Ainsi je frappe - the pasts and presents of Isabelle Montlaville de Chanteloup

[Lanakov]

Chanteloup's theme.

The height of the Gallic war.

Isabelle Montlaville de Chanteloup was sitting in an armoured transport. By herself. That sort of ship had passenger compartments isolated from the cockpit, to ensure maximum peace and quiet for whoever had the honour to travel aboard one. She checked the ship's position on a conveniently-placed display on the wall in front of her. Azincourt. The beginning of the AuTauroute, and the return to safety.

She sighed. Perhaps with relief, perhaps with sorrow.

She had received the order to relinquish her command from the Téméraire and return to the Etat-Major on Paris. Not many in Gallia still had the authority to order her around, a fact she was acutely aware of as she had utterly forgotten how it felt. Chanteloup had never been one to demand freedom at every turn and was content to follow a chain of command which she respected and knew to be necessary... But that didn't make her feel any better.

Come back, Isabelle. I need you here. Let Thouars and Justéton handle the frontlines. Grand Maréchal Macron was not a man she could say no to. She couldn't imagine anyone saying no to the discreet, silent and impossibly imposing man. Though reserved and austere herself, she felt like a babbling schoolgirl every time she had to interact with him.

It's fine, she had thought. I'll be just as useful back in Paris, if not more. There's so much to be done from there. And I'll be back, this is nothing. Chanteloup had been in many positions before, chiefly in internal affairs and intelligence. She had worked aboard warships and had seen her fair share of combat... But commanding a flagship on the most dangerous frontline of the entire sector wasn't something she had ever imagined doing. Or was prepared for. Perhaps, on the command bridge of the Téméraire, someone had noticed those fleeting moments of doubt, of concern. Of fear. She took great pride in her impenetrable façade and ability to read others, necessary traits to have when working in intelligence... But she was acutely aware of her own shortcomings. Perhaps that someone had seen her for the fraud she was and reported it directly to the Grand Maréchal ? That'd have been the thing any good soldier would have done...

She waved those dark thoughts away. Insecurities had crept upon her repeatedly during those last few weeks at the front. Directing people into battle, dealing with death directly. She had pinned it on the stress of command. Who wouldn't doubt when faced with such odds ? Madmen, she assumed. But then, she got that curt message, along with a time of pick-up. Leave your ship behind, the message seemed to say. It'll be just as useful without you.

She had erred along this grim path for the rest of the AuTauroute. Not even the traditionally uplifting sight of the gates to Gallia and its exceptional lane network, so advanced compared to the primitive Sirian equivalent, managed to cheer her up. She mindlessly gathered her belongings and exited the transport, which had dropped her to her personal quarters at the Marine's headquarters in Paris. Mindful of her preferences in regards to solitude, the crew of the ship and the servants of the building had given her a wide berth. So effectively that she had not seen a single soul ever since she had left the Téméraire. Without ceremony, without honours. Just a simple "Au revoir, amiral. Bon retour" from her Second, to which she had replied a simple "Merci. Rompez". Armoured transports were fast. Only several hours had passed. They'd felt like weeks.

Dutifully, she busied herself with unpacking her meager belongings. Her quarters were somptuous compared to those abord the Téméraire, yet still simple and functional compared to the suites traditionally favoured by those of her social rank. It didn't matter. For the first time in decades, she longed for company. The thought came, unbidden, and brought scores of unfamiliar, deep feelings with it.

She completed her unpacking by placing her PDA on the nightstand, and sat on the large bed, ready to relax and savour forgotten comforts. Company could wait. This isn't so bad. You're back home.

Then the PDA flashed to life and an digital voice greeted her.
"Happy birthday, -Isabelle-. Gallia Télécoms hopes you had a wonderful day".

Chanteloup's PDA profile picture, then a young Commandant. She never bothered to update it.

---

Feedback, insults, marriage proposals and declarations of fealty

If everyone was a bit more like Lanakov, the entire world would be more positive. Including pregnancy tests.

[Lanakov]

Twenty-five years before the beginning of the Gallic conquest.

"Your move", came a slurring, teasing male voice.

Isabelle Montlaville de Chanteloup was sitting upright at a poker table. She had turned eighteen a few weeks back and, as such, her parents had allowed her to go on an actual party for the first time. It was a regular party, organised and attended by students made anxious by the irresistible approach of high school's dreaded final exams : the Baccalauréat. The participants, as anxious students are wont to do, had completely bypassed their alcohol tolerance limits and were discovering how their bodies responded to such excesses. Some were already asleep, curled up in various shapes anywhere their body could fit. Less fortunate ones were doubling over in the garden of the luxurious villa ; others were gleefully discovering (and experimenting with) the uninhibiting effects of alcohol. Yet others were trying their hand at gambling with the meagre pocket change their parents had conceded them.

