"It does." Having been equally efficient at cleaning his plate, he gifted her with a smirk. It was a good deal, so far. Access to gallic space, protection from the lawfuls, being able to moor with a station here and there to resupply. Little did he know at this point, this access would come in handy pretty soon in the future already, when a certain dead-on-paper girlfriend played damsel-in-distress on a certain Brigand station.
But that general direction brought up another topic. "Miss Hookier told me about some of her observations of gallic space. Specifically about the Council. They have ignored her, but seem to be a potential unlawful threat in your territory. If it is not impolite, I'd like to ask you to tell me a bit about these conflicts within your systems. The last thing I'd want is to get between two fronts there." Especially since these Valors and Redemptions were playing in a completely different league. The sight of warships in the Omicrons often made people forget about the size and scale of war machinery used by the houses. Some of these ships were three times as long as the Apahanta, and operated by more than just a handful of humans and a few hundred service robots. In fact, the capital ship guarding Cordes alone was bigger than the entire outpost. And bigger often meant better. He knew that first hand.
As is typical of their trade, the maître d'hôtel snuck into the mess hall precisely thirty seconds after Vertiga was done. He piled the cutlery on top of each slate, picked them up and disappeared with an acceptable compromise between hurriedness and professional elegance. Chanteloup had not even noticed him, intensely focused on Vertiga as she was.
"Yes..." She said wearily. "The Council is a source of some discomfort. They're like a stain on an otherwise impeccable tuxedo. No matter how classy, you can't help but notice the stain, and only the stain. Their cause is no longer limited to shadowy cabinets and conspiracy theorists. They are self-styled freedom fighters, out in the open, desperate to turn Gallia into another Liberty. You can see how that could be a problem for those of us who enjoy Gallia the way it is... Admittedly, not perfect, but not Liberty, either."
She mentally insulted herself. Not perfect ?! It was true, of course, but this was a Sirian. She was getting a little too relaxed, and the feeling was unusual. Thankfully, the maître d'hôtel returned with two charming white porcelain plates with salmon wrapped in greaseproof paper. Underneath the salmon stood a colourful array of various vegetables... And a few snails here and there, cooked in garlic and butter. Papillote cooking tended to give a buttery taste to salmon, as well as making it melt in the mouth. The maître d'hôtel had also produced a basket of fresh, very fragrant bread. Chanteloup had to fight hard to avoid digging in at once.
"You have nothing to fear from them. Admittedly, they are a cut above your usual brigand, rogue or what have you. They have an actual ideology, followers, and means at their disposal. But according to the legions of overpaid military analysts tasked to support me, they are merely agitators and demonstrators... "She sighed. "Either way, do not let them concern you. The problem is on its way to a decisive solution, one way or another, and they do make a point of not targetting non combatants. I don't think they'd greet you with more than curiosity but... I'd still stay away, for everyone's interests. I trust I make myself clear ?"
There was a lot she wasn't saying. A lot she knew, and a lot that she felt, too. And feared. But he wouldn't need to know most of that, for now at the least...
(06-14-2019, 12:25 PM)Sombra Hookier Wrote: If everyone was a bit more like Lanakov, the entire world would be more positive. Including pregnancy tests.
"Worry not, mon Amiral," he said with a charming smirk, mostly aimed at her but partially to the fresh bread as well. "If my memory doesn't fool me, I believe the last time I saw a Council ship was months ago in the California system, and it didn't get to leave the place in one piece. I prefer to stay away from anything that attracts nuclear warheads."
Salmon. As marine biologist, he knew exactly what part of the fish was served, and as hobby cook, he knew how salmon was prepared. This one was done extraordinarily well, and he wondered whether this was the case because of the presence of the Amiral or not. And then there were the snails. He was not certain whether the gallic people knew that, but to any non-gallic person, snails were certainly not something to be expected on the menu.
For once, Ezrael found himself tempted to ask the maître d'hôtel to explain how the snails were prepared. Probably cooked, then separated from the inedible parts for cleaning. The opening was covered by garlic and butter. It certainly looked less inviting to a stranger, but mirroring the Amiral's, there was no way to avoid it. Realizing what the tiny fork-ish cuttlery was meant for, he took it and poked into the opening to pierce through the snail meat, soaked in butter. The smell was surprisingly well. Buttery, while the meat was soft. The garlic added a certain something to it. Probably not the best meal for a date, except if the girl had a thing for garlic breath. For a moment, he wondered whether the woman on the other side of the table had any kind of kink.
