rix_scaedu

I wrote this for lilfluff's seventh prompt.

“Has anyone found out yet just how many contracts they have out there on the elf?”  Brise was doing something with her feathers as she spoke, stretching each wing forward and holding it in that apparently awkward position for a few minutes each time while she checked each flight feather for security and condition.

“There’s no way to tell.”  Calhoun was cleaning his handguns again.  There was a drop cloth on the table in front of him and the cloths, solvents, lubricant and tools he needed were neatly arranged around his work area.  He sighted down the barrel section of the weapon he was working on.  “We can’t tell how many people they contacted or how many took up the offer.  It not generally a subject for public discussion and it’s not like there’s a pub or a bar everyone goes to and talks shop.”

“I would imagine that the ones that do talk shop in a pub don’t last very long,” suggested Kaye idly as she knitted, well out of any possible splash range from Calhoun.

“True,” Calhoun smiled but it was a humourless grin.  “Talk can make you fatally unpopular with clients, competitors, targets, even partners and associates.”

“Spouses, family, in-laws?”  Kaye made that suggestion with a smile of her own.

“Why do you say that?”  Brise was grooming a couple of feathers she seemed a little dissatisfied with.

“Oh,” Kaye looked up and continued knitting, “I think-.  Amanda volunteered me to help go through the lists of overseas arrivals for oddities, names that looked obviously made up, that sort of thing.  There was one name that’s stuck with me - none of us could pick the source for Tupenes.”

Calhoun sharply shifted his full attention to her.  “Tupenes is a name with a reputation, in professional circles.  Untraceable, unstoppable, varied methods and virtually unknown outside our circles.  Which flight or ship was he on?”

Kaye blinked and her hands stopped.  “I saw the name at least half a dozen times, both genders, on multiple flights.”

Calhoun whistled admiringly.  “So that’s how part of it’s done.  Not one person, but a group, maybe a family.”  He looked at the work in front of him.  “One of you tell Amanda we might have a wolf pack inside the gate while I finish up here?”

I wrote this to lilfluff's sixth prompt.

Awareness of it sits on the cusp of the human mind where most of us prefer not to look.  Lovecraft almost understood what was out there but wisely swathed his almost-knowledge in the tales of Cthulhu and his ilk, protecting his mind with a veil of fiction.

It dwells not in the space between stars but in the space between minds.  It sleeps and while it sleeps it consumes the stray florescence of our thoughts.  It is what happens to the word on the tip of the tongue, the intent lost when you leave the room and the bright idea forgotten.

Get too close to it, pay attention, get caught in its fascination, brush against its dreams and you may lose your mind’s contents. You could become a lost life appealed for in the newspapers with your picture under the headline along with words of supplication from the authorities.  Useless words if the dreamer between minds has taken all thought of you from the world along with your own thoughts.

As long as we think and imagine and create it feeds without waking, casting only small shadows on our minds, creating ripples that barely mark the surface of our agreed reality.  A stray thought here or there, even, occasionally, a mind lost to emptiness, these are the prices we pay to keep it fed, sated and asleep.

There are no tales of it waking.  There are no memories of it waking.  No-one has ever managed to quench the imagination of our entire people.  That is our defence mechanism, there in our dreams and our thoughts.  For if it were to wake…

I wrote this to lilfluff's fifth prompt.  It is followed by Inheritance 2.

“Hang on,” Henry just wanted to be clear, “I get a thirtieth of Great-Great-Uncle William’s estate?”

“Yes,”  the elderly solicitor looked at him benevolently.  “In Mr Hordren’s words ‘because of his common politeness and his frank self-assessment that he would be getting nothing in my will.’  Mr Hordren did not care for assumptions about the dispersal of his estate.”

Henry thought for a moment about his late relative’s house and its contents.  After visits to William’s his mother and other female relatives had talked about ‘hoarder’ and ‘clean-up’.  “This thirtieth share,” he asked cautiously, “is it by volume, weight or value?”

