Project Boussh: Dinner And Dancing by Durandir Becki's dreams, uncomfortably full of visions of idealized societies, were interrupted suddenly when a voice at the door woke her. She opened her eyes to see a man standing there, working at the lock. Her first thought was that they'd come to rescue her, but then she realized that she didn’t recognize him. Before she could say anything, he had opened the door and tossed in some sort of bundle. "Dinner's in five minutes," he said, quickly locking the door again. "Get dressed." And then he spun on his heel and disappeared down the hallway. A moment later, her mind finally surfaced enough from sleep to pinpoint what had seemed odd to her about this visitor. "The uniform!" she gasped. "If I'm not mistaken, that was an Imperial uniform he was wearing. Well, I already knew Atner had stormtroopers in his employ. But this one didn't look like much of a stormtrooper." Puzzled, she went to retrieve the bundle. It turned out to be a dress-- if one could call it that. It was too much in keeping with the general decor of her prison for her taste. "At least they're consistent," she sighed. But what was this business about dinner? And why dress for it? Nevertheless, she decided it would be best to comply, at least for now. Finding the corner of the room least likely to be visible from the open grating of the door, she hurriedly exchanged the black commando's jumpsuit for this monstrosity of a dress. And was pleasantly surprised. It was actually rather more comfortable than it had looked at arm's length, and fit nicely--and after all, there was much to be said for satin skirts and brocade bodices and gauzy oversleeves and piping in contrasting colors along all the edges. She would gladly do without the boning in the bodice, though--"I hope I'll be able to sit down," she sighed, turning around slowly and wishing for a mirror in her bizarre prison cell. "But why dress a prisoner up so fancy?" she frowned. "Lady Durandir," came a voice at the door. /So I'm *Lady* Durandir now?/ she thought. /Have I been promoted or something? This is too weird./ She turned and found the man who had brought her the dress, Mister-Imperial-Uniform, waiting with the door open. In his hand was some sort of necklace. "General Atner requests your presence at the evening meal," the Imp stated flatly. "As you are currently a prisoner in the High Palace, you will wear this to insure your cooperation when outside your cell." He lifted the necklace. "What is it?" "A restraining collar. It allows us to monitor your location and activity within the Palace. And should you think to escape," he smiled as if daring her to do so, "it allows us to stop you. General Atner and I each carry a trigger for the collar. We have only to press a button and you'll be hit by the equivalent of a stun bolt." She grimaced at that; after her last (and only) experience of being hit by a stun bolt, she wasn't particularly eager to try it again. "I suppose I have no choice?" she sighed. "The General would be most disappointed if you declined his invitation. If I were in your place," he arched one impassive eyebrow, "I would take care not to offend Eugor Atner." /What's *that* supposed to mean?/ she wondered. But it seemed best, for the moment, to play along, so she turned and allowed the Imp to fasten the collar around her neck. "At least it coordinates nicely with the dress," she said in mock sweetness. "The General's taste is impeccable." Her guard made no reply, but motioned her out into the hallway, locked the door of the cell, and then escorted her through passages and stairways and vast empty rooms. At last they reached a room with a great table already set for a meal--and with some twenty or thirty people already sitting at it. The Imp led her to the head of the table, saluted smartly to Atner, who was seated there, and said, "The prisoner, my lord." "Thank you, Tede. You may go now. Keep me informed if anything comes on the sensors; particularly anything to indicate an air attack." Tede nodded and left, and Atner waved Becki to an empty chair at his side. "Lady Durandir. So kind of you to join us." "College students don't often refuse free food," she shrugged, trying to ignore the stares and muffled snickering coming from the other guests at the table. "I'm sorry, General Atner, but I don't believe I've been properly introduced to your...guests." "Nobles of the realm, my dear. Who they are precisely is of no concern to you, especially since we find ourselves still on opposite sides of a certain conflict. I would not wish to be an ungracious host by compromising their anonymity, you understand." He smiled ingratiatingly. "Sure," she said. Nobles? In actuality or in name only? she wondered. Every day she learned something new about this place. And every day it became that much more perplexing. "General," she asked, taking up a spoon and looking suspiciously at a bowl of soup in front of her, "why am I here?" "What?" "Don't you usually feed prisoners in their cells?" "Ah, that. Normally, yes. But I was just telling my lords here about our recent capture of a member of the group opposing us, and they expressed a desire to see you." "Oh. So I'm to be blind Samson among the Philistines, is that it?" she asked. /But that can't be it exactly--surely he wouldn't have gone to such lengths, the dress, the restraining collar, this ridiculous dinner, just to show a hostage off to his supporters. There's something more; I'm sure of it./ "Samson?" Atner frowned in confusion. "Never mind. You've obviously been reading too much Nietsche and too little else." /Ah, if only I *could* play Samson and bring this man's house down upon him. Although that would imply the unpleasant side effect of me being buried in the ruins, too. And besides, I've never been too good at dislodging pillars by brute strength./ "The Nietsche, yes--have you had a look at that yet?" he asked, ingratiating again. "No, I'm still on the /Utopia/. Why?" "I wish you would try some of the other books in that room. You might find them enlightening." "I'd much rather have /That Hideous Strength/ or--" She had been about to name /Starfighters of Adumar/, but stopped when it occurred to her that if Atner was still calling her Durandir, he might not have been able to learn anything more about her background as yet. And if so, perhaps his information on the rest of Team Boussh was not so good as he wanted her to think. Perhaps, indeed, all this gallantry and politesse was his way of sounding her out: a bit of decorously disguised interrogation before the plainfaced interrogation began. In that case, she'd better not say anything that could lead him to thinking of the New Republic and its