Surely she had.
He tried his best to not give away his thoughts when eating the snail, intending to be mostly focused on Isabelle. "I generally have no intention to get in touch with any unlawful entity in Gallia. Their motivations, as long as they don't affect the wellbeing my my ship and my crew, are not relevant to me." He realized the Burgundy red was a fitting match for the salmon. But then again, he always had a weakness for red wine, especially the fruity sweet ones from Curacao.
"As a Curacaoan, I quickly learned to find a reasonable distance to people that were officially not supposed to be on the planet. OSC mostly hired Bounty Hunters to maintain high security standards, which eventually worked out better than on libertonian planets. As you know, corruption is a big issue in Liberty, and while people don't openly talk about it, LPI is the exact opposite of the BPA in terms of corruption. Because of that, cardamine and slave trade are a very big problem in Liberty, in Bretonia not at all. On Curacao, however, while Rogues and Lane Hackers and even Corsairs have a certain presence in the society, only on the primary islands, they don't dare to act up and cause any trouble there. Bounty Hunters are feared, LPI not so much."
The wine was very nice. "It is possible to deal with these people, but in the end, unlawfuls, regardless of their affiliation, attract trouble. Because of this fact, I don't allow any of them on my ship. I like my boring crew of Zoners, civilians and Core deserters," he sounded and smiled at the lovely amiral.
Chanteloup snorted at the thought of Vertiga's crew. "Funny thing, that. You know, when I first heard about you and this association of yours from commissaire Saint-Yves... I imagined one of those ancient times pirate ships, full of dangerous outlaws and lead by an entreprising adventurer. All with nothing left to lose..." she trailed off, aware that it WAS probably the case of most people onboard the Apahanta. "Anyhow, that is good to hear. You're probably aware that I won't need to rely solely on your word for it... But for what it's worth, I believe you. From what I know, you've enough trouble to sort out on your own without getting implicated in someone else's conflict."
She had already, utterly, decisively defeated her salmon. She took the opportunity to focus on Vertiga's reaction to his meal... Which he seemed to enjoy. Or at least, was polite enough not to show any sign of discomfort. A well-mannered rogue, no question. She leaned back in her chair, letting go of some of her edge. The digestion, lingering pleasant tastes and a slight tipsiness worked in great accord.
"Where does it end, Vertiga ? This crusade of yours. I'm well aware that my campaigns have more or less deprived you of a home, but... It will end, sooner or later. You'll be free to return to Curaçao once we're through with Liberty, there'd be no issue... So what then ? Would you imagine being comfortable and happy living an easy life, down there on this seemingly untroubled haven ? I'm picturing the great stateless adventurer, Ezrael Vertiga, without his neon warship, planting cabbages and turnips under the gaze of a very matronly woman. And the thought..." She barked one of her rather loud laughters again. The image was exquisite.
The maître d'hôtel took that as his cue, and discreetly entered the room, pushing a tray. A very, epicly smelly tray.
(06-14-2019, 12:25 PM)Sombra Hookier Wrote: If everyone was a bit more like Lanakov, the entire world would be more positive. Including pregnancy tests.
For the time being, Vertiga eyed the maître d'hôtel. It was a good question. A very sobering question. "Crusade," he repeated. Next to the question itself, it was this wording that made him think about it in a different way. The lady infront of him usually was very specific with her choice of vocabular. "It's the first time someone calls it that way. I often try to find a more fitting word for what I do. Adventuring? It sounds unserious, maybe even childish. But maybe it is exactly that. Or maybe it is an Odyssey, or simply a journey like those of Sinbad." He couldn't hide a smirk. Finding himself at a loss of words because of the question, he reached for the glass of wine and took another sip. It took a while before he faced Isabelle again.
"I will admit, I do enjoy these romantic thoughts. The adventures of Captain Vertiga of the Starship Apahanta. Or the romantic idea of returning to Curacao, settling down again in a nice little villa close to the beach. With a pretty woman at my side. Not necessarily growing crops or raising children, I am not the kind of man to enjoy that. I'd probably just add another few pretty women to the picture instead, maybe a few hoverbikes and..." He lifted the glass slightly. "... a good supply of your finest exports from Burgundy."
