Fic: The Persistence of Memory
Jan. 15th, 2010 09:20 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jeriendhalNot necessarily the start of anything (especialy since I've still got Arc and Altered Trajectory to worry about, but I've had this scene and the one following stuck in my head even since I read ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
chaypeta's gift fic she wrote for me. The spark to write it came from reading a graphic novel adaptation of Ray Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451 this afternoon, of all things.
Anyway, the Terinu universe is copyrightchaypeta and not me, used without permission.
Rachael leaned back on the gazebo's bench, eyes half-closed, listening as the twin memory buds nestled in her ear canals voicing growled whispers as the Vulpine epic tone poem. Two months of hypno-learning had given her a fair grasp of Universal (formerly the Servitor's Tongue) and she was making headway through the Vulpine language now. A necessity, since it was going to be home for the near future, maybe forever unless she gave in to the temptation to change her face.
She had grown up speaking English, Koori and the patois between them shared between her parents and grandparents. School had been devoted to Mandarin, and then later to technical Russian after she been picked to be a Solar Scholar and given the golden ticket up to Unity Station. Surely there was room in her head for a couple of more still? Maybe she could afford to forget the Russian she'd learned to make room, or perhaps not. There were so few people left who remembered it all now, after the Dominion's Mantle Cracker had scoured Moscow and the other great cities of the steppes, General Winter proving no defense against orbiting tractor-pressor beams.
Right now she was listening to a Vulpine translation of Fahrenheit 451. Ironically, it had survived the Dominion's purging of human literature when so much had not. The Vulpine had taking a liking to it, with its dispossessed scholars becoming the great works of literature they had cherished, as the great Vulpine bards of pre-Subjugation lore had memorized the bloodlines and history of their people, preserving the memory of their society as the Dominion had attempted to erase it.
Montag had just brought his flamethrower to bear on the first Hound when a tap at Rachael's shoulder made her sit up and open her eyes. Bethany Brushtail, daughter to her current patron the Countess Brushtail, stood in front of her, wearing her usual split skit dress and an amused smile.
“I'm sorry to interrupt,” she said, “but I wanted to let you know it was almost time for afternoon tea.” Bethany was eighteen, just about a year older than Rachael herself. She had taken a big sisterly interest in her House's human guest, apparently enjoying the idea of being a mentor to someone close to her own age, having grown up essentially an only child for nearly ten years after her elder brother, the Lord Ru Ofanius (“Call me Rufus dear, it's easier on human throats”) had left home to play the dashing star pilot, and more recently become involved some rather extraordinary adventures. One of which had landed one poor human named Rachael Namatjira from being a dead icon from Human history to one very alive survivor of a plot by the Varn Gene Mage. He arranged for her to be given safe haven here at Brushtail Manor, after she'd been cut of from her home world by the knowledge that she would surely be used for whatever self-serving propaganda the Human Alliance could come up with if she went back.
“Thank you,” Rachael said, plucking the buds from her ears and slipping them into the pocket of her vest. Bethany had also been responsible for helping her pick out her current wardrobe, shepherding her through a shopping expedition in Vulpine Prime's capitol city, which was cosmopolitan enough to have several shops devoted to tailoring clothing for folks who lacked big bushy tails and elongated torsos. She'd come away with some nice casual clothes, tailored boots, and a pair of formal Vulpine dresses cut for a human girl's frame that she prayed she'd never have to actually wear. “You didn't have to get me yourself. You could have sent a servant.”
“It wasn't any trouble,” Bethany replied. “And I wanted to let you know we've a human guest with us this afternoon. The head of a trading house that we have several contracts with.”
“Oh,” Rachael said, raising her fingers to her lips. “Maybe I should get lost then.”
“Nonsense, you shouldn't be afraid of your own kind,” Bethany said firmly. “Anyway, he's actually a citizen of Vulpine Prime. Has a bad aversion to human politics apparently.”
