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Irene felt crass for wondering about financial matters, but Clan Vinin’s greeting room left her no room to think differently. The seating was as much elaborate as functional, damned near upholstered sculptures. Despite her admittedly untrained eye, Irene was certain the paintings decorating the walls were master level. The light fixture spanning the ceiling was too extravagant to label a mere chandelier. She was peasant-like in the opulence, her hair merely combed rather than styled, wearing a simple blouse and skirt and flat slip-on shoes.
No one made her feel unwelcome, however. Quite the opposite. They clamored to talk to her, except Jemi’s parents, who didn’t understand English. They did smile and bow, and Matara Inomi hugged her enthusiastically.
Clan Pivor, Sherv’s parents, were patrons of the arts, it turned out. They were all on boards for museums and theaters. They sponsored artistic institutions. Irene wondered why they weren’t supportive of Sherv’s calling as a howler and musician, but their interests were focused on works of a classical bent.
“Today’s modern artists and composers, as they insist on calling themselves…they’ve lost sight of what constitutes real talent and skill.” Dramok Pivor sighed, apparently uncaring he lumped his own son in that group. He was quick to avoid categorizing Fekeg among the “new pretenders,” as he called them. “Few today follow the established conventions of authentic artistic expression. Matara Fekeg’s sculptures are rare examples of true art being created these days.”
“Isn’t true expression individual, however? What of innovation?” Irene asked as she awkwardly held a non-alcoholic drink she had yet to take a sip of. “I believe art is a matter of peering into your soul or speaking of what you see in the world. How can an artist be authentic if they’re worrying about rules?”
Irene had often voiced similar debates with Fausto, who denounced any music outside of symphonic or opera. Fausto had never been shaken by her arguments, so devoted was he to his craft. Sherv’s parents were on less stable footing and blinked at her in surprise. Or maybe they preferred to avoid debating their pregnant daughter-in-law.
“Well, it’s an interesting idea. But why can’t an artist express themselves adequately within a set of parameters if they’re truly good at their craft?” Matara Lohyd gently pressed. She wasn’t as lovely as Fekeg, but she was impressive, impeccably dressed, and possessed a quiet dignity Irene envied.
“I’m sure they could, but I feel art should push the boundaries society has set, especially if those limits stifle creativity. I’ve had the good fortune to see and hear recorded operas from ages ago, before Earth’s government became so strict over what we could perform. From my experience, we’ve lost a great deal from following too many rules. The passion of those older shows, particularly those pushing the limits, far surpasses anything I’ve been allowed to present.” Irene gave them as diplomatic a smile as she could muster. “Experimentation should be encouraged. Squashing it brings stagnation.”
“Food for thought.” Pivor bowed his head slightly and raised his glass.
Sherv darted a glance at Irene, visibly fighting off a grin. Apparently, she’d scored a point he’d never managed.
“Experimentation certainly rules my son’s course in life.” Jemi’s Imdiko father Ralik spoke in a lazy voice. His Kalquorian was translated by Kopo, who’d been keeping the non-English-speaking Clan Gech apprised of the conversation. “We had nothing close to lemanthev for him to listen to while he was growing up. One trip to the city, and he came home spouting strange ideas.”
Jemi had told Irene he’d been brought up in a sort of commune. His parents still lived in a village of Kalquorians who shared work and profits equally. They viewed Jemi’s life in dismay, though for different reasons than Clans Pivor and Vinin. They believed he’d lost sight of their values in the chase for crass profit. Jemi found their consternation hilarious, given how Clan Sherv was forced to scrape by. “I live poorer now than when I was home,” he’d told Irene.
Irene was eager to avoid a discussion on her clanmates’ career choices, apparently the sore spot in their relationships with their parents. “What of this clan who thinks they have a claim on me? Why are the courts taking them seriously when I’m already clanned and pregnant to boot? With this clan’s child?”
“Because they have the rank and money to properly care for a Matara and baby. In our culture of clanning, three men claim equal fatherhood of the children their Matara bears. To a degree, it negates the matter of who the biological sire is. What’s important is how well the men of a clan can support their Matara’s offspring.” Pivor’s gaze flicked to Sherv, and the disapproval Irene had hoped to divert was evident. “The contesting clan’s members are important in their fields and to the empire as a whole.”
“They aren’t hopping from planet to planet, station to station, moon to moon, screaming at crowds for a few dollars.” Ezrob’s gaze on Rusp was scathing. “If these three don’t work real jobs and prove they’re fit to be fathers, the other clan has a chance at claiming you.”
“Against my will? I’d rather go to Earth and face what they’d do to me. I won’t be forced to join a strange clan, and your empire had better get it through its collective thick skull.”
The seething venom in Irene’s tone brought ringing silence to the greeting room. They had no way of knowing her fury wasn’t merely focused on the threat of the court forcing her to join a different clan. It had as much to do with the parents’ inability to accept their sons for who they were. The demolished expressions Sherv and Rusp wore in the face of their fathers’ obvious contempt had set Irene trembling.
“The matter of the court case can wait,” Matara Lohyd said in her soft voice. “We’re here to celebrate Irene, not upset the mother-to-be. Will you toast to the miracle of the coming child, my Dramok?”
* * * *
Clan Sherv was released to the privacy of their lavish suite after dinner and determinedly light conversation. It had been a long couple of hours as far as Irene was concerned, though no one had said anything else to aggravate her.
The men appeared as spent as she felt. Jemi crashed face-first onto the gold-and-mauve lounger taking up most of the suite’s sitting room. “I refuse leave this spot until time to go on our ship. If someone asks, I disappeared, no trace.”
Sherv sank cross-legged on a plush mountain of a seating cushion. “I know you hate it, Rusp, but I’m glad we’re here instead of my parents’ home.”
“How bad a death do you think drowning is?” the Nobek asked, staring grouchily at the window vid displaying the green sea surrounding the island.
“You do suicide, give Ezrob something else bad to say about you? Forget it.”
Irene eyed them sadly. “That was rough. They don’t understand you a bit, do they? I could have smacked them for…okay, I won’t say it, because it’ll just make me mad again.”
“Is why you were so angry?” Sherv smiled, but it didn’t erase his defeated air.
“Mostly. I’m worried about this other clan who thinks they have a claim on me, but yeah, I was furious at how your parents talked to you.”
“They’re biggest reason I want us make it big. I want to show them I’m not a Dramok to be ashamed of.”
“Forget impressing them. Set it aside for the moment,” Irene said. “What do you want for yourself, Sherv? Don’t think about it; just answer.”
“You.”