Turning the glass while being lost in the thought, he sighed. "But being a realist, I know I can't bail out of my history, mon amiral. There is a bounty on my head, and as long as that is there, settling down is no option, no matter where or when. I believe the sad truth is that I will be bound to the Apahanta for the rest of my life. It is the only thing that can protect me in a very dystopian universe, where a human life's value equals the value of a bullet." Once more, he exhaled audibly. As much as he loved his ship, the idea of it being his home for the rest of his life, instead of his homeworld Curacao, was somewhat irking. "For the same reason, even if I prove my value to you and your crown, settling down as a citizen of Gallia is no perspective either. The Order has agents everywhere, and I wished, I really wished I was just being paranoid and melodramatic."
His gaze lowered to his hands on the table. "That's the reason why I don't intend to cause anyone any trouble anymore. Three years ago, when the Apahanta's journey began, I didn't care much about my own life. Now I do. Mostly because I am surrounded by people who count on me and give me a reason to keep going. I want to protect them, and they protect me. And while it isn't as ideal as being able to live on Curacao again and doing things the way I did them before the Apahanta, living on my ship, being able to go anywhere anytime and for no reason, is definitely not the worst life."
Ezrael smirked at her in his usual charming way. "And you, mon amiral? What comes after the war? Retirement back home or continuing your role in the theatre until your smokes do what Bretonia and Liberty weren't able to?"
Chanteloup chuckled at Vertiga's mention of an Odyssey, and interjected : "Heureux qui comme Ulysses...". She let him continue on, prompting him with a smile. He was clearly absorbed in his reflection, following her question. It wasn't really a surprise ; the idea she'd had of adventurers were mostly people who run from something, or themselves, with no consideration for what to do when they finally stop running. She just wasn't sure what it was he was running from. Then he said it, and the reveal intrigued her, for it was a revelation. It must have been one of those backchannel bounties, or Gallia had simply not been put in the loop. That her services could have missed something like that... She let him continue, as the maître d'hôtel politely, though quickly, deposited a magnificent cheese tray on the table. There were pungent, strong goat cheeses, moist and creamy Camemberts and mild, complex Comtés. Their glasses were refilled with a different Red, far stronger and earthier to match the cheese. The various smells were beautifully entangled.
She took note of his question with a thoughtful, faint smile, as she was rotating her wine glass to reveal the aromas.
"Perhaps this will surprise you, but I have thought of it, occasionally. To be frank with you, it's... I can't really imagine it. Can there really be a life after... All of this ? I find I have trouble existing outside of this suit of mine. These stars on my shoulders, this station, this Marine... It's me, all of it is me. But I don't know that there's something else. That all of this would cease tomorrow, that there would be no cause for me to be needed, the very notion... Where do admirals go to die ?" She had a pause, terrified at herself and those black thoughts. She had always ignored them, but they were there, they had always been. Where do admirals go to die ?
Aware of the mood shift, she regained her composure and made light of the situation with a chuckle. "Well... My family does have an estate on Paris. The village of Chanteloup, on my mother's side. Hence why it appears in my name. It's modest, sparsely populated, and in dire need of attention, as my parents are fond of reminding me. Once I'm done being celebrated as the great victor of Gallia, it is likely that I will take my heavy laurels and impossible glory with me back to these lands, and give some colour back into their cheeks. I've become fairly capable at giving orders, you see."
She smiled, in an effort to further lighten the mood. "I do long for some peace and quiet, surely there can be some of that in this life... And yours. I'm more than intrigued, monsieur Vertiga. This cabal you speak of, Order, was it ? How powerful could they possibly be, that they would track you everywhere ? And what could you have possibly done to attract the ire of such an organisation ? I can't imagine a benevolent and good-hearted adventurer such as you be at the heart of some conspiracy or other that'd cause you to become someone's mortal enemy. Or did you adventure too close to this Order's secret parties ? It can't have been about women, not again..." She was cutting a sizeable portion of Comté cheese, which she stabbed with the point of her knife and then moved to her plate.
