In a Season of Storms
by Harry Lang
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Table of Contents parts: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7 |
part 3
The great hall at the center of the Kwon family estate was the oldest and grandest part of the house, having been completed and opened before living quarters and support structures were brought online. This was done at the direction of Hugo Kwon’s grandfather Anthony Kwon, an immigrant from Mars, whose priorities in business and life began with the symbol and filtered down to mundane flesh and blood necessities in their own good time.
The Kwons were latecomers to the helium-3 fueled Uranian gold rush of the early 22nd century, and status-obsessed Anthony was in a hurry to establish his family as pre-eminent among the energy tycoons controlling the Solar System’s fusion-based economy. The first of many grand balls was held in violation of numerous codes and at serious risk to the guests. Its elegance and success boosted Kwon’s reputation and helped to speed his family along the way to its place among the stars.
Now the Kwons were old money, settled in to the calcifying social structure of the planet Uranus, rich and imperious but lacking drive and any purpose beyond their own perpetuation. The great hall, which had once been hailed as a masterpiece of coherently blended eclecticism now showed itself to be a gaudy collection of clashing styles and outdated ostentation. It was built upon a circular plan beneath a great, open dome.
A solid wall extended a third of the way up along the curve of the dome, with beams running to the rim of an intricately designed rose window at the top. The walls were dense with architectural detail and decorated in the rich patterns and deep colors of ancient Joseon, particularly reds and cool, contrasting greens.
The close intensity of the Asian motif was alleviated at regular intervals by more tranquil spaces featuring monochromatic walls and deep casement windows dressed with curtains and potted plants. One could find order and even splendor in any given view, but the effect of the whole was a disorienting mess to discerning, contemporary eyes.
The hall was reached via a walkway passing through three rings of meticulously maintained gardens stocked with flora engineered to thrive in the meager illumination of the diminutive sun. The Kwons loved the sun, but only from a distance.
Philip and Captain Halz took their places at the end of the line spilling into the outermost garden ring, where heirloom roses imported from Her Majesty’s garden at Buckingham Palace basked in extra doses of artificial light and twined about faux-iron trellises, their elegant perfume whispering memories of humanity’s distant home.
The low, reverent conversations of mourners echoed quietly through the corridor leading to the hall, where family members stood flanking the translucent urn containing the remains of Muriel Kwon. A hologram of Madam Kwon, dressed in a flowing white gown animated by the radiant breezes of Heaven, hovered above the urn, smiling in beatific joy.
Captain Halz turned to Philip as a tremor ran through the deck beneath their feet. “Course correction,” Philip assured him in a voice just above a whisper.
“I know what it is!” replied Captain Halz impatiently. Stares from the people in line ahead of them reminded him to modulate his tone. “It means the storm has changed course.”
“And the system has responded,” said Philip. “Your house is safe, Captain.”
* * *
The line advanced at a steady pace, entering the hall and moving along the circumference to the right where guests were treated to visions of the family’s history and Madam Kwon’s life. Such memorabilia had little effect upon Philip, who was not of a sentimental bent, but he did pause before one holo presentation. It showed Philip and a young, vivacious Muriel Gray as they were about to board the transport that would take her from her family home to the Kwon Estate to marry Hugo.
“Remember that flight, do you?” commented Captain Halz softly, knowing the thoughts running through his old friend’s mind.
“I do,” answered Philip. He remembered what happened to Miss Muriel’s smile as soon as the two of them were aboard the ship, safely out of sight of the young woman’s mother, father and older brother.
“Take me somewhere else, Philip,” she said.
The pilot was concentrating on his checklist for liftoff. He couldn’t tell if there were tears in her eyes.
“Give me the pressure readings for the secondary actuators,” said Philip. Ever since she was a little girl, Miss Muriel had loved acting as his copilot. Maybe a few simple duties would divert her attention.
“Please, Philip!” she pleaded.
The launch pad fell back into the clouds as the ship rose quietly and headed across the big, soft sky of Uranus.
Philip Zant was full of things to say. Good things. Useful things. True things about duty, love and obligation to oneself as well as others. The treasures he had put aside over the long years of his life were perfect arrows to pierce unjust hearts, flowers from Heaven to lift the poor in spirit, soft breezes to bring peace to those in turmoil, bolts of lightning to overwhelm the fearful with courage.
Philip knew exactly what to say to the terrified girl on her way to the inescapable future she could scarcely comprehend. But he said nothing. It was not his place to communicate the vital things of life. His place was to watch it all unfold and fly.
* * *
The line carried them to the west side of the hall where the family stood receiving condolences. The first to greet them was Hugo Kwon.
“Captain Halz,” acknowledged Hugo warmly. To the casual observer, Hugo Kwon bore the weight of grief with grace and the ease of the practiced stoic. He stood tall and straight, trim and vital, never yielding to the temptation to sit on the bench behind him and rest. His clear, blue eyes looked deep into the eyes of the friends and associates who had come to share the burden of his loss, never misting over or straying to the unseen realms of personal memory. His short, neatly trimmed gray hair stole none of the youthful energy of his thoughtful, handsome face which subtracted ten years from his age of sixty-five.
Philip saw none of these qualities in the lord of the manor. He saw the stoop in the broad shoulders concealed beneath the black mourning robe. He saw the eyes that hadn’t closed in days, with traces of salt at the corners. He heard a tremor in the voice, which had never stumbled before.