Isabelle had had a single glass of gin. Mother demanded that she only get one alcoholic drink. Father had suggested that she try gin. Isabelle, as ever, had scrupulously done as her parents had told her. She had relished the soft taste of gin, the subtle bitter aftertaste and the ensuing warmth in her thorax. It had struck her hard, too, and she was in that delightful realm that is significant tipsiness. She was just drunk enough to feel the relaxation and euphoria induced by alcohol on her mind and body, and not drunk enough that she wouldn't be able to remark upon, and thus enjoy, those changes. Balanced approach. Perfect. She despised the spectacle unfolding before her eyes ; she liked the present crowd well enough and even respected some of them. To see them slouched in such precarious positions, babbling around, making such terrible fools of themselves... She didn't regret indulging in a single glass. This was not at all what she imagined a party to be, and had no intention of lowering herself to a slurring, giggling wreckage desperately grasping for attention and having her beautiful, long dark hair pulled up as she vomited in front of her friends.

She was sitting with three others in various states of intoxication. One of them was trying hard to look fresh and sober. Being 17, it was a poor performance.
"I'll follow, Marc. Uncover the damn card" she replied, after a moment of consideration.

Isabelle was new at poker, but she was not new at reading people. She had essentially spent her life being taught to do it by her parents through various games and lessons until it became second nature. And it turned out alcohol made people infinitely more readable. As if all their signals suddenly started screaming for attention. She understood enough of the game to use it to her advantage, with the lack of nuance and eagerness to win common to the youth. This didn't seem to bother her rapidly impoverished comrades. The game went on. She felt the attention of the three boys converging on her more and more as they seemed to come to a realisation.

"Sssso, Isabelle..." Marc said, trying to start something.
"Yessssh", replied the boy on her left. He was the 17 year old one, making him a kid by 18 year olds standards.
"You... Look nice", said the one on her right, whose name she vaguely remembered.

The other two gasped at him, which he gracefully ignored. She raised an encouraging eyebrow at him. He was certainly attractive, and she remembered him for his adequate participation in geography classes. He was curious and knew things, and wasn't afraid of speaking up. She already couldn't abide the illiterate and the uncultured, and knew to appreciate intellectual qualities such as his. They, of course, had never talked.

"Thank you", she replied curtly, determined not to make things easy. Mother insisted that this was her duty as a Chanteloup. Make yourself impossibly desirable, and then make them work for it. Her father had shrugged and growled every time this came up, arguing that it wasn't fair men would have to do all the hard work all the damned time. The Montlaville family wasn't the impregnable bastion of good morality that the Chanteloup were.

Clearly, this reply had the desired effect on the drunken oaf, who stumbled and passed on what Isabelle thought to be a good poker hand. Then, he attacked from a different angle.
"You are smart, too. It's impressive how you seem to have an interest in all the things, in every... You know, the things. I like that. I feel like we could talk about anything with you. Isn't that right, guys ? Huh ? See ? I like that. Very impressive. Yes."
He'd found his courage, clearly, and mid-sentence, his tone had accelerated and rejuvenated. The slur was almost gone, but still noticeable. His name came back to her.
"Thank you, Baptiste. Actually I enjoy your company as well. You seem eager and curious, I like that. Surely we could find some time to chat one of these days, after the Bac of course." She ended her sentence on what she hoped was a teasing grin.

This had a devastating effect on the table. The two spectators' eyes went wide, and Baptiste sat there, mouth agape. He recovered quicker than the others.
"Yeshh ! I mean, yes, of course, why not ? I would like that, I would like that very much indeed."
None had anything to add after that : a slightly awkward silence fell on the table.
Simultaneously, in a typically masculine show of solidarity, Marc offered a cigarette to Isabelle and the kid asked : "What do you want to do after the Baccalauréat?"

Isabelle smiled at them both.
"No thanks, I don't smoke. And I will be a teacher."

---

Feedback, insults, marriage proposals and declarations of fealty

If everyone was a bit more like Lanakov, the entire world would be more positive. Including pregnancy tests.

[Lanakov]

The Gallic war is nearing its end, unbeknownst to our characters.

An advancing Rheinlandic battlegroup advances in formation and bears down on several stations in orbit of a distinctive planet. Fast-forward to a Kusari fleet intercepting the Rheinlanders in a violent battle. The feed is minimised into a square at the upper right of the screen, which now displays solemn Kusari governmental representatives in session, followed by their angrier, shoutier Rheinlander counterparts. At the bottom of the screen, a red banner displaying the words ESCALADE IN THE SIGMAS : WAR IS DECLARED. Grand Maréchal Jean-Paul Macron raised a hand, and the feed cut on a close-up of a Tokugawa battleship in disarray.

"Open, high intensity warfare... Between our two main trade partners in the entire sector" said the Maréchal, still looking at the screen.

Chanteloup was still digesting what she had just seen. She couldn't help but ask.
"Did you know this would happen ?"
"Of course", came the obvious reply. "Didn't you, Isabelle ?" He'd phrased that without irony, and offered a rare, gentle smile.
"No", she admitted instantly, to her never-ending sorrow.
"The bridge of a warship engaged on the bloodiest frontline of the sector isn't the most favourable place to appreciate shifts in geopolitics." His smile faded and his eyes lingered in hers. She couldn't tell if he expected a reply. She could never tell.
"Is this why you brought me back, Maréchal ?"
He had another long, thoughtful look at the screen before he replied.
"No. We have no say in this. Whatever Gallia does about this will be decided several tiers above us both, Isabelle. We will carry the word and deal with the consequences, as per usual... but this is not why I asked you to return to Paris. This was merely to bring you up to speed : we have more immediate concerns than territorial disputes in the Sigmas."