"Don't get me wrong : I understand your being attached to your way of life. To a point, I envy you, even ; the notion, like you said, of going anywhere at any time with no one to answer to but yourself is certainly attractive. But surely a part of you must want to stop running at some point. Is this bounty business so grievous, so menacing, so impossible to address that you would let it condemn you to a life on the run ? And not just yours, seemingly" she said, a glint in the eye.
She had been caught not knowing something. An important piece of the puzzle, no less. She needed a vacation.
(06-14-2019, 12:25 PM)Sombra Hookier Wrote: If everyone was a bit more like Lanakov, the entire world would be more positive. Including pregnancy tests.
Curious about the, namely to him unknown, Reblochon, he took a piece of it while listening to the amiral. At some point he caught himself kneading it back and forth, as if the wobbly mass was inviting to do that. Especially when he realized how convinced she was to win this war. Little did he know how the future would surprise everyone, possibly even her.
"The Order," he began, wondering what she knew about them already, if anything, to have her ask such a question. Was she clueless or just interrogating him? In any case, he was supposed to answer. "... is not to be underestimated. The sirian houses call them terrorists. They have ties to multiple criminal organizations. We know for sure they are in touch with the Coalition, the Red Hessians, the Blood Dragons and they are allied with the damn Corsairs. You've probably noticed that the Corsair Armada contains some ships used by the Order. Osiris-class battleships, or the Corsair variant, the Murmillo. Essentially the same. The Order and the Core are constantly fighting for Omicron Delta, Minor and some other edge world systems, and even with the loss of their homeworld, Planet Toledo in Omicron Minor, to the Nomads and the Core, they still manage to operate multiple capital warships and smaller fleets. They are operating all over Sirius, not just in the Omicrons. One of their battlegroups has been active in the independent worlds, so they are not far away from Curacao. I imagine they have people down there on the planet as well."
Chewing on his cheek for a moment, he stared at the cheese. "They have people everywhere. It is their profession. The Order is lead by a man who calls himself Grand Admiral Golanski. I've never had the pleasure to meet him, except on the battlefield, when Core, Zoners, Apahanta and other mercs teamed up to defend Port Carthage, a Zoner installation in Omicron Delta, close to Freeport 11. Order and Corsairs teamed up as well to destroy the station. They won after four days. That was the first time the Apahanta fought against the Order. The second time in the Taus bordering Bretonia. The Apahanta was hired by Bretonia back then, on spot, but I mostly assisted them because these Order vessels were carrying nomadic materials, and I've come to the realization that neither Core nor Order, nor anyone else, should have these things. I take it you know why."
Ezrael leaned back and eyed her again. This conversation went on longer than he had expected, but she was quite charismatic. Charming, even. Much to his surprise. "Golanski is a maniac, and he twists and bends the truth as much as he needs to achieve his goals. They are terrorists, pretending to defend mankind from the Nomad Threat, just to have grown to just another threat to mankind. Golanski is the crazed dictator of these bloodthirsty people. One cannot reason with them. Believe me, it is impossible. However, the main issue is not the Order alone. As I said, they have ties with pretty much all big criminal organizations and revolutionary armies. Probably even in Gallia, mon amiral. And that means a lot of people that have access to their bounty board." Licking over his lips once, he continued. "As long as that bounty is there, there is no way to settle down. They are both after my ship and my own head. And I like both my ship and my head without additional holes."
Quite fitting, he held up a piece of cheese with big holes. "I hope for you that nobody ever puts a bounty on your head, Isa- mon amiral." For a moment he had played with the thought of mentioning a book he once had read, but he didn't know whether Gallia had an equivalent of it. And if yes, how it was called.
Blinking at her, he smirked. "My oh my, your soldiers surely need to burn plenty of calories if they eat this much every day, especially with all the cheese. My compliments for you being able to stay in shape, amiral."
Chanteloup mused on all that Vertiga was telling her. It was apparent that there was something significant he wasn't telling her about, or at least she felt that way. But she chose not to pursue this feeling, as she sensed nothing good or conclusive would come off it. She'd gathered enough, at this point.
"You'll forgive me, I'm sure, if from my perspective as leader of the most formidable and ruthless military force in mankind's history, I'll take your word about this order's omnipotence with copious amounts of salt. I know Sirius to be a strange place, however, and I understand your fears. I've heard of this Golanski character, he's the butt of a few jokes in our Sirian affairs bureau... The Omicrons seem to clearly be the silliest, most senseless place of all. Your earlier story about this Freeport whose number I forgot cements my belief about what little life seems to be worth over there. I understand why you ran away."
