Liana's Ship (#ONC 2021)

18. Zan: Takeover

I was confident my Father would not have any qualms with Liana, but Betalaina was a scion. To him, Scions were nothing more than mindless vessels. To be vaporized when in the away or to prove a point. 

My father was not a compassionate man. He would not accept Betalaina’s sentience, of that I had no doubt.

Liana was protesting at being ushered into a room, but I insisted.

"This is ridiculous!" she said, "surely we can explain? Appeal to his better nature?'

I laughed, "you assume my father has a better nature?"

"Judging by the uninvited visit,” she answered, “I take it, he doesn't. I didn’t think he was the type to teach you how to ride a bicycle?"

My face went blank, "can I assume this bi-ci-cle is a rite of passage for younglings? In which case, to answer your question, no. My father sees me as an asset. Not a particularly good one at that. You need to hide in here." I gently nudged her into the pod room. Liana stood rigid refusing to budge, "I can handle him Liana. you won't understand us."

"Oh, I've dealt with men with enormous egos and a sense of entitlement before, Zan, don’t you worry about my safety."

"Zanthric meant, you won't understand what he has to say.” Betalaina said in my defence, “He doesn't have a translator, Liana." Betalaina had become a duller colour, she was showing her fear physically. She knew her fate if she was seen.

Liana's mouth formed an 'O' "I hadn't thought about that. We'll have words later, Zan. I won’t forget this mishandling!" With that they left, I could almost feel Betalaina's relief as the door closed and concealed them.

Then I waited for the inevitable. I wanted the reassurance from Thera, so I reached out. Silence. This lack of response was not an auspicious sign. 

********

Lord Afaron Dascan of the land furthest from the Red sun, to say his full title, had long given up walking. Instead, he sat on a barely sentient platform with moving tendrils. Grown from an antiquated cultivated plant. The plant was impractical, of such limited intelligence it could barely move without guidance from pole wielding assistants. It was nothing but a status symbol. There were better plants for mobility, for Xerans with disabilities, they were so efficient, no one dreamed of using the platform. They were only grown for the wealthy, so they could declare that they were so rich they no longer needed to walk and could afford to employ the attendants to steer it.

Years of deliberate immobility had made my father an unhealthy man with purple cheeks. He looked worse every time I saw him. The royal red colour of the platform, skittering about on its spindly tendrils was meant to mock our last king, said to be a tyrant. All I could think of right then, looking at the useless vehicle and decoration was a line from an old earth song I’d heard:

"Meet the new boss, same as the old boss." 

The platform, nudged by a visit weary attendant, pale and tired, skittered to a halt, jolting my father in his chair. He gripped tight before he fell flat on his face in front of me

I struggled then to suppress the laughter bubbling up. Mocking my father wouldn't help. I bowed and greeted his presence in the traditional way. 

He held his hand up, "enough!" He boomed. I had spent too long speaking the Earth language. It had made my native tongue as strange as English once sounded to me. Over time I'd learned the language without  the translator. 

"I am here to stop this nonsense," he continued, "An advisor opened my eyes to your ruse. I did not believe him at first but he was most insistent I review the archives in detail. Now I have arrived, this lie has been uncovered. I see nothing but scions and pests, the programme has failed."