She knew better than that. She knew it was more than a mere territorial dispute. She knew that it carried heavy repercussions for Gallia, and that it would need to be addressed quickly and decisively. She knew that Macron didn't just want to "bring her up to speed" on this matter. But most of all, she knew best than to bring any of this up. Sensing no reply would come from her, the maréchal took hold of a pile of folders that he displayed, one by one, in front of Chanteloup. His desk was as large as it was elegant. Mahogany, or rosewood, perhaps ? Hers was birchwood, for some reason.

"Item one", he said. "Reaching out to other possible partners in Sirius. Clearly, we won't be able to win this one just by ourselves, despite our initial analysis. Our forces are stretched too thin, supplies take too long to arrive, and we're simply not gaining ground fast enough. The commissioning of Issoudun drydock should help... But current predictions aren't particularly in favour of a quick victory. And at this point, we can hardly afford anything else, especially considering..." He took another forlorn look at the Tokugawa. "Anyhow, this folder contains the names and whereabouts of several groups and associations that, according to our geopolitical analysts, could be of use to the Kingdom AND willing to hear us out and work with us. This is back channel business, which is why we're not sending diplomats on the case. Do whatever you must. These are mostly outlaws, fringe elements and renegades. I know what you think... But we're running out of options. I'm pleased with your work with the Core and the Cretans, but it can't stop there and with them."

Chanteloup nodded. This, she had seen coming. The inevitable opening to Sirius' pariahs, rejects and undesirables. All those who wouldn't stand against Gallia under Liberty's softened version of tyranny. "Fine. The MRG has had an influx of diplomacy-minded people recently, for some reason. I'll put them to some semblance of use."

"Item two", Macron went on. "Agent Silver of the Core. I know you've summoned her already, but you haven't been told why. This folder here will explain everything. You'll understand why it is imperative that we keep her around for the time being. As such, do whatever is necessary to keep the Core happy with our current arrangement. This may be one of the Kingdom's most important secrets, Isabelle."

Chanteloup nodded. She'd had her fair share of the "Kingdom's most important secrets" in the past. How bad could this one be ? "Very well, maréchal. What's next ?"

Macron smiled again. "You're not going to like this one. Eliza Valdez... De Loyola, apparently."
She winced. That had been one of her last cases in Internal security, before she was promoted to the MRG's chief of staff position. She had captured and interrogated two high value Maltese women, one of whom was made a citizen of the kingdom, the other blackmailed into spying for Gallia. Both had vanished without a trace, despite Royal Intelligence's best efforts. Not her best case.
"Enma Loyola is still missing, and not many here regret her. But Valdez has resurfaced. She's due for a few months' worth of reports... We're not sure where she is at this moment. Track her down, get her to tell you what she knows... Then put an end to our arrangement. By our informations, she's become some sort of wandering tramp and is not likely to be worth much trouble any more. Still, this case needs proper closure. Hear her out then finish this however you see fit."

Now that'd be some reunion. Chanteloup wasn't totally convinced she was looking forward to it, but as Jean-Paul... As the maréchal said, the Valdez/Loyola affair needed closure.

"Penultimate item, and this may surprise you : Ezrael Vertiga. The wandering billionaire... You've not met him personally, but commissaire général Saint-Yves has. He was the centrepiece of a very important joint operation carried out by the MRG and the Core... In the Sigmas. We need to know what he's up to. His flagship has been sighted at critical places, in critical moments all too often lately. Some of our people believe he's on some bigshot's payroll for intelligence and sabotage operations. There is no certitude, other than that he's never far from trouble. Whether it follows him or he follows it... See what you can find. Be discreet."

Chanteloup nodded, again. She was puzzled by this request, and had indeed only vaguely heard of Vertiga and his pack of depraved thugs. There was probably more to this request than what Macron had told him... But that was business as usual, and she'd need to worry about it later.

"And finally..." Macron went somber. It was a terrifying display, an added layer of darkness to austerity personified. Chanteloup froze. He pushed the remaining file towards her. "I need you to find a way to end this war. As I told you, we must precipitate its outcome. Everything is in place for our operations to be successfully carried out : the New London gate will soon be complete, Issoudun will keep our diamond spearhead up and running in our enemy's backyard and fresh allies may soon join our fight. But, again, if this fails to generate the expected results... We'll be out of options. This folder contains every last-resort solution conceived by our strategists at the doctrine research centre. THOSE solutions. All of them are game-enders, extreme and as unpleasant to imagine as to enact. But we've not come this far to fail, Isabelle. Charles demands his victory, and any notion of cost is becoming obsolete, fast. At this point, if our current operations prove insufficient... We'd rather make our enemy assume the bulk of that cost. Look into those solutions. Think on them. You have two weeks, then we'll need to make preparations for the ones you've chosen."

