Tales from the Drift: Old Lessons, Hard Futures

Chapter 28 - The Fifth Rule

THE OXALIA EXPANSE // THE MONTRESSOR SHIPYARDS // UPPER DISC

The jacket was tighter across the shoulders and stiffer through the arms than he remembered. Predominantly black, the uniform's geometric seams were highlighted by stark grey trim and panels of dark red.

Forgoing the standard court regalia and its inherent pomp, he wore no garter of entitlement, nor command braids and matching armored epaulets, nor the weighty chains, pins, and medals denoting his accomplishments and those of House Norr during his lifespan – a tradition introduced by his grandmother and which no other Icosan house followed.

The only indication of Brego's status and authority was a short, black shoulder cape reinforced with a narrow pauldron. Lined in red satin, it flashed with each crisp stride and sharp turn. A silver chain snaked up beneath his left arm to fasten to a polished red clasp.

It felt awkward. He felt awkward and twisting his old signet ring around his right middle finger wasn't helping. Heavy, the black metal was still cold, its silver accents still greasy with fresh polish, its muted red sigil exhibiting the qualities of blood caught in a phial.

Vanity demanded a mirror, but self-loathing shied away from the reflection. He knew the striking figure he'd find staring back all too well. Dashing. Charming. Hollow. Terrified and terrifying. Not him. Not Brego. Only Norr.

Despite Vyx's misgivings, and not a small few of his own, he kept his blasters, maintaining an edge of audacity that was all Brego. A risk, but a comforting one.

The taxi ride was silent, the pilot refusing to engage with either of them. His eyes were narrowed in obvious contempt, his sweat stank of fear.

Brego jammed a finger behind the front of his jacket's high collar and pulled, but the fabric remained firm and unrelenting. Irritated, he scowled.

His expression misinterpreted for impatience; the taxi accelerated. He sank back into his seat, the restrictive livery prohibiting his enjoyment of the plush cushions.

The spires of the Upper Disk blurred into one continuous stream of light. Awash in a jive of color, the taxi broke from the traffic que and arced upward, racing over platform seven's luxuriant hotels, casinos, and brothels.

The private piers of platform eight fell away, the pilot demonstrating an unexpected degree of skill as he maneuvered through the busy opulence.

The three-quarter mark of platform positive-nine fell within the jurisdiction of the Fourth Icosan Enclave which, after several cycles of clandestine activities, was now under the sole control of House Norr. A fact which Lord Norr wasn't about to let anyone overlook.

From the overwhelming presence of troopers to the fixed weapon emplacements and patrolling security drones, to the fluttering flags and massive banners, to the austere architecture, as much temple as it was industrial port and embassy, this was House Norr on Montressor.

Muting the proximity alarms, the pilot ignored the demands to transmit his security clearance and passenger identification as ordered by Brego. He wiped a slick layer sweat from around his eyes and steered the taxi into dock.

Brego glanced at Vyx, looking for an ounce of reassurance but finding none. Her body language remained as stiff as his uniform.

He wasn't sure why he bothered. She had, with meticulous expertise, shrouded herself behind high walls of stoic impassivity. He was averse to such business partnerships. They squelched the adventure and fouled the air with mistrust.

He tapped the code bracelet stitched into the right cuff of his jacket. The shouted warnings of violence ceased mid-declaration.

The pilot sighed with his entire body.