The Waylaid Count (1)

 1

Marjrita Spacedock

“Yes, ma’am?” I was greeted by the maître d'hôtel of the galactic cruiseshuttle Ritzavoy XI as I entered its Equinox Lounge on Deck 4.

It was 19:45 on a particularly sultry Majrita summer night, and dinner was about to be served at main dining room. Women and men of all sizes, ages, and home planets filled the bar but everyone alike was arrayed in faultless evening dress, dotted about the large, dim room. 

I was wearing my black leather maxi-dress. Below my knees, it flared out in a tuille puff that my black suede pumps only peeked out of when I was walking. Its tight, front-zippered, turtleneck top had two inlaid red lines symmetrically running down both sides in shapes similar to those found on the backs of female katipo spiders. Why someone from earth thought that endangered species was worth saving by giving it a free trip to Upsilon Andromedae where it now thrived, I have no idea. 

A faint odor of undistinguishable flowers was piped in through the vents, and the tinkle of a fountain from the center was occasionally heard through the whispering crowd. The regular waitstaff moved softly across the thick Xiepvuian rugs, balancing their trays with the dexterity of jugglers, and receiving and executing orders with that air of profound importance of which only true luxury-class waitstaff have the secret. The atmosphere was one of serenity and repose characteristic of the Ritzavoy XI. It seemed impossible that anything could occur to mar the peaceful, aristocratic monotony of existence in such a perfectly-managed establishment. 

“May I help you, ma’am?” repeated the maître d'hôtel, and this time I heard a shade of disapproval in his voice.

“Oh!” I said, looking around the room for my father, “Have you seated an older gentleman? He was wearing a long, black and red leather suit jacket similar in design to my dress and had the Crest of Hraindoral with his black and red cape on his shoulder.” 

The maître d'hôtel’s frown deepened. 

“This way, ma’am,” he said as he briskly led me through the crowd without once looking back to make sure I was still following him.

My father rose from the table when he saw me.

“Hey, Pops,” I smiled.

“Vixie,” he said and sat again after the maître d'hôtel pulled my chair out and seated me. My proper name was Elevixie, but he had called me Vixie for as long as I could remember.

“I’ll have an Angel Kiss, Tubal,” my father said. The maître d'hôtel looked as if he had just bitten down on a very bitter pill. 

“Julbo, sir,” he said through clenched teeth. “And I am afraid I didn’t catch your request.”

“I’d like an Angel Kiss. And you, Vixie?” The twinkle in my father’s gray eyes told me he had probably been harassing this man all evening. 

“I’ll just have a water,” I said with my most charming smile. 

“Sir, if that is some Majrita specialty, I’m afraid we don’t keep it in stock.”

“I believe water is a universal drink,” my father shot back. 

“I meant the Angel Kiss,” Julbo’s voice was pure ice. 

“I never imagined you kept the drink around. I am certain you can mix it, though, even on this cruiseshuttle.” 

“This is a galactic cruiseshuttle, sir. We have special bars that cater to planetary tastes up one level and an android that will mix your drinks as you so desire, but this one does not.” 

I could be very sympathetic to employee hierarchy, but that was never an excuse to poorly treat a customer who was paying more for his two-week cruise to Majrita’s moons than Julbo earned in a year. Besides, an Angel Kiss was more of an old-timer drink than something exotic my father had invented or something local to Majrita.

My father sat up straighter and gazed quietly at Julbo for a moment. A few of the other patrons had glanced our way, probably trying to figure out what was the cause of the disturbance to their calm. Unlike Julbo, it only took them one quick look to determine that my father was clearly an expert, who knew where he could make a fuss with propriety and where it was more advisable to go with the flow. 

“Get a liqueur glass,” my father said, half curtly and half with good-humored tolerance. “Pour in equal quantities of cherry brandy, cream, and crême de cacao. Don’t stir it; don’t shake it. Top it with a maraschino. Bring it to me. And, I say, tell the bartender—"

“Bartender, sir?”

“Tell the bartender to make a note of the recipe since I shall probably want an Angel Kiss every evening before dinner.”

“I will send the drink to you, sir,” Julbo said, and he moved off slowly.

I was not surprised when a regular waiter brought our drinks to us. I was, however, relieved they had at least made the drink correctly. 

“Do you think they will remember you tomorrow, Pops?” 

“I would expect the staff here is at least good enough to do that. I hear there’s a comedy club across the way and a casino on this level.”

“Well, I passed a casino on my way here, but it wasn’t much.” 

“Would you like to come with me on an explore after we finish these?” 

“I am more interested in getting the lay of the people than the lay of the ship. I would like to stay here until it’s time for dinner.” 

“Whatever you desire,” he smiled, downing the last of his drink and heading off. 

Most people would say I am rather full of myself. Unlike my peers, I am never up to date on the latest fashion trends. I make my own fashion, and my father likes my style well-enough to adopt it for himself. It is true that I am thoroughly accustomed to doing exactly what I like, when I like, and how I like. I have taught hundreds of gilded young men the true art of fetching and carrying. By the age of twenty, I had so much parental spoiling, I came to regard myself as the feminine equivalent of the Emperess of Majrita. 

However, I was approaching an age in my life when I had become quite bored with it. My father had noticed and tried to cheer me up a few years ago by handing over complete control of one of his smaller mining operations to me. I found myself wanting to be down in the mines helping the workers and giving them hands-on advice instead of relaying my dictates through managers. I checked myself into therapy.

After months of discussion and debate, the therapist told me to take up knitting. I wished her dead and left. Instead, I threw myself into training my troops. As Major of the state of Hraindoral, I hoped for war. I had no such luck. Since I never fit in with my peers, I could not believe my father suggested this trip. However, I could see he needed a vacation if I did not, and I knew he would never be comfortable traveling alone. He was not the type of man who could survive without a female taking care of him. I lost many hours wondering why he never remarried after my mother’s death, but the only thing I ever came up with was that he still loved my mother.