She read the folder's tag : a sobering, chilling "BRETONIA : FIN DE PARTIE".

She suddenly felt a heart-wrenching, soul-crushing longing for the Téméraire's command bridge. Ainsi je frappe.

---

Feedback, insults, marriage proposals and declarations of fealty

If everyone was a bit more like Lanakov, the entire world would be more positive. Including pregnancy tests.

[Lanakov]

Six months before the battle of New London.

Chanteloup was, like so many nights before, at her desk. Like so many nights before, the ominous BRETONIA : FIN DE PARTIE file was open before her eyes. She was scribbling notes, possibilities, drawbacks... in a vain attempt to quantify what would be an apocalypse, no matter how well she went about her work.

Much had changed in the MRG hierarchy over this past winter. The Chancellery, on her suggestion, had issued the order to remove the grand maréchal Jean-Paul Macron from office and grant her more power through the reactivation of the ancient Amiral de Gaule title. This wasn't done as a reward for her past services ; this wasn't the mood anymore in royal cabinets. Charles wanted Bretonian blood, and fast, aware that the tides could turn at any second. She knew she'd been granted this extra power to end the stagnation of the Bretonian campaign and ensure a swift and decisive end to it, so royal attention could be turned elsewhere. It was determined, she imagined, that she'd be more efficient at reducing the enemy's will to fight compared to the admittedly softer Macron...
Yet, some saw this as a bid to exercise absolute power over the Marine. One in particular, the usually reserve, statuesque, ice-cold amiral de Justéton. When the announcement came during the high admiralty council, he simply rose, calmly, pulled his sidearm and shot Chanteloup before anyone could move. She was shot to the hip, survived, but still had to use a cane months later. Justéton was arrested and not heard of again.

Chanteloup raised her pen from her notes, aware that she was absent-mindedly scribbling pointless observations on how an absence of genocide would be preferrable to a genocide. It was Macron that asked her to choose one of the game-ending scenarios Gallia's military analysts had conceived, and although he was no longer her boss, she carried on, aware of the increasing necessity of preparing for a desperate outcome. She was accustomed to grim perspectives, but this was easily the darkest point of her career.
She returned to her notes. The scenario that she felt was both the most effective and most humane was called Option 4. It called for a massive deployment of the newly developped Triumph destroyer around key Bretonian positions, as an effort to either obliterate the adversary's morale... Or create enough shock and sideration in the Bretonian chain of command to ensure a safe retreat to Leeds.

And then...

With a deep sigh, she returned to her scribbling, leaning her head heavily on her left hand.

---

Feedback, insults, marriage proposals and declarations of fealty

If everyone was a bit more like Lanakov, the entire world would be more positive. Including pregnancy tests.

[Lanakov]

Stars. Billions of them, in a seemingly endless sky. Endless, cold, insensitive darkness. Isabelle struggled for air, feeling her life slip through her fingers like fine sand. There didn't seem to be enough time for regrets.

Then, a rowdy hand slammed her in the back, and life seemed to return.
Along with with the raspy voice typical of the pre-adult, post-teenager phase.
"Ah-hah ! I warned you Absinthe was a real kick in the face !"

Twenty-four years before the start of the Gallic conquest.

Isabelle was enjoying a night out under the stars with Baptiste. The same Baptiste from that poker night, who had dared to ask her out, and who had proven to be adept at conversation even when sober. Conversation, and some other things Isabelle had found to be more than adequate ways to pass the time on her way to glory.

She defined "glory", then, as becoming the most famous professor in all of Gallia. Being 19, she had no set limit in mind as to what she'd teach. The grand history of Gallia and her French forebears ? The intricacies of interpersonal dynamics ? The complexities of strategy, logistics and governing ? She wanted to know it all, master every field and teach it all. She wanted to be the one people come to for guidance and elevation and was certain that, given the opportunity, she could kickstart a new era of enlightenment for Gallia. She reasoned that, when the time would come to civilise the Sirians, nothing short of absolute erudition for all Gauls would suffice.
These questions were present in her mind on a daily basis, for she had just passed her Baccalauréat with remarkable grades (though not sufficient by her mother's standards) and was now out of high school. The time had come to choose a path in higher education, a choice that would alter the rest of her life as she saw it. She of course was striving for the Ecole Normale Supérieure, a prestigious, highly selective cursus that sought to produce generalist profiles, students with quick minds and ample intellectual backgrounds, able to tackle any problem and come up with creative solutions based on their wits and their trove of knowledge. Normale Sup', as it was affectionaly known, was the go-to cursus for great administrators, politicians, researchers, authors, activists... But rarely military leaders.

"So that's why she won't let you go ?" asked Baptiste, who made to refill Isabelle's tiny liquor glass with a second round of Absinthe.
"She's dead set on it. This nation has a large enough supply of haughty fools telling us how to think, she claims."
"She's not wrong", he pointed out, which elicited no reaction on Isabelle's part.
"This reductive reasoning is rather typical of my mother, Baptiste. I'm sure she's heard a few hacks try and talk their way into credibility on some television show or other and deduced that all intellectuals had to be vain wind merchants" Isabelle said, with the assurance of an angry teenager with big ideas.
"What does your father have to say about this ?"
"My father doesn't get to say much, usually." The tone of her reply cut the conversation short, as it tended to.