agents. "Or /The Once and Future King/," she finished instead. "Ridiculous fables," he bellowed. "Utter nonsense." "You should try them. You might find them enlightening." For a moment he stared at her aghast, then let out a laugh that echoed menacingly in the cavernous room. "I see. So it is an impasse. You will not read my books, nor I yours." "So it seems." "I am sorry that it is so. Yet perhaps you may be otherwise convinced." "Convinced of what?" He shook his head, stubbornly refusing to answer, and the meal progressed in silence for a few minutes. Then a gaunt, pale noble across from Becki began hesitantly posing questions--simple matters of curiosity, with no apparent guile or malice, about her background and literary tastes--which she attempted to answer as simply as possible, avoiding references to anything tied up with Project Boussh or anything by which she might be identified as a person other than Lady Durandir. Atner, like a child sulking, pretended disinterest yet was obviously listening closely to every word. The meal ended, Atner pushed back his chair and stood, and as if on cue, the guests did likewise and began filing out of the dining room through a nearby set of double doors. Becki, hesitant for fear that following them would be constituted as "escaping" and earn her the wrath of the restraining collar, remained seated. Then Atner turned to her and offered his hand. "Lady Durandir," said he, "will you do me the honor of dancing with me?" She didn't even try to keep her shock from reaching her face. "You're kidding." "I assure you that I am not. The ballroom is through these doors," he nodded in the direction of the retreating nobles, "and the musicians await. You do dance, don't you." "Um, well," she blushed, "I took a class once. Don't remember much of it, but I suppose I would recall enough of the waltz or swing or tango-- " "Excellent. A waltz, then. Come along." He offered his hand again, and this time she took it, warily, trying to make sense of the General's words and actions. She came at last to the conclusion that they outdid the baroque decor of her room for exaggeration and contrasts and general bizarreness. He led her to the dance floor as a string quartet began a quick waltz. Still wary, she held herself stiffly, somewhat relieved that it was a waltz since waltzing allows for that degree of formality. /But somehow I doubt they swing dance much in Mendellia, actually./ Atner was not a bad dancer, as it turned out, though he perhaps led a bit too strongly. "Why do you call me Lady Durandir?" she asked finally. "It's just Durandir. I'm an American citizen, you know, and we don't have lords and ladies." "Yet you could be one," he said, with that ingratiating smile that she was inclined by instinct to fear. "What?" "It is simple. In Mendellia there are lords and ladies. You have seen the grandeur of the High Palace. Perhaps in days to come I will show you the grandeur of the country itself; it is a beautiful place. You would grow to love it." "What are you saying?" she asked suspiciously. "My dear Durandir, I can see that you are an intelligent woman. It is therefore a great pity to me to find that you are so deceived in your philosophies. From the books you discussed at dinner I see that you have little sympathy for the ideologies I hold most dear, and this pains me." "I can't imagine why," she frowned, coming to a halt suddenly as the waltz ended. "Last time I checked, Atner, you and I were enemies. That usually implies some difference of opinion on ideologies." "No doubt it does. Would agreement on ideologies then imply friendship?" "I--" she stopped, confused. "What do you mean?" "I am not a wasteful man, Lady Durandir. If I find that a resource may be useful to me, I make every effort to put it to use. It strikes me that you would be an excellent resource in my current plans. I would prefer to make a useful ally of you than be forced to destroy you as an enemy." "Ally!" she exclaimed. /So that's what this has all been about./ "You mean to recruit me? You've got to be kidding, Atner." "Hear me out. I know you feel strongly about certain of your opinions, but I still say that you are deceived in them. Let me tell you my ideologies. If you were to consider them carefully, I think you would have the sense to agree with them--and if you were to agree, we should no more be enemies, yes? I am, at essence, a Darwinist, Lady Durandir. I believe that fate favors the strongest." "A social Darwinist, you mean?" "Yes, you may call it that, though I find that this is only the logical conclusion one must draw from the findings of Darwin. Social, natural-- it is all the same. The strongest survive, the weak are purged, and so the race is perfected. It is for this reason that I detest your America," he said, glaring at her as if she were the embodiment of that state. "There the weak are coddled, protected from their due fate; weak and strong are treated as equals in your antiquated law; inferior races live side by side with the superior. It cannot be tolerated. For this reason I have sided with the Galactic Empire--oh, don't give me that innocent look; you know perfectly well what Empire I mean--to bring our planet under their control, with me at its head. We will have racial purity--none of the alien-loving ways of your New Republic. The future will be glorious, Lady Durandir. I give you the opportunity to take your place in it." She stared at him a moment in shock before finally finding her voice. "/That/ is what you want to recruit me to? Atner, you're nuts. You really don't get it. Your social Darwinism--it's soulless, blind, self-destructive. You mistake differences for weaknesses, and in crushing them, you eliminate what would have been a source of strength had you embraced it." "Still as misguided as ever, I see," he said with a look of haughty pity. "Well, Durandir, remember that I offered you a chance. I gave you the choice of freedom and power. Think about it yet a while--read what I have provided for you--you may yet come around. But if you persist in your ridiculous ideas, I shall be forced to treat you as an enemy. "Tede," he called, and in an instant the guard was standing at his side, his face expressionless. "Return the prisoner to her chamber," Atner ordered. With a quick salute, Tede led the prisoner away, back to her worries and wonderings. She stared out the ironwork of the window for a long time, straining her eyes in hopes of seeing X-wings flying across that unnamed sea. Finally she exchanged the horrid formality of the dress for the comfortable familiarity of her jumpsuit and fell back on the bed, whispering to friends seen only in her memory, "Hurry. Please, please hurry."