NationStates Jolt Archive

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‘Premonitions of change’
Regional Economic Summit
Chimaean/Knootian-held part of Columbia
Former FARC territories.
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“Knootians OUT! Metusen OUT!”
Young Spanish language student Flavio Sanches chanted along with his fellow students as they walked in the first line of a crowd carrying white banners with slogans against imperialism, free trade and, most importantly, against ‘Viceroy’ Metusen, the Knootian in charge of the mission of the DDR in the dependency. One older woman just behind him had gotten out the huge paper-maché Sirithil with M€ in her eyes. She had carried it on every local protest in the last 15 years.

This protest was different from all these local protests however. A total of 4.500 police officers, and even soldiers had been deployed at the summit. Police had formed cordons around the entire inner city and the morning sun had seen minor clashes between students and the police. 43 people, mostly foreigners, had already been arrested. This protest seemed to have attracted every single left-wing activist, student, fulltime antiglobalist, opposition politician, small landowner and unemployed city-dweller in South America.

---

The students grandfather, Sebastian Sanches Sr. meanwhile was inside the city centre to attend the summit. He reluctantly wore the uniform of the local elite: an ill-fitting corporate suit and the marks that identified him as the regional governor of a rural region in Knootian Columbia. The old man was looking around in the city centre itself as he made his way to the foyer. The streets were remarkably quiet, apart from long black limousines and helicopters shuttling the esteemed guests around: corporate leaders, politicians, some opinion makers and preciously little press. Little fluffy clouds floating in the blue skies overhead gave the entire scene an air of peace and quiet.

Sanches went into the neoclassical building, reminiscent of a Roman senate. Beyond the great pillars in the entry there were the great marble statues of local leaders. The entire architecture had the kind of symbolism that had been used by governments of all denominations and all ideologies to symbolise the power of the State. Inside the corporate representatives and the local politicians were talking casually in the foyer. (Dubbed the ‘main forum’ for this occasion.) As he got his name card at the reception, a band started playing pleasant light jazz music.

---

Flavio started shouting along with the anti-market slogans of a group of comrades near him.
A light tank with a water cannon mounted on top came rolling around the corner behind the first police cordon cutting the protestors off from the city centre. It appeared to be a standoff. He wondered were his dad was. His father, Licerio Sanches, worked for the local police, after all and he would probably be around. The student got out his mobile phone and called. No response.

---

Sebastian Sanches Sr was wandering though the forum looking for one of his fellow governors as he heard some aggravated talking from a room nearby. Not having anything better to do, he eavesdropped. Two men were discussing something in Dutch.

…“But that’s an absurd overreaction!” shouted one.
The other voice replied coldly and without emotion. “We could have met on some small island in the middle of the pacific. But we came here knowing that protests awaited us. This Summit is a meeting of democratically elected leaders, and I will not make concessions on the location.
“but… how can you use these weapons on innocent protestors?” replied the other panicky,
The other voice lost its lack of emotion. Still calm, there was an undertone of deep hatred: “They are NOT innocent. Any protest against the Market--- the economic system is a potential revolution. The people gathered here are the legitimate political forces. Not some group of worthless rabble rousers and peasants. Anyways, it is my decision to make.”

---

Meanwhile, outside Licerio Sanches put himself shoulder to shoulder with his comrades in police uniforms as the first row brought their riot shields into one line. He was a police officer and father of one son. Slowly he hand his mates began to advance on the protestors in the picturesque Columbian town square. ”Oh, God, I hope Flavio isn’t here.”, he thought.

Young Flavio Sanches, meanwhile, threw a rock to wall of shields, unleashing his anger and strength in the throw. He shouted along with the others. It did not matter what, they were one group. One interest. One cause. The adrenaline rush combined with feelings of intense hate and brotherhood. He flung another streetstone that was lying loose... it hit one of the riot police square against the helmet causing him to fall over.

Licerio advanced further. Next to him a colleague went down because of the sheer pressure of a stone. The man did not get up immediately. Then thing went quickly. The short burst of a submachine gun overstemmed the shouts of the demonstrators. Two of the riot police were hit in the side and fell bloodily on the ground. Then suddenly there was the rush of a small plane overhead, swooping low and dropping a pinkish flare of some sort. “Masks”, ordered the commander police and everyone in the line made sure their gasmasks were working.

With the gasmasks and the helmets on the men looked more like machines then humans. Barely anything of their faces could be seen and their bodies hid behind the huge shields. The other hand held a big, dangerously looking stick.

The gas began to spread quickly in the closed square causing everyone without a gasmask to cough and transpire heavily, choking for fresh breath. Running was impossible. Some people inside the pinkish cloud started to act strangely, suddenly kissing each other, even total strangers, or running around with widened eyes. Several others just fell down on the floor, leaning against each other like stoned druggies. For some the gas was more detrimental. Here and there people fell to the ground and simply stopped breathing.