“Philip,” greeted Kwon. “thank you for coming. I trust you had a good flight?”
“Uneventful, sir, thank you,” answered Philip, understanding that Kwon wanted to know if his daughter had traveled well. Philip saw the man shrink visibly as he asked and heard the weakness and defeat in his voice.
“Good to hear. You remember Muriel’s cousin, Emily Rose?” said Kwon, indicating a slight, demure woman standing to his right.
“Madam,” greeted Philip with a bow. Philip remembered her indeed. She had come for the reading of the will and nothing else. “My condolences,” he said. She gave no reply.
Next came the respectful, reflective pause before the urn. This observance made no impression on Philip. The dust and ash of Muriel Kwon’s body bore as little relationship to her as a patch of earth to the flowers and fruits that sprang from it. But poor Captain Halz was overcome.
Olivia was next in line.
“My condolences, Miss,” said Philip with a bow.
He wasn’t sure she heard him. From the time they had entered the hall, Philip could see that Olivia’s flashing eyes were locked onto her father.
“Do you know what he means to do?” she said after a moment, her voice low and urgent. “He... he wants to dump her ashes on this filthy planet! I’m sure it will be lovely and meaningful for him, but, for God’s sake!”
Philip wondered how many of the mourners had been treated to a similar display. Allowances for grief were easily made, but Miss Olivia had been crippled long ago and contented herself with hobbling along the same short, circular path over and over, preferring the comfort of familiar rage to the hard labor of reconciliation and recovery. Her father had faults and sins enough to answer for, but she broke his heart without remorse, fanning the fire that devoured her own house.
Last in line was Madam Kwon’s older brother Leo Gray. He was in many ways the opposite of Hugo and was neither understood nor liked by the Kwons. Whereas Hugo sought to project strength by standing tall and straight, Leo made no effort to conceal his weakness as he sat and wept frequently over his departed sister. The fringe of white hair circling his age-spotted head added years, and the tailored black mourning robe could not disguise a belly built by a lifetime of indulgence. His eyes were red and watery, whether from crying or drinking it was impossible to tell. He had done plenty of both over the last few days.
“Philip!” Leo’s face brightened as he stood and grabbed the pilot’s hand, pumping with gusto. “Philip, old fellow! Good to see you! And Captain Halz, my friend!”
“Good morning, Mr. Gray,” greeted Philip. “Please, accept my condolences.”
“I do, old man, I do,” said Leo, now holding Philip’s hand between both of his. “But no more of this ‘Mr. Gray,’ I beg you! Not at such a time. It’s friends we need, not servants!”
“I’m so sorry, Leo.” For the first time since Philip heard the awful news, he struggled to keep control of himself. Leo Gray’s unfiltered grief had a way of drawing out his own.
“I know how you loved her, Philip. I do. But here’s the bloody priest,” he sighed. “Looks like we must take our places. We’ll talk after.”
Philip and Captain Halz made their way to the back of the section reserved for staff and stood with their backs to the southwest wall, their acute senses registering another course correction. The pilot looked to the old mariner for signs of concern, but the captain had resolved not to fret about things beyond his control. His eyes were fixed upon the ancient priest making his slow, deliberate way to the lectern in front of the makeshift altar, where the hologram of Madam Kwon now hovered motionless above the urn. The priest’s shimmering black cassock and silver stole bearing two interlocking red triangles identified him as an Executive of the Cosmic Emanation of the Convocation of the New Affirmation.
“Divine friends,” intoned the wizened cleric as the mourners rose from their seats, signaling the start of the proceedings, “let us acknowledge and affirm the unity and dignity of all life.” His ponderous delivery was sufficient to turn any occasion into a somber observance of human mortality.
The guests and family made the sign of the delta. The servants did not.
“Dust of star, burst of light,” continued the priest according to the ritual, “from nothing we came, to nothing we return.”
“It is so,” responded the mourners with one voice.
“Today we come together to honor our friend, Muriel Gray Kwon,” announced the priest with all the passion of a committee chairman calling a meeting to order. “I must say, when the estate contacted me, asking me to officiate, I was inclined to refuse. As the planetary executive of the Convocation, my plate is rather full, as you might expect. But, as the character of this excellent woman ascended to my ears, borne upon the lips of associates and agents of the Convocation, I found I could not turn away, no indeed! No man of conscience, compassion and conviction could disdain to lend comfort to such a family...”
As the priest droned on about himself or occasionally referenced accounts of Madam Kwon’s life hastily collected from friends and family members, Philip’s mind ranged over his own recollections. Most involved flying, of course. He recalled young Miss Muriel’s first flight in the very ship he now flew for her daughter Olivia. In those days the ship was merely old, not antique as it was now. The Grays had an appreciation for things that endured.
* * *
Another flight stood out, when Miss Muriel’s father Lucius Gray had business on Ariel and took the family along. Miss Muriel was ten years old and seated in her customary place at the copilot’s station, quietly gazing at the motionless stars.
“Is one of those Earth?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Philip, pointing out a bluish speck that was all but engulfed by the radiance of the sun. “That one right there.”
“Oh,” said Miss Muriel, “it’s pretty.”
As far as Philip knew, that one little glimpse had satisfied all her curiosity about humanity’s birthplace. The natural ease with which such vital connections were severed had always been a puzzle to him. The people he served were as rootless as their floating homes, living at the mercy of the winds they believed they commanded.
* * *
Copyright © 2018 by Harry Lang