“Aptitude test,” was the reply.  “Certain of your relatives who assumed themselves to be Mr Hordren’s main heirs based on primogeniture are receiving nothing.  The existence of his children from several liaisons has come as a nasty shock to them.”

“I can imagine.”  That branch of the family, and the gulf of generations between them, was why Henry had had no expectations on William’s death.

“The aptitude testing will take place at Mr Hordren’s house at 9:00am on the eighteenth.”  Looking at Henry’s face the solicitor added, “He has made provision for the estate to pay your salary for the day if you need to take leave without pay to be there.”

Not wanting to be late, Henry arrived at fifteen minutes to nine and was admitted to one of the front rooms by the formidable housekeeper who’d kept family unclutterers at bay for years.  By nine on the clock, there were seven of them in the room: himself; his first cousin Annabelle; two more distant cousins descended from William’s youngest brother; two of William’s own hitherto unknown descendents; and a completely unrelated blond boy of an age with the rest of them.

At one past the hour the solicitor entered the room with two costumed figures.  The seven young people fell silent, feeling far too close to an impending clash between the Green Seer and the Fallen Mystic.

“The late Mr Hordren was,” the solicitor said drily to the room at large, “a trophy collector during the period when he operated as the Masked Shadow.  Consequently, he had a number of items that he felt should only go to suitable recipients.  Before his death he arranged for the two most powerful and ethical sensitives currently working to assess each of you.  Based on their findings you might receive your thirtieth share in cash or you might receive a combination of articles.”

Henry, for one, was flabbergasted.  Nice, old, slightly strange Great-Great-Uncle William was one of the most notorious super villains of the first half of the previous century.  It seemed impossible.  He and Annabelle exchanged looks, the rest of the family was never going to believe it.  And yet…

This is a fictional piece of social history for a fictional version of our world. Nothing in this should be taken as reflecting actual practice in either modern or historical Italy.

This is the second background piece arising out of the March Prompt Request.

The legal and social construct of women as a medium of financial exchange in the Italian States, and their successor the Italian Union, developed from a number of roots.

Firstly, there is the concept of a woman as a ‘natural legal minor’ under the authority of the head of her family, later specifically her father or husband, unable to hold property in her own right.  As a minor her person could be legally transferred to the control of another without her consent or knowledge.  Thus she could be married, ‘adopted’ into another family or placed in a religious order without being consulted.  The writer Salvetus, however, observed in 1608 that, “The man who marries off or otherwise disposes of his womenfolk without their consent deserves everything that happens to him as a consequence.”

Secondly, it became the custom in families with property, money and other assets to settle a portion of their assets on a daughter to provide for her upkeep either after her marriage, when control of that property passed to her husband, or in the event of her father’s death before she married, in which case it passed to the control of the head of the household into which she then moved.  This began among the nobility whose women were not expected, indeed were discouraged, from earning an income but subsequently spread to the wealthy merchant families and thence into the ranks of guild masters and successful tradesmen.  Religious houses, finding that families with many daughters were placing them undowered into holy orders in order to preserve family assets in a block for their sons, began to refuse admission to their novitiates without the dowry being transferred to the institution concerned.  In 1497 Emmanuel II of Napoli ruled that a woman’s dowry or settlement could not be used to pay off her guardian’s debts unless she married the person to whom the debt was owed and such a marriage would be legal “in the eyes of man and God.”

Over the following centuries various states and popes enacted regulatory and sumptuary laws that sought to control the expectations of a large dowry being received with any bride and to set the value of a woman’s work when calculating a dowry in which it was a component.  This patchwork of regulations across the States had to be resolved when the unification process began in the late 1700s.  Clarity came in 1846 when the Legislative Council passed the Monetary Reform Act, 1846 which set the value of a woman, based on the value of her labour and her child bearing capacity, for the purposes of settling debts by marriage.  This now made the practice legal throughout the entire Italian Union and not just those states where it had previously applied.  It was followed by taxation law amendments that permitted unmarried daughters to be listed as assets on their father’s tax return and provided tax relief as they if were ‘underproductive and illiquid assets.’