She bit into her comté with delight. It was probably a year old, and developed complex aromas. A joy to her experienced palate, that didn't take her mind off the conversation.
"Still, that you would be hunted down by people bought by this order right into my home tells me those people would need to be very much enticed. Bounty hunting in Gallia is a delicate affair... Unless you're Corsican. Or the Corsicans tolerate you, which... Yes. A significant risk, then, which in turn tells me this bounty must be nothing short of extravagant. More extravgant than is usually spent on mere mercenaries, or so I'd think... But what do I know about bounty hunting after all ?" she concluded, with a smile that could mean just about anything.
"Be that as it may. I don't plan on intruding in your personal life... That is, more than I already have. You can rest easy, as per bounties on my head ; most of Sirius and half of Gallia already wishes me dead. What could possibly go wrong ? Although I have no idea how much I'm worth... do you ?" She grinned for a moment, before returning to her usual seriousness.
"I understand living with a target on your back, but it seems we've chosen two different paths to face it. I do respect yours, but I hope, for your sake, that you'll be able to wind down at some point in this life. You have to show me this planet of yours, after all."
She chuckled, thinking back on his last sentence. "If you're feeling full now, wait until you see the dessert..."
As though on cue, once more (he was clearly good at this), the maître d'hôtel made another appearence. He addressed Chanteloup first, with a simple "Digestif ?" to which she replied "Un Armagnac".
He then turned to Vertiga, and, mindful of Chanteloup's intent stare, explained.
"Monsieur, with ze dessert, shall you desire un petit digestif ? We have many, monsieur. Perhaps Verveine, absinthe or Chartreuse, monsieur, if monsieur likes plants or minty taste. Or maybe the stronger Armagnac, Cognac or a Whisky, monsieur, to cleanse ze palette ? We do have a homemade eau-de-vie, here on Cordes, monsieur, if monsieur feels up to ze challenge..." he said dramatically.
(06-14-2019, 12:25 PM)Sombra Hookier Wrote: If everyone was a bit more like Lanakov, the entire world would be more positive. Including pregnancy tests.
The maître d'hôtel certainly had an almost comical way of altering the notion of this dialogue from an romantic into a serious one. While under other circumstances Ezrael would have taken the invitation to proverbially dance this proverbial dance with him, guessing it was what the amiral was secretly hoping for to be able to witness, the Curacaoan was not here to share his attention with this excellently behaving man. No matter what kind of personality, thoughts and possibly even prejudical disgust was hiding behind the facade, the man was playing his role well.
Just like Isabelle.
"Please, I'll take what she does," Ezrael said, eyeing the maître for a moment in a firm way. Then, as there was nothing to add, he faced the amiral again while her servant left to do his job.
Ezrael smirked at her, not saying anything for a few seconds. Then his focus dropped, his gaze down to the table as he chuckled. "Your friend here," he sounded, refering to the maître with a hinting motion of his head in the maître's direction, "Highly disciplined. Clear way of speaking. Feels like theatre and acting are part of your core gallic values and traits."
He paused for a moment before continuing. "When Sombra re-" A blink of silence before he corrected himself. "When Miss Hookier returned from her first longer stay in Gallia, she brought a lot of souvenirs from your house. Not just the excellent wine, and plenty of that already, but also a database filled with gallic series and movies. Even music. The differences from what we have in Liberty and Bretonia and Rheinland are... how to word it... " He exhaled, smiling. "I believe the gallic culture has kept the playfulness in their media. At least that is how it felt to me. Not comparable with the neutered, streamlined industrial media produced in Liberty and Rheinland. Every now and then Miss Hookier and I watch a movie before going to bed."
While he first had tried to avoid talking about Sombra, it was probably more than obvious what kind of relationship they had, at this point. Exhaling audibly, he continued. "I feel like playing a role is something your people have in their blood, amiral. Your maître just reminded me of it, just like the things you say."
