Arboretum
A Thursday Prompt story
© 2020 by Walter Reimer


Prompt: farm


Thumbnail art by  baroncoon


High Admiral t'Klar sat a little straighter in her seat as her personal shuttle eased toward the Imperial yacht Garzherem n’Lanya's hangar. While the bendār settled on its landing pads, she blinked back the sleep from her eyes and tugged slightly at the gem-crusted collar of her turquoise formal uniform.

The damn collar was always too tight.

When the shuttle's airlock cycled open she was greeted by an honor detachment of Imperial Guards and the admiral first rank who commanded the ship. Unlike the Guards in their gold and white formal uniforms, Frelen nin Karun m'Derr was wearing his gray duty jumpsuit, his rank displayed on the lower left sleeve. He saluted, and when t'Klar returned it he smiled and said, "Narchak, Vikan. How was the flight up?"

She chuckled. "Direct as always, Karun. Narchak. The flight up was smooth. Tell me," she asked as they left the shuttlebay and started down an antiseptically white corridor, "is the Sovereign awake yet? I know I'm here early, but I've news that cannot wait."

"Aka, neither he nor the Empress have shown themselves yet. Their oldest granddaughter just had her twentieth birthday, and the Azravir is getting reacquainted with the Sovereign," m'Derr replied, laughing quietly. Vikan laughed with him; the Empress was well-known for insisting on her marital rights.

The two paused before a stateroom door, a single guard at rigid attention beside it. "Are they in here?" Vikan asked.

"Azrin-k’chat Dorvan is here, on leave from the Home Fleet. Probably with one of my lieutenants,” he replied. “The Azraa and Azravir are in the arboretum." A soft but discordant chime sounded and m'Derr glanced up involuntarily. He remarked, "I'm called to the command center. Will you excuse me, Vikan? Can you find your way?" His smile told Vikan he meant it as a joke. T'Klar had once commanded this ship.

"Go on. I'll try to find my way," she laughed.

A longish walk later she arrived at the entrance to the ship’s arboretum. The double doors were striped in blue and black - a caution symbol; a touchplate was outlined in green alongside the left-hand door. T'Klar placed her hand on the plate and waited until there was a faint hum and the doors slid open silently.

The view was strange at first - it always was. The glossy white padded ceramsteel of the deck ended at the door and was replaced by rich black soil carpeted with low-growing, round-leafed greenery. The groundcover, known as xerith for its masses of tiny white flowers, yielded spongily beneath her feet as she stepped in and the doors slid closed.

The room was called an arboretum, specially built and landscaped to resemble a forest glade complete with live plants and running water. The illusion that one was in a forest ended startlingly if one looked up. The entire chamber was roofed over with a wide, thick dome of transparisteel that revealed an awe-inspiring panorama: A dusting of stars, the nearest of the escort ships, and the bright blue-green globe of the Hearthworld.

The air in the chamber was thick with the odors of flowers and trees in bloom. The crisp muskiness of terreki, the sweetness of gcherti in full flower, and the citrine scent of a specially-shielded borzogun all mingled to produce a feeling that one was actually planetside. One of the Imperial children was studying agriculture in the university, and there was a stand of zh’rekk bushes arrayed in neat rows.

T'Klar breathed in deeply, savoring the experience and privately wishing she could kick her boots off and feel the xerith between her toes. She started to walk through the forest to the center of the room when her ears perked at the clack of shears.

A young kam poked his head up from among the zh’rekk bushes. He was wearing nothing, and held a small basket full of cuttings in one hand. His russet fur was a dead giveaway, and she said courteously, “Narchak.”

“Narchak, garfrelen,” Prince Keshif said. “How are you this morning?”

“Very well, my Lord, thank you. How are your plants coming along?”

Keshif bent over slightly, using his free hand to brush at the dirt on his knees. “They’re not doing too badly.” He ran a finger over a flower spike. “Perhaps another twenty days, and they’ll start to seed. This varietal is adapted for arid climates like Shivatyan,” he added, “and I hope to get it introduced there as part of my grade.”

“I’m glad that you have the time to pursue something you like,” Vikan said.

“Aka, Dorvan is the Heir, and something really horrible would have to happen before the Renindōvakh looks at me to wear the Regalia.” He chuckled as his tailspur scribed a lazy circle in the sandy soil. “Are you here to see Father?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“He and Mother are in the bower.” He patted the basket. “I need to put these away, so I won’t keep you. Narchak, garfrelen.”

“Narchak.” Vikan headed for the center of the arboretum, where a circular privet hedge formed a contrived bedroom. Near the hedge and looking very out of place stood a slim metal control pylon. T'Klar keyed in a wakeup chime before leaning against a tree to wait.

She didn't wait long; a false section of the hedge swung outward. Vikan straightened, dusting off her uniform as a figure wearing the Emperor's dark blue uniform stepped out. She bowed. "Tārin," she said, "I apologize - "

"For what?" a female's voice asked. Vikan looked up and saw Azravir Verin grinning at her. "Fooled you."

"Yes, you did, Tārinvī," Vikan said, grinning back. The Empress, not being from the Imperial Family, was far more casual than her husband. "I meant to apologize for waking you and the Sovereign, but I’m here for his briefing, and I was asked by the Foreign Ministry to bring him some news."

"Then I'll go wake him, Vikan. Wait here, please." Verin paused before entering, a playful gleam in her feline eyes. "Relax. This might take some time." Both viri chuckled.

Tarval was asleep, lying face down on the bed. Verin sat gently on the edge of the bed, then leaned close to him, licked his ear and whispered "Terra."

One feline eye opened. "What about Terra?" Tarval asked sleepily.

"Garfrelen t'Klar is outside." Verin shrugged. "What else could it be?"

Tarval rolled over and stared up at his wife. "Send her in, Verin, please," he said. As she stood and turned to go he added, "I think you and I should talk later."

Verin went to the doorway and gestured before stepping back as Vikan entered. "Tārin," she said, bowing.

"Verin said you have news, Garfrelen," Tarval yawned as his tail twitched the sheets around his waist. "What is it?"

“Sovereign, the Foreign Minister asked me to inform you that negotiations have started on Station NZh-2233. The Terran position is as predicted.”

Tarval yawned again before chuckling softly. “And your report?”

“Intelligence says that the Terran buildup is proceeding. Again, as predicted.” The High Admiral smiled. “Contingencies are being prepared for your approval.”

“Good. Have you had firstmeal yet, Vikan? It's pretty early."

Vikan smiled. "I haven't eaten yet, Lord, and would be honored to join you and the Tārinvī."

"Excellent. We’ll have the meal within a cycle, so you can be more comfortably dressed," Tarval said cheerfully, and the High Admiral left the bower.

As soon as she left, he twisted on the bed to face his wife. "Now, Verin, my heart, my beloved," he said, eyeing her costume critically, "who died and made you Supreme Marshall?"

Verin broke into a wide grin. "You do like it! Good," she exclaimed and pirouetted to show off her trim figure in the dark blue uniform. Tarval had to admit that, even after seven children, his wife looked just as beautiful as the day he met her.

Sighing inwardly, he grabbed her tail and hauled her onto the bed. Leaning over her, he asked simply, "Why?"

"Why?" she mimicked. "You've spent the last ten days bedding our granddaughter," she replied, "and someone's got to show the Imperial Presence around here."

"Jealous?"

"You brr’dakh," she said, affecting a mock-angry tone and easily rolling him off of her. "You're my mate. I may share you from time to time, but I'm not jealous." She blinked her honey-colored eyes at him. "Truce?"

Tarval laughed. "Truce, beloved."