Honeymoon

[Lanakov]

---

The capitaine de vaisseau Isabelle Montlaville de Chanteloup was not a particularly patient woman. A family tradition steeped in the military arts and all the rigorous upbringing that it implies tend to leave a mark on one's psyche, especially when that upbringing is followed up by a distinguished record at the Ecole Navale and a remarkable career. She was driven, then, and couldn't suffer people to be slower to understand or to act than she was - a trait that had decidedly worsened with her advancing years, but one that proved well appreciated by her superiors.

That morning had been off to a bad start. Her coffee was ten degrees colder than usual and delivered to her four minutes after the ordered time. She had snapped at her aide-de-camp, not because she needed her coffee precisely that hot at that particular moment, but because she knew the many virtues of discipline and rigour. And that started with proper coffee served at the right time.
It was bad enough to be on inspection duty aboard the Guillestre, a rear-echelon (and that was the polite term) asset in the arse-end of Gallic sovereign space, away from the frontlines and away from home : the two theatres she was most preoccupied with, being a senior staff member of the Direction Générale de la Sécurité Intérieure, tasked with overlooking every security concern relating to Gallic interests. A daunting task, particularly with cold, belated coffee.

Trouble soon continued. Equal in rank as she was to the commanding officer of the Guillestre, she was to be informed of any significant event regarding the ship's activities. Part of the inspection, part of her role. So when a visibly distraught (and inadequately shaven) ensign walked up to her to stammer about some Sirian ship being at the core of two people (she didn't pay enough attention what with the bad coffee and all), she snapped again, with her usual half-clipped, half-barked tone.

"Lieutenant ! Your facial hair is unseemly and I can't make out what it is you're trying to tell me. Go shave, calm down, then report back."
The poor ensign wasn't accustomed to her. Yet. She shooed him away to ensure he had gotten the message. He returned two minutes afterwards, his face reddened from the quick (and she assumed dry) shaving. Having regained composure, he adressed her in the quick, formal tone proper Ensigns were taught at the Ecole Navale.
"Commandant, one of our fighter wings has stumbled upon a lone Core fighter vessel with what seemed to be two people onboard. One being in the cargo hold. We've apprehended the ship for a routine inspection to figure out what a Core ship was doing so far from its home... With what is certainly a prisoner. We...I... t-thought you might be interes-" She cut him off, abruptly but with no animosity.
"Thank you, lieutenant... Paoli. Good work, and good thinking. Take me to that ship, I'd love to hear this story".

---

On her way to the ship bay, she, the ensign and her aide passed by a handcuffed woman, surrounded by four fusiliers. Guillestre's CO had decided to split the prisoners right after their arrest as was standard procedure for various security reasons. That woman (she'd overheard her name but didn't pay attention : Varda, Ortiz or some such Maltese-sounding patronym - there would be time to check on that later), presumably the pilot, had been cooperative and was not roughed up by her guards. As they crossed paths, Montlaville eyed her, trying to gauge where she'd seen that face before. The poor woman was livid, and visibly shaken : not the air of a defeated warrior who had come to cause them harm. She looked surprisingly young and lost during those few seconds when their eyes met. Montlaville's gaze was as stern as usual, but with more open curiosity than hostility towards this newcomer. As was her custom, she made a mental note of all those details and thoughts she'd picked up from this brief encounter, as the group finally made their way to the apprehended ship's cargo bay, while the pilot was taken to one of the ship's brigs. Its passenger had been retrieved, more forcefully than her alleged captor : one of the guards looked a little roughed up... Which was enough for Montlaville to deduce what had occured, and the kind of response the fusiliers had given their prisoner.

She inspected her again - another woman. She wrinkled her nose. A sorry sight to behold. She was disheveled, visibly famished and exhausted. Large pockets under her eyes were a testimony to the living conditions she'd had to put up with lately, her cheeks were slightly sunken... And she frankly reeked. Her stare was the most notable : she had an empty gaze, as if her spark had been extinguished. A common condition in infantrymen back from the frontlines, or terrorists caught red-handed. This emptiness was always a source of discomfort to Montlaville : she had made a point of mastering reading other people's thoughts and feelings through their body language... Eyes were generally the most talkative. Eyes were supposed to express things.

And then it came back to her. Enma Loyola, the bride-to-be whom she had personally granted access to Gallic space some time before. A known high-level operative of the Core, which the Marine Royale had worked with, again not too long ago. And then this muffled distress signal, days after she'd granted her access... To which she had replied with no small amounts of sarcasm. Looking back, she felt a ping of remorse, as she hadn't imagined the poor girl in such a bad situation. Interesting, she thought. One of the most wanted people in the sector just happens by our doorstep. There's a story I'm very curious to hear.

"Lieutenant", she barked, seven seconds after she'd started her inspection. "Have this woman bathed, fed and clothed appropriately. You will then take her to Conference Room Bougainville and assist me with the interrogation. We'll start with her alone, then with the other one. Then we will have a little heart-to-heart... With all parties involved".

---

Moments later, a cleaned, fresher-looking Enma Loyola was softly ushered in the room Montlaville had been sitting in for the past two minutes. Good timing, she thought. Enma wore a blue and white flightsuit with "GUILLESTRE" written on the back. Some light in her eyes had returned, but she still seemed weakened and lost. Montlaville decided to go straight to the point.

"Guildmistress Enma Loyola. A pleasure to meet you in the flesh. Please, sit. I am Capitaine de Vaisseau Isabelle Montlaville de Chanteloup. You will address me as "Commandant", as befits my rank. Now, the last time we spoke, you were on your way to the happiest day of your life, ready to spend your credits at one of my facilities. An existence of milk and honey, built upon whatever shady business you had in your previous, barbaric life. And yet, here you are, half-starved, injured, out of your wits and wearing one of my flightsuits, while you should be getting drunk on champagne, eating cakes and parading in your primitive Sirian ceremonial clothing. Ah, oui, merci" she said to her ensign, who had brought three hot coffees, just as she finished her sentence. Excellent. The cups exhaled a strong Arabica smell that soon overtook the room.

She motioned him to sit. The man was plain-faced, with big brown eyes, an honest mouth and full (still red) cheeks. He had the air of a large and eager staffordshire terrier, a reassuring, comforting sight in any circumstance. The perfect counterpart to her.

"Now tell me, Guildmistress." The title was uttered with no irony, as she pushed a coffee cup towards her. "Seeing as we're all here, you might as well explain to me why it is that you're spending the happiest day of your life on my ship. I'd also like to know who put you on that ship, why is it a Core one, what was it doing here, and what happened to your spouse. We'll see where we go from there. Take your time". Her tone was gentle at first, warmer than the ensign was accustomed to... before switching naturally to her clipped, no-nonsense delivery.

The light in the room was warm, and the air recycler emitted a discreet whirr as it did its job.

---

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.