Firene: Alloyed Dynasty

A man paces and smokes a long, ornate silver pipe filled with nembelweed. He tries to ignore the gnawing in his gut with every agonized scream that filters through the tightly-closed door to the bedroom. Sometime after he smokes himself into a wall-eyed daze and collapses in a chair, the nurse comes bustling into the room, her skirts making a noise like paper falling off a desk.

"Ser?"

He turns to look at her lazily, watching the colours of his wife's much-loved plants smear across the hazy yellow light streaking the far wall.

"Ser, it's finished. You've a healthy wee girl now. Madam Beatrice is asking for ye."

She fidgets uncomfortably as his brain starts working with an almost audible grinding of gears. He sits up carefully and looks at her more closely.

"Did you say a girl?"

"Aye, ser. Madam Beatrice wishes to name her Firene, but she waits to hear your thoughts on the matter."

"Damnation."

He slumps back in the chair and starts filling the pipe again.

"Beg pardon ser?"

"Tell her she can name it whatever she likes."

* * * * * * *

A small child with curly silver-blonde hair kneels on top of a stack of heavy textbooks, which are in turn precariously balanced on top of a chair. Even with the added height, she can barely see over the edge of the workbench, but she still watches her father in rapt fascination as he carefully explains the composition of the alloy he's been developing for The Company. He says it like that too - both words capitalized, infused with meaning beyond the merely generic identification they should denote.

"Drake, do you not think she's a bit young to understand such things? Even I can scarcely comrehend your work at times, and you've been telling me about it since we were courting."

"Nonsense, Beatrice. Our Firene is going to be a fine metallurgist when she comes of age. See how she plays with the molecular models I bought for her?"

The woman smiles indulgently at her daughter. Firene has stood up on the chair and is putting together a complicated arrangement of metal rods and plastisteel balls in various colours.

"Be sure you don't give her real chemicals until she's not in danger of burning our house down."

* * * * * * *

This time, the man is more relaxed, although the sterile Arclight medical wing is considerably less comfortable than the Omberwell home. He still smokes nebelweed, but only puffs on the pipe idly - his concentration is largely focused on a technical document one of his subordinates has prepared for a conference at Longshore University. Firene is in another chair, her gaze directed with equal intensity at a maths problem in her schoolwork.

A junior doctor marches over and stands at attention.

"Yes?"

"Sir, I am happy to report that your wife has given birth to a viable and apprently healthy son."

"Really? Well... that's... that's wonderful news. Truly. May I see them now?"

"Of course, sir. If you'll just follow me..."

The clockwork doctor marches off again. Drake Omberwell turns to his daughter.

"You don't have to come in if you'd rather not."

If she notices the sudden distance in his voice, she doesn't show it. She nods absently and continues working, occasionally using a small hand-held dingin for particularly difficult calculations.

When he's gone, she looks down the corridor, a speculative expression drifting across her face.