A moment of silence. His eyes were focused on hers. "A good show. My compliments for it, amiral. I admit, without implying anything negative, I am inclined to believe you in everything you say. Your confidence about the future. Your lack of fear for being a target. Even when admitting that there are aspects of Gallia you would consider flawed, you do make it sound like it is a better place than anything we have in Sirius. Except for Curacao, obviously. If your goal was to present Gallia as a strong, admirable nation and yourself, even when allowing me to see your physical weakness, as a loyal, humble and patriotic, a strong woman of Gallia, you did that with success."
His charming smirk returned. "That being said, mon amiral, should fortune device to favor your enemies... should the the show, the theatre, decide to take a different turn... in that surely most unlikely case, I do want you to know, that since you offer me a safe haven in Gallia, I will offer you safe haven on my ship, should the need ever arise." His right hand's fingers were kneading an imaginary blob of wax as he made the offer, halfway hiding his chin from her perspective. "That is the least I can promise. That being said, don't expect our cuisine to be as intensely aromatic in scent as yours."
The maître d'hôtel made no effort to hide his disappointment, uttered a despondent and clearly heartbroken "Bien, monsieur" and left the premises. Chanteloup turned her attention back to Vertiga, and listened intently to what he said next. She had an amused smile at his comments about her friend, then another, satisfied smile when he touched upon Gallic culture. Something she was instinctively proud of, and yet had not taken time to appreciate in... Months ? At least that.
Her smile became more nuanced as he went on. More thoughtful, more knowing... more tense. She was focused on his eyes, these strange, deep eyes that seemed to conceal an ocean of unstated thoughts, desires and observations. She had never seen eyes like his.
But his promise relaxed her, and a certain gravity that had permeated the room, unbeknownst to her, was suddenly lifted. As he finished his piece, she raised her arms slightly and assumed a faux guilty face.
"You got me" she said, laughing. "I cannot deny that there is a certain taste for the dramatic among my people. We enjoy putting emphasis on whatever it is we mean to express, at the risk of entering into a performance rather than a speech. In the life of any young officer comes a test of eloquence. Competitions are organised, in which cadets are tasked to defend a position as convincingly as possible. It's not the arguments that matter all that much, it's the way the ideas are carried across. The gestures, the tone, the switches in pace... And the eyes. Oh, the eyes... So yes. An interesting observation, monsieur Vertiga, though I've rapidly come to ascertain the acuteness of your own senses. You would have made a formidable intelligence operative, assuming you aren't one already" she said, very flatly and without any hint of humour. She paused, her intense stare locked into his.
She leaned back, her features relaxed, almost soft. "I'm glad you enjoyed the show, at any rate. I'm not going to affirm or deny that what you said is true, or that I oversold Gallia, or my attachment to it. That's your headache. Plus, you're not so bad yourself in regards to acting, don't even think I haven't noticed. I don't mind. You are responsible for many lives, men and women trust you. Leadership and command are intimately tied to acting. We're taught to act like we know how to lead, until we've convinced ourselves that we're actual leaders. It's the only way it sinks in. I don't know how far down that road you are currently, but... We're quite alike, you and I, moreso than you would think. And in light of that, if everything would one day turn into a bad dream from which I could not wake up... Be sure I'd give you a call, one way or another." She was dumbfounded at herself, but then any pretense of this being just an ordinary visa interview flew off the window even before Vertiga docked with Cordes.
Always on cue, the maître d'hôtel returned with two trays, one holding two small round glasses filled with a beautiful amber liquid, that exhaled strong aromas comparable to soft leather, and another tray holding two small plates, themselves displaying a slice of tarte tatin next to a sphere of vanilla ice cream, as per tradition. The maître d'hôtel gratified Chanteloup with a rare smile and a slight bow. "Compliments du chef, amiral" he said, with more sincerity than usual. She nodded at him with equally unusual warmth and murmured "merci beaucoup". The maître left, not forgetting a slight, if very formal nod towards Vertiga. He had clearly given up on trying to engage this sullen and extravagant Sirian. That'd teach him to try and be nice to strangers, he thought with bitter haughtiness.
"It's my favourite dessert" she told Vertiga, with the Chanteloup equivalent of childish giddiness (essentially a very restrained expression of moderate joy). "What better way to celebrate this mutual support we've somehow promised one another just now ?"
(06-14-2019, 12:25 PM)Sombra Hookier Wrote: If everyone was a bit more like Lanakov, the entire world would be more positive. Including pregnancy tests.
