Calira Dumont - prologue

Back Story

Segments taken from select interviews and conversations

     I was not a petulant child. I was a determined child. I knew early on that I had done something wrong, had somehow disappointed my father. And, as a child, I desperately yearned for some small ounce of his affection, his approval, some small measure that would say Yes he Did Love this child of his. I could not be the son that he wanted, but I dreamed of being somehow good enough to be worthy of that love that was so elusive. I was not an 'easy' child in respect to what little girls are supposed to do. Dolls were not my toys of preferences, nor was pretty singing or musical instruments, dancing or eloquence, to use old-earth slang, I was a Tom-boy in all essence of the word. Dresses were not for me, nor frilly pursuits. I played the rough and tumble games of the boys, I kept my hair shorn short, despite the repeated attempts our mother made to try to 'civilize' me. I was fleet of foot, keen of eye and agile of body, wiry of build and more easily at home in the games and pursuits of the sons of our fathers friends than in the gentle world that a girl born into a well connected family was supposed to set herself in.
     To say the least, my teen-aged years were not.. pretty nor comfortable. I had a birds eye view of the favor with which my elder brother was treated, and the calculatingly 'grooming' manner in which my sister was raised. Some how in the middle I scratched and clawed my way towards some measure of attention, only to have my efforts rebuffed again and again. It would have been easy to become petulant, angry, depressed, despondent, one of those 'angsty' children that we all look upon with mild (to extreme) loathing. Our mother had given up years ago, fled for a chance of a better life for a chance to be treated as an equal, with respect, instead of the manner in which she was treated. I do not begrudge her this decision, truth is - I would to tell her that she made the right choice. She could never have taken us with her, and I would not have gone. Truth, after all, is in the details.
     The old man had established a commissioned entry for our brother and I was mad with desperation to earn the same. I presented myself to my father one brilliant morning, standing straight and proud, declared that I too wanted to earn a commission in the Alliance - to do him proud. By the end of that same day, at the age of a mere 17, I had smuggled myself off planet on a cargo ship, bartering away what bits of jewelry I had accepted over the years, taking with me what mismatched bits of armor and weaponry I had. To say the least, the old man was not interested in having a daughter who didn't know her place. I joined the alliance at the age of 17, using the short name 'Cal' Dumont instead of the long name given, seeking to disguise myself in the sea of faces and bodies all joining the alliance for their own reasons. At first it wasn't easy to blend in, but I had the attitude and opinionated bearing beat out of me in boot camp and then a few years nearly getting my arse shot off eroded away the rest of the edges of what I thought I was Due. I wasn't making a name for myself, but I really did know better by that time than to try. The Dumont name carried too many strings, too many connections, if asked if I was related I'd lie, say that it was some distant half cousin twice removed on the wrong side of the sheet. I was just Cal Dumont, that dark haired security officer. I picked security because I was far removed from the field that my father and brother were in, it was far afield and 'low brow' compared to the work my sister was doing. Yes, I kept a weather-eye on them.. but from afar, and very carefully through many layers of channels.

     I was nearly thirty before I decided to brave it again, decided to contact the old man again. Imagine my utter lack of surprise when he had even less use or regard for me at that point than he had all those years ago. My sister will say that what he did to her was worse, and I agree, it was. He tried to barter her off like some piece of antiquated chattel into marriage to any of his hand selected masochistic bastard cronies, or their sons. Instead of wasting his breath and time on such a futile endeavor, he pulled some strings and arranged a Hunt that would, if everything had gone as planned, rather neatly erased me from the equation. As I lay bleeding and trying to keep my Insides from spilling to the Outside, I had a bit of an 'epiphany', or perhaps it was blood loss? Perhaps both. Wounded bad enough that I had no choice but to take a leave from the guild, wounded bad enough that it was Months of physical therapy, wounded bad enough that the scars will never heal and if I don't keep up with an active lifestyle then the scar tissue will become stiff and immobile. By the time I was on my feet again, I took my gear, my weapons, looked up an old colleague and hired my 'sword' as a body guard for a year or two. The summer that I turned 33 I decided to give it one last shot, to try to contact my sister and set out with that goal - and only that goal - in mind. Funny, the sense of humor of the Universe, that my timing would prove to be impeccable.
     Impeccable in that the old bastard was one again trying his hand at ruling the universe through a plot to assassinate the Lord High Marshal, with the willing and eager help of our brother - who'd managed to turn himself into a perfect shadow of the old Man. With the help of the crew of the Dark Dragon, and at serious risk of life and limb to the crew and everyone else that volunteered, the plot was foiled and the old man and his shadow are now dead. As a result of their actions they were awarded each a Parliamentary Gold Medal      <file image inserted of the ceremony>

The Parliamentary Gold Medal is reserved for those who have exhibited courage under fire. This medal is one of the highest commendations awarded to non-Alliance military personnel.

The golden medallion is three inches in diameter and hung from a long, thick, satin blue and white ribbon. It is a brazen disk with the impression of the Alliance seal with a banner beneath that reads, in fine script, "For Service to the Alliance."

The back of the medal is smooth and scripted with "To Iliana Calira Dumont for Courage Under Fire. Thank you for all of your efforts. LHM Tacheu."

     After the well deserved death of the old Man and his shadow things settled down, more or less. Lirin renovated (gutted, mercifully, as the ship was wretchedly gaudy) one of his ships and outfitted it to be a flying medbay/hospital and named it The Panacea's Passage and we dusted out the old house on Paquin to use as our home, now that the shadows had been chased from it at last.

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