A moment passed, as they both looked at the night sky. It was one of those warm summer nights, near the Chanteloup estate, a nice, quiet rural spot in Paris' outer rim. Light pollution was low, too, and with Absinthe kicking in, the context lent itself well to juvenile existential introspection.
"I'm still going to do it, bordel" Isabelle said, without prompting. Marc looked at her, bemused ; Gallic youths, in polite society, were trained very hard into not questioning their parents. That training had still not dissipated in either of them.
"And what if..." he replied tentatively.
"I'm an adult. Legally speaking, she can't do anything. Emotionally speaking, she can try whatever she likes. I said I'd be a teacher, that's what I want my life to be and nothing else."

The stars looked on with a knowing glitter.

---

Feedback, insults, marriage proposals and declarations of fealty

If everyone was a bit more like Lanakov, the entire world would be more positive. Including pregnancy tests.

[Lanakov]

An uncertain amount of time following the New London rout.
For reference, the last words of Chanteloup :
The Chanteloup tapes #1
The Chanteloup tapes #2
The Chanteloup tapes #3

Darkness. Pure, complete, comforting darkness, and silence. At last. No thoughts, either. No pressure, no time ticking down, no stress. Isn't it nice when your limbic system gives you a break ?
It's not the limbic system, you dumb fool, it's the prefrontal cortex. Have you forgotten everything already ? Well, wasn't that the entire bloody point ? Don't ask me. Fine, then peace it is.

Well, not anymore ; seems there's no possible way to be at peace in this putain d'univers.. Movement, light. Faint voices. Then, more silence, more darkness. Pure, delicious nothingness, not even the shadow of a thought. You have no shape : you are nothing. This is nice, non ? Very nice. You like it. Quiet. Of course you would.

More movement, you feel. Indeed. This is not acceptable. All you wanted was peace, and there you are, disturbed so soon after... Well, you-know-what happened. Soon ? How can you tell ? You have lost your means of measuring time, madam. Time itself is a bit of an obscure concept at the moment, as gender should be, by the way. Nice plot hole. Couldn't get things right even in... This. But then you never could get things right, whatever your state of consciousness, bit late to start. Ah, see ; it's over. Static darkness again. Not even darkness, for that is something already. This is nothing.

What is this now ? A flicker of thought ? And what thought is that, hmm ? Regrets ?! Oh, lovely. Is your brain not supposed to be dead ? What business do you have thinking ? What good did that do you before ? Yes, that's what I thought. Return to the void, it's the only place you ever belonged to, anyway.

Ah, more movement. Fantastic. If you had known the end would be so lively, perhaps you'd have come here sooner, by yourself. It's not like you've never thought of it, either, you were just too much of a coward to ever try. Hmmm ? What are you doing now ? Feeling ? Oh, that's novel. Well, why not, since you were already thinking... And what is this feeling of yours ? Remorse ? Sadness ? Well, there's a bold departure from your usual self, the one from before. Clearly it was worth going through all that trouble to be at peace, only to have the same old flaws and fears flood your conscience again.

By the way, I forgot to mention : you now have a conscience again. Congratulations. I figured, with all the regretting, and the remorsing and the what have you, you were doing such a terrible job of being dead that I decided to do something about it. Hi ! You're now not-quite-dead, though hardly in a getting-better state, either. To be honest, this development is entirely due to parameters beyond my control ; I just wanted to stay with you a little longer while you made up your mind, but you simply couldn't just go, it would seem. How characteristically undecisive of you. Ah well, here we are.
Your hearing is getting a little better, though. Yes ! You have physical senses too, do you know. Don't ask much, though. You're closer to staying in comfortable nothingness than returning to whatever else exists out there. Don't ask me, ask yourself. Oh wait, you just did ! Well this is going in circles. Go back to sleep. Ignore the omnipresent, regularly-paced electronic beeping in your left ear, I'm sure that's nothing.

There you are. While you were away facing your many shortcomings, I heard concern. Not yours, but clearly directed at you, by several sources. People ! No, I don't know who they are. Do they love you ? Why do you ask ? Is there anyone you think would love you ? Oh, there's your mother and father, obviously, though in the case of your mother it was always a bit of an unclear concept, love. Imagine how devastated she must have been at your funeral, though. You, her precious, and only child, carrying so much of her being and her hopes by yourself, lost to her ! Though not before you realised part of her ambition and became such an important person in that organisation she holds so dear. No, I don't remember either, can't be have been that important. Well, to her, it was, and so were you. You never liked the idea but you always hoped, against better sense, you clung to the hope of seeing, one day, affection, tenderness for you in her eyes, didn't you ? Well, you never told her that, and now you can't. Great job. Perhaps grief and sorrow have already done to her what you've done to yourself, but that won't make the two of you any closer, I'm afraid. Your father ? Oh, same as always : emotions all over the place. I'm sure he tried hard to compose himself when he said his goodbyes to your empty coffin, and I'm sure he failed miserably. Though, for once, his wife didn't blame him for it ; I don't imagine she was all too composed herself, this one time. Were your colleagues there ? Some, yes, I'm sure. Not all of them loved you, to say the least, but you can't blame them. At least not all of them despised you, either. There's that ! You wonder if they said anything during the ceremony ? Me too. You left at an... inconvenient time, you see. There was plenty of terrible things happening at that point, many of them your fault. There was much in everyone's mind, and nothing good, I'm afraid. Ah yes ! Here we are again : regrets. Hmm ? No, I don't mind. We have all the time in the universe. Take it easy, you've earned it.