Once women had a set financial value it was a short step to some individuals trying to use them as payment in transactions.  This was outlawed in the Hire, Labour and Slavery Act, 1869 but this Act specifically allowed women to be used in the place of promissory notes and other legislation permitted the transfer of promissory notes as if they were legal tender between consenting parties.

The push to cut the link between physical person of a woman and payment or any innate financial value grew out of the movement that resulted in adult women being recognized as legal adults in 1902 and gaining the vote with universal adult suffrage in 1906.  The financial laws have gradually been amended but it is the view of activists such as Luciana Zanetti that there is still much to be achieved.

I wrote this to lilfluff's fourth prompt.

The lecturer looked at the room of students over his glasses, adjusted his long black robe and began, “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the first class of this subject.  If you look to either side of you, you will note that you are a mixture of first year students and more experienced scholars who have been caught up in the administration’s decision to require all graduates to have undertaken a mandatory number of units in what one of my social sciences colleagues has termed the ‘liberal arts.’  You can tell that he has never been in one of my classes.”

He paused as if waiting for a laugh that didn’t come and went on, “This is a practical alchemy class and we will be spending over half our time in the laboratory.  If you wish to study Hermetical theory or philosophy, this is not the class that will do that.  If you only wish to study spiritual theory and philosophy, it is not too late to transfer - please see me after this class and I will give you a note of introduction to the relevant professors.”

He cleared his throat and looked around.  A number of students shifted uncomfortably in their seats.  “Having said that, I believe those of you who have previously or are currently studying chemistry and/or physics will find yourselves at an advantage when it comes to conducting laboratory work and understanding some of the concepts we will cover concerning matter and energy.  Be clear in your minds however,” his voice rose, gaining the attention of several people up the back who looked as if they were there because they had to be, “this is not physics or chemistry - act as if it is and you will fail the course.”

He looked around the room again then picked up a stapled together set of papers.  “You should all have picked up a course outline as you entered the room.  If you did not, please do so on your way out.  We will begin the year with laboratory technique, transmutation precursors and catalysts and finish the semester with the cheapest of the metallic transmutations as the Dean would like us to stay in budget.  In second semester we will address organic alchemy including fermentation, distillation and basic medicinal remedies.”

One of the older students near the back of the room sat bolt up right and put up his hand.  “Yes?  Stand, tell me your name and then ask your question.”

The tousled haired young man stood.  “Cartwright.  Sir, are you going to be teaching us how to make booze?”

“Mr Cartwright,” the lecturer gave the student a look over his glasses, “we will be brewing and fermenting for medicinal purposes.  I expect it will be rather better than the rotgut normally referred to as ‘booze.’  Now sit down.”

I wrote this to aldersprig's fifth prompt.

“So,” Elebra, arms around the shoulders of her two friends, asked, “Whose testosterone do you think you’ll liberate tonight?”

The three young women surveyed the crowd at their favourite place of alcoholic refreshment.  It was the end of the working week and this neighbourhood was close enough to both workplaces and homes that almost everyone had gone home and changed before coming out again.  The women were neat, prosperous looking and confident - Elebra, for instance, wore a tailored silk suit.  The men were trying to impress, dressed in their ‘glad rags’ of shiny fabrics bestrewed with sequins and crystals, every one immaculately coiffed and manicured and all with the violet ‘unattached’ light shining on their testosterone restraint collars.

“One with an actual personality,” Noriga, the girl on Elebra’s left sighed, “lately all the ones I like the look of seem to have had theirs amputated.”

“You sound,” Huswayla, the third of the group, sounded almost accusing, “as if you’re looking for a keeper.”

“Well, I am,” admitted Noriga easily.  “I want to have babies - cute little boys and smart little girls.  I could do it on my own, but having someone at home would uncomplicate things.”

Elebra nodded her head in agreement.  “True.  I thought your mother was trying to get you to date the son of friend of hers.”  She turned her head to her right.  “Over this way girls, blond in violet and his redhead friend.”

“Dibs the redhead.”  Huswayla’s contribution was short and sweet.

