Who; Soren and open Where; Verbena, morning Summary; Technical trouble causes delays for the Corvus.
A cluster of uniformed crew stood out in the middle of a dusty bazaar, no matter how one looked at it. It was yet early for most locals to be up and about the market, but the scattered few early risers eyed the Alliance personnel--marked by their very obvious heavy grey woollen reefers--with equal parts edginess and suspicion.
Well, it couldn't be helped. A secondary fuel cell malfunction, or some bollocks along the line. The important thing was that they would be docked here for a good three days. Might as well enjoy it, had been the order. An early vacation of sorts. Casting a long look at the geometrically stacked cargo being emptied out by their respective owners, Soren stepped out into the crisp morning air.
He was quite distracted by the wizened old woman crouching by her vegetable stand glaring his way when he was accosted by a scurrying little figure.
'Dr. Strauss?' the child identified with greatly exaggerated formality, giving the distinct impression of it not being a question, but a statement. His mousy brown hair had been sleeked back with a copious amount of hair product. Upon his crown lay a gently placed Gatsby hat of muted pattern. He wore over his dress shirt a silk blue vest that turned a shade of deep purple in the right lighting and a pair of trousers as dark as night itself. The ostentatious garment was completed by a pair of little black leather shoes rubbed to a shine.
'Yes?' replied the good doctor with polite disinterest, though, in truth, he found the curious manner of the stranger's--for he was a stranger--recognition worthy in every aspect of his attention.
'Greetings from Lord Haddington,' said the stranger, the breast of his Lilliputian figure puffed out like a small penguin.
'Are you he?' Soren inquired, a touch of amusement gracing his lips. He slowed his stride just a notch, but did not pause entirely, forcing the little penguin to keep up with his pace.
'I am his envoy,' said the penguin, overreaching his use of the King's English as were the habits of lesser noblemen of Earth-that-was. Soren, in contrast, deliberately settled on a common North American accent. He recalled with bemusement the time when he'd first adapted to the locals' patterns of speech. His father had been most pleased by his son's ability to grasp one of the essential tools of diplomacy, but had turned positively aghast when said son slipped into 'that god-awful tongue' in the household setting. Good times, that.
'Ah,' replied Soren. 'A messenger.' This was clearly an affront to the young envoy, whose expression did not quite succeed in hiding his chagrin.
'I come bearing great news,' tried the penguin once more, ruffling his unseen feathers. He was, by now, slightly out of breath, though determined not to be shaken loose.
'The end of the war was great news,' Soren mused. 'My father counted it a great news when I attained the privilege of attaching the title 'Dr' in front of his name. He also thought it a jolly great news to be appointed Home Secretary of the Alliance. Some would call U-Day a great news, not that I agree nor disagree. My opinion at this point is irrelevant. But it has been a while since I have truly been impressed by a great news. So please, do enlighten me, xiao xìnshǐ. Nothing like a great news to brighten one's day.'
The penguin blanched a little at this, but bravely trudged onward by conjuring up what was no doubt the finest parchment on this less endowed planet with the dexterity of the Great Houdini. This, he offered with garish ceremony, which Soren plucked out of the small, extended hand with matching informality. He removed the decorous wax seal with a single swift waltz of his slender surgeon's fingers. Inside was a simple card upon which letters were imprinted in dizzying swirls of rich gold. It was, in essence, an invitation. To a ball in honour of the Prime Minister's Peace and Amnesty Speech anticipated in two days' pace, it read. Lord Paddington, as he recalled, had erred at the House of Lords and subsequently been sent on the honourable mission of overseeing the gentrification of the planet Verbena. This being seven years past, he was surprised that the man was still here, for he remembered well the letters upon letters outlining the latter's pleas for reconsideration. If this was an attempt to please Home Secretary Strauss, Soren could assure in no clearer terms that the ploy was doomed from the start.
However, he did have time on his hand, stranded on a planet with few other means to keep oneself entertained. And though the most important of guests were scheduled to attend the festivity in Londinium, those who could not--or would not--for one reason or another were welcome to take part in this off-site yet no less glittery alternative. The occasion was to end with a special feature: a duel between the famed Atherton Wing and Sir Horace Emery, for the maiden hand of Miss Florence Arlington. Now that could potentially be worth suffering the pretentious, self-righteous bunch dressed up like birds of paradise, with very few accomplishing beyond idle gossip. What was more, he was keenly interested in what the Prime Minister had to say to the world in his impending speech.
But his face was unreadable as his eyes calmly roamed over the flourished words. 'Thank you,' he thanked when he was done. but the penguin did not budge.
'Thank you,' he said again, glancing down with an arched brow to give the boy a meaningful look--of the dismissive sort. Still, the boy remained, his dole-like eyes staring wide up into his face. Then it struck him and he removed a small platinum piece from his breast pocket and dropped them into the courier's open palm. Satisfied, the penguin gave a theatrical bow and turned on his heels, fading out of sight without once looking back.
Yes, there went a most curious lad indeed. Tucking the invitation into the crevice from whence he had drawn currency but moments afore, Soren pat it secure and turned to find that most of the crew had gone ahead of him. A bit miffed at having been left behind, he placed his modest luggage on a seemingly unused stall and drew out his mobile terminal to review the location of their lodging.