The beeping is continuing, steadily. Don't you mind ? It'd drive me crazy. But what do I know.

People again. One time they're here, another time, they're gone. No, I still don't know who they are. They're not always the same. They don't speak the same language, for one thing, but you would understand if you could hear. Yes ! That's how smart you are, a woman of the world, truly. Look where that got you. Magnificent. So, people, then. Of all things, that's where your thoughts keep coming back. Can't think why. Ah ? Well, your hippocampus is doing at least slightly better, so yes, you can know a little more. Are you sure, though ? You know these regrets, this remorse you've been experiencing ? Yeah, they come from that bit, in a large part. No, I just want to make sure. You've always hated, with a burning passion, wallowing in self-pity. And you've never done it yourself, for all your faults. Are you sure you want to start ? Well, yes, I suppose now is as good a time as any. So, bear with me a moment, we'll do this step by step.

What do you remember ?
OPTION 4 OPTION 4 OPTION 4 OPTION 4 OPTION 4 OPTION 4 OPTION 4 OPTION 4 OPTION 4 OPTION 4 OPTION 4 OPTION 4 OPTION 4 OPTION 4 OPTION 4 OPTION 4 OPTION 4 OPTION 4 OPT... Hey there, easy now. Your synaptic connections are NEVER going to cope if you go about it like this. It's been... I don't know, a very long time, since you've done this. So, deep breath (hurray, respiratory system !), and start over. Make a list. You always loved lists.

Leeds. Yes, that didn't look good when you left. Yes, option 4 was the most humane, yes, you didn't think it would be carried out like this, yes, you feel like it was the only choice, and that you had no control. No control ! You were the ****ing boss of these people, and you tried to convince yourself you weren't responsible ? Yeah, you failed.

New London. War is horrible, as was what happened in the skies of the planet on that fateful day. You've long (how long is that ? Touché) thought it was the turning point, the moment you lost it all. But you're not kidding yourself any longer ; it was all lost long before. Perhaps before you signed the contract that made you what your mother forced you to become. So yes, people died, many of them innocents. And you know what London changed ? That's right, nothing. Circle back to item one on this list. But wait ! Before you list every planet, every station that you had bombed, shot, or otherwise depressurised, let me remind you that we were talking about people. Okay ? Okay. So who comes in mind ? Go on, think, remember all those people who've been so enriched to cross paths with you. Start with the "friends" list. Better start with the easy bit.

De Justéton. Yes, that tall, quiet statue of a man. Always at odds with Thouars. He saw through you when you attempted that powergrab from Macron, and acted when no other dared to. Nice shot, but to the hip. He missed your heart. It caused you to limp, and it would have for a while if you hadn't left in such an untimely manner. You don't blame him. You wonder what he has become, though part of you suspects he's joined your world now.

Macron. Your last boss, really. You were probably in love with him and perhaps he knew. But unlike you, he knew enough about his job that he never displayed anything. Not that it matters, you did steal his job and consigned him to some prestigious political office where people are sent to die when their time under the spotlight is at an end. A nice thing to do to one of the only people you ever admired. You can still try to convince yourself that it was the right thing to do, that it was the wish of the Kingdom, and that you managed to fill his shoes and be your own boss.

Thouars. A repugnant man, if you're honest, in a surprisingly jolly, educated sort of way. Of all the people you've gotten killed, he was probably among those who deserved it the most. What a thing to say of one of the truest patriots you've ever met.

Clément. Driven, competent, but what a mood. You ruined his career by not letting him exploit his full potential. What were you afraid of ? He respected you, perhaps looked up to you, at least for a time. And thanks to you, he was a shadow of his former self by the end of the war, clearly wavering in his faith. How grateful of you, it must be nice to be your friend. You wonder what happened to him. Hopefully, he's at peace too. What other choice did you leave him ?

Vaillant. You remember how shy he was ? You had marked him for potential and had hope for him. But you gave him too much and the shyness transformed into overconfidence and sheer ambition, which you had to forcibly muzzle. And what could possibly have happened next ? You ruined him. Like Clément, he looked up to you, but you gave Clément too little, and Vaillant too much. They both despise you now, and you're certain both have actively conspired against you. You wonder to what extent they went. Well, they succeeded, non ? You reap what you sow : it was, after all, one of your fondest sayings.

