06-22-2014, 11:05 AM
This was his twenty-fifth Christmas in the Kremlin.
The first one was clear as yesterday in his mind. At the time, he was the newly elected president of the Russian Federation. What struck him at the time was the scale of the scenery. The tree in the Red Square was a perfect cone that dominated the foreground of St. Basil's Cathedral. Every ornate corner of GUM was illuminated by a miles and miles of lights. He recalled the sound of his footsteps muffled as he strode the red carpets of the Grand Palace and trying not to gawk at the decor. The Russians bathed him in luxury at first, trying to win the heart of their new president like he was a Tsar reborn.
Twenty-five years later, the Ascendancy stood in the same Grand Palace hours before his twenty-fifth state Christmas dinner, although it was still days before Christmas. December twenty-fifth; his twenty-fifth state-dinner; twenty-five years in the Kremlin. Forty-three years after Bologna; after the car park and the Dreyken, after the Atharim and Rome, after Garret tried to kill him for saving their lives in a way Nik knew not how.
He closed his eyes and swallowed the sting of emotion. The hurt was an old wound now but fresh as his memory of that first Christmas in Moscow... and Rome.
He absently rubbed his arm. The scars were covered by the pristine sleeve of a white dress shirt but he could feel five ridges beneath his fingertips. He would be wearing a tuxedo tonight. The affair was white-tie, opulent and gaudy, but Nik tolerated it for the necessity it was. People needed to see the CCD celebrate their power, to see the Ascendancy calm and collected; confidence in his authority kept him in authority. There were many an instance of men coming into power who knew not how to keep their power. That's what the dinner was about: Christmas happened to be the excuse.
A quiet ding drew his attention to a glass workstation suspended from the ceiling. When powered down, the glass glittered like a crystalline work of art. Everything in the god-awful room was art. The Grand Palace itself was a show of force, but the Royal Apartments were built for Tsars, for the gods of the Russian empire.
Alek Brandon, Nikolai's father, was of Russian descent, but when Nik swept his gaze across the wider room to reach for the tuxedo jacket, he felt little connection to the suite. Mosaics of jade, topaz and gems adorned the walls like jewelry. A panel in the reception room contained thousands of precious stones dripping forever in a waterfall of riches. Antique Parisian clocks ticked on marble mantles. Fireplaces of alabastar or malachite blazed with fires large enough to stave the chill off the harsh Russian winters. A swirling sky of chandeliers scattered drops of light like the beams themselves were bent to the will of the empire. A box stamped with the gold leaf of the Imperial Treasury waited on a table. He had yet to decide if he could bring himself to wear what was within.
The glass workstation brought up the image of a staffer. "Commander Vellas has arrived, sir."
"Let him in."
"Yes, Ascendancy."
Why bring Michael to the Royal Apartments rather than the executive offices in the Armory building?
Nik settled his tuxedo jacket on a suit rack and muted the work station of all its screens. With the glass quiet, they might as well have been plunged into the middle ages. It was a fitting place for the greats to convene.
The first one was clear as yesterday in his mind. At the time, he was the newly elected president of the Russian Federation. What struck him at the time was the scale of the scenery. The tree in the Red Square was a perfect cone that dominated the foreground of St. Basil's Cathedral. Every ornate corner of GUM was illuminated by a miles and miles of lights. He recalled the sound of his footsteps muffled as he strode the red carpets of the Grand Palace and trying not to gawk at the decor. The Russians bathed him in luxury at first, trying to win the heart of their new president like he was a Tsar reborn.
Twenty-five years later, the Ascendancy stood in the same Grand Palace hours before his twenty-fifth state Christmas dinner, although it was still days before Christmas. December twenty-fifth; his twenty-fifth state-dinner; twenty-five years in the Kremlin. Forty-three years after Bologna; after the car park and the Dreyken, after the Atharim and Rome, after Garret tried to kill him for saving their lives in a way Nik knew not how.
He closed his eyes and swallowed the sting of emotion. The hurt was an old wound now but fresh as his memory of that first Christmas in Moscow... and Rome.
He absently rubbed his arm. The scars were covered by the pristine sleeve of a white dress shirt but he could feel five ridges beneath his fingertips. He would be wearing a tuxedo tonight. The affair was white-tie, opulent and gaudy, but Nik tolerated it for the necessity it was. People needed to see the CCD celebrate their power, to see the Ascendancy calm and collected; confidence in his authority kept him in authority. There were many an instance of men coming into power who knew not how to keep their power. That's what the dinner was about: Christmas happened to be the excuse.
A quiet ding drew his attention to a glass workstation suspended from the ceiling. When powered down, the glass glittered like a crystalline work of art. Everything in the god-awful room was art. The Grand Palace itself was a show of force, but the Royal Apartments were built for Tsars, for the gods of the Russian empire.
Alek Brandon, Nikolai's father, was of Russian descent, but when Nik swept his gaze across the wider room to reach for the tuxedo jacket, he felt little connection to the suite. Mosaics of jade, topaz and gems adorned the walls like jewelry. A panel in the reception room contained thousands of precious stones dripping forever in a waterfall of riches. Antique Parisian clocks ticked on marble mantles. Fireplaces of alabastar or malachite blazed with fires large enough to stave the chill off the harsh Russian winters. A swirling sky of chandeliers scattered drops of light like the beams themselves were bent to the will of the empire. A box stamped with the gold leaf of the Imperial Treasury waited on a table. He had yet to decide if he could bring himself to wear what was within.
The glass workstation brought up the image of a staffer. "Commander Vellas has arrived, sir."
"Let him in."
"Yes, Ascendancy."
Why bring Michael to the Royal Apartments rather than the executive offices in the Armory building?
Nik settled his tuxedo jacket on a suit rack and muted the work station of all its screens. With the glass quiet, they might as well have been plunged into the middle ages. It was a fitting place for the greats to convene.