“Layton looks like a bulldog,” Noriga complained, “which is not bad in itself, but he simpers.”

“Ouch.”  There was not much else Elebra could say but, “Let’s see if these two have a friend.”

They didn’t.  After an hour or so of playing wing to their leads, Noriga excused herself to go to the ladies’.  She half expected that the others would be gone by the time she got back.

When she emerged, their table did have other people at it and her friends were nowhere in sight.

Noriga made one last turn of the room, a fresh drink in hand, but everyone had paired off except there a man she didn’t know sitting in an alcove at the back under a blown light.  His violet light glowed but he was wearing a black sweater, not an eye catching shirt.  His hair was too short to be coiffed.  When she stopped to look he said bluntly, “Look, you look nice enough but my mother made me come here, I’m not really interested.”

“I’m after babies,” Noriga admitted, “and my name’s Noriga.  If you have a brain and a personality, I might be interested in you.”

“I’m Brail,” he stood up quietly and towered over her from the other side of the table, “and with my collar off, I’m dangerous.”

Noriga could believe it, the six or more feet of man in front of her was solid muscle, and he looked old enough that she wasn’t going to be the more mature of the two of them.

“Would you like to go somewhere we can talk and hear each other speak without shouting?”  Noriga had worked on that line for days, then made a completely unplanned quip, “At least you could tell your mother that you left the bar with a woman.”

He smiled at her.  It was a nice smile.

I wrote this to ankewehner's prompt.

“We turned down funding for additional positions from another department’s allocation with out discussion?”   Engineering’s Human Resources Manager was appalled.  “Why wasn’t I consulted?”

“It was funding to be spent on positions to support their priorities, not ours,” explained the Environmental Engineer who’d been the negotiator at the meeting with the Psychiatry sub-department of Health.  “I was also instructed,” his eyes flicked to the head of the table where the Head of Engineering sat, “that as a matter of policy we would not be supporting their initiative.  I had to end the meeting quickly because they were being reasonable.”

“They propose introducing a chaotic element into a logical closed system,” pronounced the Head.  “It cannot be tolerated.  It’s not sound practice.”

“I’d argue that humans are themselves a chaotic system,” countered the Environmental Engineer.  “Just look at what we go through to reproduce.”  Guffaws and titters ran around the room.  “Psychiatry is merely positing that the system requires a little added controlled chaos to move it further towards optimal functioning.”

“The matter, including our refusal of funding, is now before the arcology budgetary committee,” pointed out Engineering’s Finance Manager, “and that is a chaotic system.  Thing is, I’ve read the report and their figures stack up.  The trial is saving them money, even when they take plant and maintenance costs into account.  I’m not sure that caring for plants as a therapeutic tool for suitable patients isn’t cheating but their resource people have put together a solid argument for adopting their program.”

“Is it likely to get passed by the committee, then?”  That was from the sparse Engineer who ran Primary Food Production.”

“Likely,” confirmed the Finance Manager, “not confirmed but likely.”

“Just as long as they don’t expect us to release pollination species into the main areas,” returned Primary Food Production.  “We have enough problems teaching trainees how to behave around bees.”

“Actually,” the representative from Air Quality Management spoke up, “we have some CO² pooling locations where a flower bed might be a solution.  Spots where twenty-four hour lighting won’t bother people.  Stop people curling up to doze in the middle of the CO² pool.”  He looked like a man who might have found an answer.

I wrote this to kelkyag's third prompt and didn't worry about it going overlength because I needed to write another episode to get more of this story by aldersprig.  :)

Mirren came into Rensa’s sitting room, dragging Bannoc after her, a determined but heart sick look on her face.  “We need you.  He needs you.”  She dragged Bannoc down on his knees beside her in front of Rensa’s chair as the Princess devaunt laid her book aside.

Rensa looked from her lady-in-waiting, guard dog and friend to the man who hated her for what she was and back again.  She sat up straight, hands folded in her lap, copying the her grandfather’s posture when he’d sat in audience not really all that long ago.  “What do you need of me?”