Fontaine. Your own personal beacon of pure light. One you always relied upon in dark times. One that had your trust, and yet you barely ever talked to him besides barking orders he already figured out. Oh, you ensured he had plenty of radiant titles, even lands ; what good is that going to be now that Gallia is lost to the Council ? You put him to the forefront, gave him toys and never once treated him like your equal. You may as well have painted a target on his back and given him a water gun. Splendid.

Guillory. Another one you relied upon. A technical minded sort, who saw the world in two categories : stuff that is fixed, stuff that he's fixing. You always liked that. He followed you, blindly, trustingly, until the end. He's the only one who called you out on your bull**** when the hammer fell on Leeds. His dishonour is on your hands. You've ruined his life because he trusted you.

What ? Are you tired of remembering already ? But we're still at the "friends" list, don't you want to know what a superb job you've done with all of your entourage ?
Right. No, I understand. Does it make a difference ? I don't know, this is you, after all. All of this is on you. It's fine, we'll get back to your memories another time. For now, there is always nothing.

---

Feedback, insults, marriage proposals and declarations of fealty

If everyone was a bit more like Lanakov, the entire world would be more positive. Including pregnancy tests.

[Lanakov]

Twenty-two years before the start of the Gallic Conquest.
A fine dining reception somewhere in the outskirts of Paris.

Tensions run high as Champagne bubbles pop in half-empty glasses.
"I told you how things would go. You knew. Why is this a surprise ? Why do you insist upon shouting ?" The voice and tone are crystal clear, cold and cutting.
"You said nothing of the sort ! And I am not shouting !" Isabelle shouted at her mother.
Her father said nothing and looked sad. As he did.

For post-Baccalauréat students, things had always been straightforward in Gallia. Following your graduation, you got to express three wishes for your higher education cursus. These were transmitted to the appropriate central administration, which would then assign you to a university, institute or academy befitting the path chosen for you. The parameters taken into account by the administration for this choice were utterly opaque and, as such, were the topic of many myths and rumours propagated by students and parents alike.
It was generally agreed upon that grades were important, yes, as were the needs of each employment sector at the time. Items of more debated importance were your social origin, the favour you had curried with your teachers, your gender, whether you had political inclinations, or simply who you knew. The arcane nature of the proceedings, along with their crucial importance, left most students practically sick with anxiety as they (and their parents) eagerly awaited the news.
Isabelle was not part of the anxious crowd. She had, naturally, been a teacher's pet through her entire education and had no intention of stopping now. Her grades had been excellent though not exceptional, and all her wishes for higher education revolved around academics, teaching and humanities. She reasoned that Gallia, a self-styled beacon of knowledge and its transmission, would always prioritise education. A safe way forward, and a noble one at that. As for connections : her father was high bourgeoisie, her mother old, penniless aristocracy. They were influential enough to ensure she got what she deserved, as was the Gallic way.
She expected, therefore, that there would be no issue regarding her future studies, least of all from her parents.

The news had come through straight on the family Megatel inbox. Ecole navale, Compiègne academy, Ile-de-France. The Marine, then, straight to officer course. She'd have a year of basic training, two years of advanced classes on everything a naval officer could need : discipline, hierarchy, HR, space warfare, the ins and outs of each of the Marine's vessels, geopolitics, history, ethics, leadership and command, proper table manners, strategy and tactics, logistics, and more. The entire package. In five years, she would be aboard a ship, serving as navigation or operations chief. In ten years, she'd have her first command.
It was dizzying. It was also not at all what she wanted. Nor did she want to attend the dinner party some friends of the Chanteloups were throwing, to celebrate their son's admittance in some prestigious faculty or other.
Yet here they were, and she was having none of it.

Her mother Christiane made every effort to keep her countenance. She was one of those people who didn't need to shout to be exceedingly intimidating ; Isabelle admired that, but not tonight.
"That's enough, Isabelle. This is hardly the time and place to-"
"It is exactly the time and place. When and where else do you listen to me ? It takes a dozen of indiscrete, oh-so-very-important eavesdroppers for you to-"
"I said, that is enough" Christiane said, detesting as always being interrupted, a trait Isabelle had already picked up herself. "It is done. You were handpicked by very important people. Your duty to Gallia will be best fulfilled by serving its Marine, rather than wast...spending time teaching commoners."
Maurice Montlaville, Isabelle's father, was a commoner himself, though of significant wealth. He was also a genteel soul, generally content to watch his daughter grow and observe the world around him. As his forebears before him, he owned a manufacturing company, specialised in cycles and hunting weapons. He had a habit of not speaking much ; his wife and daughter had always fought for the screentime, as it were, and he had no intention of joining that mêlée. But on this occasion, nothing short of the fate of his beloved daughter, he felt compelled to react.
"You can do a lot of good as a naval officer, Isabelle. Your work will benefit everyone in Gallia, commoners included, to a much larger scale than as a teacher or a professor. Think of the excitement, too!"
"Don't put such silly notions in her head, Maurice, she is deluded as it is. The Marine is not a travel agency. It will be serious, important work. More important than your whims, Isabelle. But also, the only path worthy of your talents, and of your name."