“That I can appreciate. What's his name?”
“Master Tez.”
chaypeta's gift fic she wrote for me. The spark to write it came from reading a graphic novel adaptation of Ray Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451 this afternoon, of all things.Anyway, the Terinu universe is copyright
chaypeta and not me, used without permission.Rachael leaned back on the gazebo's bench, eyes half-closed, listening as the twin memory buds nestled in her ear canals voicing growled whispers as the Vulpine epic tone poem. Two months of hypno-learning had given her a fair grasp of Universal (formerly the Servitor's Tongue) and she was making headway through the Vulpine language now. A necessity, since it was going to be home for the near future, maybe forever unless she gave in to the temptation to change her face.
She had grown up speaking English, Koori and the patois between them shared between her parents and grandparents. School had been devoted to Mandarin, and then later to technical Russian after she been picked to be a Solar Scholar and given the golden ticket up to Unity Station. Surely there was room in her head for a couple of more still? Maybe she could afford to forget the Russian she'd learned to make room, or perhaps not. There were so few people left who remembered it all now, after the Dominion's Mantle Cracker had scoured Moscow and the other great cities of the steppes, General Winter proving no defense against orbiting tractor-pressor beams.
Right now she was listening to a Vulpine translation of Fahrenheit 451. Ironically, it had survived the Dominion's purging of human literature when so much had not. The Vulpine had taking a liking to it, with its dispossessed scholars becoming the great works of literature they had cherished, as the great Vulpine bards of pre-Subjugation lore had memorized the bloodlines and history of their people, preserving the memory of their society as the Dominion had attempted to erase it.
Montag had just brought his flamethrower to bear on the first Hound when a tap at Rachael's shoulder made her sit up and open her eyes. Bethany Brushtail, daughter to her current patron the Countess Brushtail, stood in front of her, wearing her usual split skit dress and an amused smile.
“I'm sorry to interrupt,” she said, “but I wanted to let you know it was almost time for afternoon tea.” Bethany was eighteen, just about a year older than Rachael herself. She had taken a big sisterly interest in her House's human guest, apparently enjoying the idea of being a mentor to someone close to her own age, having grown up essentially an only child for nearly ten years after her elder brother, the Lord Ru Ofanius (“Call me Rufus dear, it's easier on human throats”) had left home to play the dashing star pilot, and more recently become involved some rather extraordinary adventures. One of which had landed one poor human named Rachael Namatjira from being a dead icon from Human history to one very alive survivor of a plot by the Varn Gene Mage. He arranged for her to be given safe haven here at Brushtail Manor, after she'd been cut of from her home world by the knowledge that she would surely be used for whatever self-serving propaganda the Human Alliance could come up with if she went back.
“Thank you,” Rachael said, plucking the buds from her ears and slipping them into the pocket of her vest. Bethany had also been responsible for helping her pick out her current wardrobe, shepherding her through a shopping expedition in Vulpine Prime's capitol city, which was cosmopolitan enough to have several shops devoted to tailoring clothing for folks who lacked big bushy tails and elongated torsos. She'd come away with some nice casual clothes, tailored boots, and a pair of formal Vulpine dresses cut for a human girl's frame that she prayed she'd never have to actually wear. “You didn't have to get me yourself. You could have sent a servant.”
“It wasn't any trouble,” Bethany replied. “And I wanted to let you know we've a human guest with us this afternoon. The head of a trading house that we have several contracts with.”
“Oh,” Rachael said, raising her fingers to her lips. “Maybe I should get lost then.”
“Nonsense, you shouldn't be afraid of your own kind,” Bethany said firmly. “Anyway, he's actually a citizen of Vulpine Prime. Has a bad aversion to human politics apparently.”
“That I can appreciate. What's his name?”
“Master Tez.”
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Date: 2010-01-16 07:19 pm (UTC)This seems to get quite interesting... :)
Looking forward for the next installment
mjkj