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

[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."

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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.