangist party are going to win more seats in the administrative district of Starfall at this rate!" his father's voice echoed through the pillared entry hall. "If our party loses the majority, we will lose the consular election in the next term. They will have a full mandate, and they've been pressing to reinvigorate netspace across Arcadia! We fought a war to destroy it! Gentlemen, we know the dangers netspace poses. Look what happened during Terra's fall. Would you have that vulnerability forced onto our people? We will become no better than these other systems who whore themselves for the AI and netspace pleasures!"
"We are in full agreement, Your Excellency. However, there is little we can do whilst these neo-falangists harass local administrations across the planet."
Lewis edged closer, peeking around the corner. His father stood at a large round table, hands braced against its surface, addressing a group of men—holograms all—seated in stone chairs.
"Their movement gains traction not just through force, my cousin of Styne," said one hologram. "The famine in the southern hemisphere has been instrumental in their rise. That, and their rebellion against the Edict of Starfall with the creation of a black net."
Lewis's stomach churned. He had heard much of the famine. Bread and circuses, his father had once told him. That's what keeps the masses from taking your head.
"The tariffs caused the sanctions," said another hologram. "You pressed for them with zeal, Lord Consul."
"The tariffs were necessary," father shot back. "You know well as I, that Demeter Prime was importing as much black spice as they were grain. They would only feed us as long as they have the right to poison us with their foul drug."
"Regardless," said another. "In three weeks' time, the election will be held, and the Patricii Party will be ejected from power. Everyone here knows the stated aims of the neo-falangists. Once a neo-falangist consul is elected, purges will sweep the planet. They promise bounty and equality, but it's a lie. They would resurrect the netspace we destroyed—a network that nearly tore Terra apart—inviting rogue AIs and digital plagues back into our lives. Their rhetoric appeals to the hungry and desperate, but their policies will doom us all. If we don't act now, Arcadia will face another war."
The discussion pressed on until Charles, angered, unsheathed a broadsword and drove it into the table. "We will answer thusly if they try!"
"We appreciate your zeal, Your Excellency, but we must plan accordingly," said a hologram.
"We will be in touch," another added. "The senate will convene tomorrow. Perhaps, sir, it would be better, if you resigned. We may still be able to reconcile our aims with the mood of the populace…"
Father scowled. "No."
"As you say, sir… but there will be consequences."
Lewis emerged from the corner as the holograms dissipated. His father sank into his chair and sighed, scratching at his blonde hair, and only noticing Lewis then. "Oh, I didn't see you there."
"Is there going to be a war?" Lewis's question took his father off guard. Charles Octavian Styne, the patriarch of the House of Styne, was not a man to show vulnerability, even in the darkest of times. Yet here, whilst he shook his head, his smile was false. Lewis could see through it.
"No. These neo-falangists will not win the election, and even if they do, we will simply retire to palace life. There is nothing to fear." His father turned back to the table and retrieved his sword, sheathing it before setting the blade aside to pour himself a glass of water. "Did you finish your studies with Sir Henry?"
"I did," Lewis replied. "We'll be back at it in twelve rotations."
"Good, it will do you well." Father took a sip and set the cup down. His badges of office gleamed as he turned to face Lewis, his gaze steady and firm. He looked ready for the senate, dressed in a ceremonial coat of fine white velvet, gilded epaulets on his shoulders, and a silken red sash across his chest. "I know the stars don't call to you as they did your forebears," he said, his tone a mix of disappointment and resolve. "But it's in your blood, whether you like it or not. Even if you decide not to follow in their footsteps, better to be ready than not at all."
Lewis took a seat beside his father. "Did you ever consider I wouldn't want to be some space explorer like you or grandfather?"
Charles Styne sighed. "Then you can be a senator. Or a merchant prince, whatever you wish. So long as it brings honor to House Styne."
Lewis still couldn't believe father was hung up on legacy, after all that had transpired. "I'm not ambitious, perhaps, or avaricious for knowledge of the great houses and the stars, but you needn't such knowledge to see the people are suffering."
Charles scoffed. "What's this about all of a sudden, son? This prattle is the least of my concerns right now."
Lewis sighed, he slumped in his chair, watching as the guards changed shifts. "I keep seeing a girl in my dreams," he said softly. "She doesn't look like anyone I've ever seen. She keeps telling me to come look for her. Blue skies, a yellow star, grass, earth grass."
"Ah, same girl? The black haired one?" Charles asked. Lewis had told his father about the dream girl before, dreams are meaningless, father told him then. Yet it was all Lewis saw in the night now. Charles rubbed his eyes. "Just genetic remnants of our cybernetic ancestors if nothing else," he said. "Tainted blood from those who tried to conquer the net, pay it no mind. Rogue AIs are always trying to find a way to break into realspace, it only has power if you give it power. You are a Styne, your blood is the cleanest of the human lines in centuries, clean of cybernetics, clean of genetic programming. You can determine your own destiny, and this stirs all those who are dependent on the dole of the megacorps and net-spiders with envy."
Lewis sighed. Again, he goes back to bloodline and glory. "All you care about is this supposed purity of our line," he said sharply. "Haven't you ever considered that it's perhaps this which is precisely the reason why half the planet hates you? You've deprived them of connection, of value, now they're starving! Would mother have thought your course was the right one?"
The slap to his face was sudden as it was a shock of pain. Lewis reeled, holding his cheek as Charles stood from his chair. "You know nothing, you want to go and feed the people? Go, feed them. Then on the morrow they will ask for more than they received the night before. You will learn quickly what it means to govern. Power is a constant struggle between the worthy and the worthless. It's not honor, it's not legacy, it isn't star admirals commanding from the bridge of a juggernaut. It's a dirty brawl, Lewis. A fight for a knife in the mud. It is either us, or it's them.
"Now I can't force you to pursue a career in the admiralty, or politics. For all that you are, you are a Styne, and the free will of a Styne is their birthright. But I'll be damned in the deepest pits of the abrahamic hells before a spoiled prince who's never known the pain of hunger, or the cold of the night criticize me on how I govern Arcadia. I should bestow your inheritance on one of your cousins at this rate. I had hoped your sloth would erode with time, but perhaps the sum of your ambitions is to wallow in excess and die."
I hate you.
"Now, go," said father. "And speak no more to me of dreams. We will be hosting a ball tomorrow, and the last thing I need is gossip about Charles Octavian Styne's mad son. If you must dream, dream of stars, of Arcadian banners flying over Terra. Dream of conquest and glory, not the meaningless visions of a black-haired girl from a time long forgotten."