A pause. Isabelle considered the situation. She often had words with her mother, on topics of relative importance for the most part. She rarely won. This was not just any matter, and yet she felt as though she had already lost.

"So you did this ? You arranged for my wishes to not be taken into account ? You had one of your friends put in a good word for me ? What about merit ?"
"Don't be vulgar, child. I did what any parent would do, which is, secure the best possible future for her child. It so happens that it is also what any patriot would do. It is a rare chance, too, I expect you to earn it."
Defeated, Isabelle lowered her face. She knew not to look for support from her father.
"What will I do, then ? What honour is there in standing around in a ship as it goes from one system to the next ? You killed my chances to do any good just so I'd fly around doing... What, precisely ? Chase pirates to the ends of Gallia ? Issue speeding tickets ? Arrest smugglers ? Ooh I know, watching out for rebels ! The dreaded, dreaded rebels. There haven't been any rebels in ages ! There will never be any real rebellion, not when half of Gallia's spending goes to military research and fabrication ! These old stories of a Republican Council are just a useful myth to justify-"

As she spoke, Isabelle noticed a light in her mother's eyes she didn't recall ever seeing. Not simply anger ; it was deeper than that. More ancient, more grounded. It came to an intensity that made Isabelle stop talking. Her mother had shushed her with only her glare. She replied, in a low, dangerous tone :
"Isabelle. There are things you have absolutely no idea about that are going to happen. Few people know. Those who do have asked for you. You and other similarly gifted children have been granted a little kickstart to your careers, because we are going to need you. It is as simple as that."
"But-" Isabelle attempted.
"But nothing". There was no longer any ice in Christiane de Chanteloup's voice. Her words were like cinders, just short of torching the entire room. "You think I would let you serve as a glorified stewardess for the totality of your working life ? Do you think so little of me, of yourself ? You know of the Sirians, dear. You've studied your history, you know of the great Betrayal. You have seen the ships of the Marine. Do you think they were built thus to maintain order ? To dominate the minds of peasants ? Do you think the defense spending you seem so knowledgeable about is only a conspiracy targeting the Gallic people ? You are an intelligent woman now, Isabelle. I shouldn't have to talk to you like a child. Surely, you know already."

Of course she knew. As all Gallic children did, she had learned about the origins of House Gallia. Of Sol, of Earth, of France and its sister nations, their fight against the evil Coalition. Of the sleeper ships, and the one left behind, the greatest injustice in history, the great Betrayal. Gallic children knew there were other people out there, in Sirius. But Sirius was as remote a concept as Earth itself to these people. Eight centuries of autarky tend to make the foreign and the strange seem distant, otherwordly. Someone else's problem. But now, the pieces fell together. The little nudges in her education. The subtle reminders of the House's history. The constant social imperative to show a united front to the universe. Why ? To whose benefit ? This hyper-centralised mode of government, picked from the onset of the nation, allowing for long term planning and barring any kind of political life. Why not democracy, why not a republic ? Those had been tried and true to the French spirit. And, of course, the defense spending. The unmistakable sight of the military, everywhere. The notoriety of the Marine and their admittedly artistically-crafted ships. Hard things to notice when you've known them your entire life. But Isabelle was suddenly thrust to the heart of an almost millenium-old plan and she only now realised its existence. Yes, there were theories of a grand campaign, rumours of plans for mobilisation, accelerating buildup, and even contact with Sirians... but these were a constant, akin to white noise, always unsubstantial, and easily debunked. But was it not on purpose ? Was the truth simply kept hidden until the appropriate time ?

Isabelle came back to the present.
To the penetrating gaze of her mother, who most likely saw what her daughter was slowly realising, at long last. She had a rare glimmer of satisfaction in her eyes, and her mouth stretched into a thin, cold smile.
To the sweet, sad eyes of her father, who also knew. Of course he did, and of course he had never hinted at anything. He had only wanted her happy, but he knew his place in the grand scheme of things. As such, he had little to offer besides an encouraging nod, and a warm hand on her shoulder.
To the dinner hall, resplendent and packed full of important people. One minute before, it felt like a warm and familiar place, a safe space, a temple to the gods of Gallia that were mundanities, effortless elegance and fine dining. Now, it felt like a war room, a place of utter tension, filled with soon-to-be combatants, commanders, admirals and generals. Dead men and women, partying one last time, celebrating the future of their offspring, as though they had a future. They danced and sang and sipped and tasted and murmured at each other, bidding adieux to a time of plenty and getting ready for the biggest twist in the history of their old nation. A veritable danse macabre.

Who among them already knew ? Who, here, basked in this ostentatious plentiness knowing it was all coming to an end ? Who, among those present, was also sending their children to the war of the millenium ?
Who, among them... GAVE A FUCK ?!
These questions did not really matter, Isabelle realised. There was only one question of utter importance. One that would guide every choice she would make in the foreseeable future.

"When, mother ? When will it start ?"

Her mother simply handed her a pack of cigarettes, for the first time.
"Take one. I will explain everything."

---

Feedback, insults, marriage proposals and declarations of fealty

If everyone was a bit more like Lanakov, the entire world would be more positive. Including pregnancy tests.