“Highness,” it was Mirren who spoke, “this man has committed a great and vast wrong that his spirit cannot bear.  He is so lost that he does not even know which way he has to face in order to go forward.  Your family bore the brunt of his wrong and you are the last of them.”  Mirren was adapting an old legal formula to the occasion.

Bannoc interrupted her with the rest of it.  “What penance and restitution do you require of me?”

“What wrong did you do my family, Bannoc?”  He had to say it.  That was part of the formula, an admission to everyone including himself of what he had done.

“My squad and I killed all the children of your family, their teachers and their caregivers.”  His admission sat there in the open, no longer the ignored monster in the room.

“I know,” her admission was not in the formula.  “That day, when Trode was gloating over me, I saw the six of you coming back from the nurseries and classrooms.  There was blood spray on your clothes.  Where are the rest of your squad?”

“Boric put a bullet through the roof of his mouth.  Gessic, we called him Marrow, went into a burning house to try to save a family trapped inside.  Warruc walked into a swamp lake with weights in his pockets.  Ludoc’s disappeared and Dennec seems to drink instead of sleep.  What do you want of me?”  He looked at the floor in front of him like a condemned man.

“No-one can bring the dead back to life,” Rensa felt like she was talking around the edges of a stone in the centre of her chest, “so I want you to spend the rest of your life making this a world where that can never happen to any family ever again.  Speak to Tuluc,” she clarified, “and talk about ethics training for the expanded military.  Participate.  If necessary, terrify them that you will come after them if they do wrong.”

He looked up.

“Oh, I haven’t finished yet.”  Rensa leaned forward in her seat.  “No more breaking gym equipment.  You’re an adult, start acting like one again.  If Mirren will have you, then Mirren gets as many babies as Mirren wants.  Do you understand me?”

Bannoc nodded while Mirren blushed.

“She might, of course, consult you in coming to that decision,” Rensa allowed, “But that’s her decision too.  Now, leave me.  I’m sure the two of you need to have at least one conversation alone.”

Bannoc and Mirren retreated from the room, both slightly stunned.

Rensa waited until they were gone then retreated into the bathroom and cried into a towel until the feeling that she might retch and throw up was gone.

I wrote this to wyld_dandelyon s third prompt.  It follows on from Innovative Solutions Guide.

“Too much bother and fuss,” declared the environmental engineer firmly.  “Plants in the public spaces will drop leaves and flowers that’ll just need to be cleaned up and we’ll need to vary the environmental protocols for them to flower and leaf and everything.  All of that is just more work for our department.  No.”  He folded his arms and sat back in his chair.

“My department is prepared to fund three additional positions in your department from our budget to make this happen,” countered the negotiating psychiatrist.

“That’s awfully generous of you,” the engineer sneered but the psychiatrist thought he was interested.  “Why?”

“We believe that this adjustment will allow us to close a psychiatric ward because not as many people will need treatment,” admitted the psychiatrist.  “Do you have any idea of the budget cost of specialised, professional ward-based care?  It will make an enormous difference to our resource needs and when you factor in the economic benefits of not losing so much labour due to psych-.”

“No.”  The engineer put his foot down.  “We will not take on the extra workload.”  He stood and gathered his papers.  “The best solution is the one we already have, take a pill and call you in the morning, doctor.  This meeting is over.  Good day.”  With that he walked out of the room.

“That didn’t go well,” commented the Health Department’s note taker.

“It went as we expect once we found out they were sending him as their representative,” replied the psychiatrist.  “Looks like we move to Plan B.”

The flowers appeared in planter boxes around the arcology, visible from public spaces but never in them or on them and certainly never dropping pieces on them.  Dashes of colour punctuated every building occupied by the Health Department and the Health Department occupied more buildings than most people realised.  In the waiting areas of some of the largest clinics ‘someone’ planted small trees along their the back walls.

Environmental Control talked darkly of ‘vermin enablers’ and muttered ‘clean up’ threats.  Health watched as the prescription and intervention rates began to edge downwards.