Obsidian Command

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The Art of Starting Over

Posted on 18 Mar 2021 @ 3:17pm by Sylvie Hardt - Surrat Gallery

Mission: M2 - Sanctuary
Location: Obsidian Command
Timeline: MD01 0830
721 words - 1.4 OF Standard Post Measure



“It wouldn’t have been my first choice.” Martin Hardt told his daughter.

They had just disembarked from the Gneorev Hekant, Sylvie Hardt’s private yacht and one of the few parts of her life she had managed to hold onto. In the vast internal docking bay of Obsidian Command, the little Cardassian vessel was quite diminutive. Sylvie paused a moment to observe through the viewing glass all of the other ships resting within the bosom of the station. She could likely have parked the entirety of her beloved Lacuna Station inside with room to spare. Not that Lacuna was her station any longer. The wound was still very fresh. A lacuna in her very soul, if she wanted to wax dramatic about it. And she did, so very much, only not right then. Not in front of her father.

“You seem to sniff out troublesome situations to put yourself in,” Martin continued.

Sylvie grin-grimaced as her teenage rebellion of so many years prior tried to rear up in response. “Maybe it’s the way I was raised. I wouldn’t even know how to live in total security now, would I?”

Martin frowned. “I would have given it to you if it had been mine to give.”

“I know, Dad.” She said with understanding. Her long stride was even, in keeping with the public image she had cultivated on their homeworld, having been a figure of interest, one of the children of the original eight families that had settled the planet and therefore ‘enjoyed’ the attention due their culture before the revolution that overturned the old families. Even after the revolution, the public eye remained when the dust had settled. People were just as interested in the downfalls of their little stars, the last embers of an old empire cooling on the wind. Sylvie Hardt, representing her Mother’s family of Surrats had held her chin as high above water as she could before taking everything she could lay claim to and beginning a new dream, formed from the dust of the old one and founded with charter in the Iodora System, clear on the opposite side of the Federation from Obsidian Command, along the cardassian border.

“You shouldn’t worry. In spite of the recent events, or more honestly, probably due to them, Obsidian Command is now one of the best defended outposts in the region. Opposition always tends to strike at the weakest moment and the criminal elements here perpetrated what their ilk does everywhere in the universe. They find weaknesses to exploit. Or more than likely, create them if they can’t find them.” Sylvie commiserated, having herself just administered a station. The business of being stationary while the wolves circled was a harried one. One she had won on the greatest front with so much at stake, though in that last settling of the dust, she herself had been overcome, her birthright ripped from her. Having stood between metaphysical enemies and the milkyway itself—and survived!— yet having taken the final arrow in the back, through the heart, the fletching released from the fingers of her own Federation countrymen. There. She caught herself again, sliding into pity poetry.

“You could have begun an art gallery anywhere,” her father continued. “Earth, Trill, Risa, Nova colony, Bajor—”

“Oh yes, I would be a hit on Bajor. An off world Cardassian-hybrid deigning to deliver artifacts of high culture to Bajor. Dad, please.” Sometimes he forgot that as a human, he moved through the worlds differently than she did.

Martin shook his head. “At least you’re not shilling paintings to gangsters on Freecloud.”

Sylvie looked thoughtful, as if she were considering the idea. “Mob bosses do tend to be art aficionados with deep pockets.”

“Now that’s not even funny. Just swear to me you won’t get mixed up with any cults or spies or thieves or pirates—”

Was he going to dredge up each little thing? “Oh, you take the fun out of everything.”

“I’m serious. And don’t hire anyone with a criminal record for your ventures again. Going to give your good old Dad heart failure.”

“Don’t play the heart attack card.”

“The likelihood is very high, you know—

“Dad.”

“—given the stress you put me through...”


 

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