Licerio advanced on in single line over the now harmless mob. Anyone who still stood defiant was beaten down. He stepped over the bodies of a woman who lay there for dead, not breathing. 2 others had been beaten down by soldiers, and were lying bloodily on the streets. Then it struck him: a pair of familiar black eyes, but strangely unfocused. His son, Flavio, was lying flat out on the square panting heavily. The father broke the cordon and dropped his shield. He ran to his son and took him in his arms, shaking his motionless body around…


---

Inside the protected core, the summit continued. Guests entertained themselves, and wheeled and dealed without knowing what was going on in the periphery of the Columbian town. Sanches Sr, too, went over to the buffet table, not knowing that the speaker-volume of the happy jazz music had been was turned up to drown out the sound of remote screams.

---

((
This is the start of a big RP thingy. Conntinued from the The end of Knootoss (http://www.nationstates.net/forum/viewtopic.php?t=133200&highlight=) thread.

OK, this isn’t about the Order yet but think of it as a situation leading up to it. People can claim arrested/killed protestors of course ;) The chemical agent that was used against the protestors was gay spray. Info here. (http://www.nationstates.net/forum/viewtopic.php?p=2773531#2773531)
Bear in mind: Knootoss, together with Chimaea, controls much of Columbia after a long RP with FARC in a semi-neocolonial way. What better place for the rise of such an order?
Also, I don’t think I could have put more political symbolism in this particular post. Anyways, on to Order Doctrine in the next post.))

((EDITed out the Para's))

(tag for later reading/replying goodness!)

Ok!

[/poorly disguised bump]

(OH NO! MERCANTILISM IS BACK!)

The government of Tanah Burung is shocked -- shocked!

At this violence and the attempt to turn the Market into a

God.

(real response later :wink: )

In Tanah Burung, the Order first made itself public:
The Order Publishes its first public adress (http://www.nationstates.net/forum/viewtopic.php?p=3028170#3028170)

((Just a side-thingy. I couldn't resist. *works on intel report*))

Syskeyian Diplomatic Legation, Bogotá, Chimaean/Knootian Columbia

I have a bad feeling about this, Syskeyian Legate Richard Charonpumi thought to himself as he tagged the news...

God bless,

The Republic of Syskeyia

*My diplomatic consuls (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Diplomatic_consulate) are called "legates," consulates are called "legations," etc. 'Cause my two cheif executives are called "Consuls." Gotta avoid confusion. :)

The windmill builder is messing around again it seems... :?

Tag

(OOC: Tag.)

Guten Tag!

:TAG:

Look forward to reading this one too.

Incorporated Stated of Tom Joad Foreign Commissary
Todays clashes are exactly the reason why we must further increase the aspects that private companies are allowed to own, it is clear that failure on the part of the government has led to the downfall of these people and now a minority of radicals are threatening everything.

We can only hope that free trade continues unhindered, for the greater glory of nations and the world economy.

OOC:
All nations formally Allied to Knootoss or in possession of advanced treaties (UnAPS, Iansisle, Valinon, The Vortex Corporation, etc. etc.) will be forwarded the following file. Nations who have an intelligence presence in the DDR can assume they have similar information.
If a physical intelligence presence has not been Rped it can be assumed to exist “digitally” for nations whose military spending is higher then top 10.000 AND whose Information Technology ratings are in the top 10.000 of nations. Ie. My variables for a decently functioning digital intelligence-gathering. Ie. roaming the internet for it. The rest will have to ask nicely for it from someone who does have those capabilities.

---



Intelligence report no. 045xx/33

Subject: The Order of the Invisible Hand, cult profile.

Forwarded by: Algemene Inlichtingen en Veiligheids Dienst [AIVD; DDR of Knootoss]

Date: April 11th, 20xx

Status: Low-level Classified. Not for release to the general populace.

Summary:
The Order of the Invisible Hand is a rapidly growing cult that worships the (free) Market and the working of the Market. The belief in the Market, in Market forces, has separated from the factual production of goods and services. It has become an end in itself. The ‘invisible hand’ is a reference to Adam Smiths work: ‘An Inquiry into the nature and causes of the wealth of Nations.’ (1776) which tells of an invisible hand that every individual labours with, that by promoting intentionally the self-interest the interest of the whole is unintentionally best furthered. Order Doctrine has been identified via public sources and will be laid out in this report. Membership of the cult and the amount of penetration of societal elites however remains mysterious.

Origins:
At present, the exact origins of the Order are unknown. The first signs of activity of this new cult have been found by our agency amongst key figures in South American corporate and political elites. However it would seem to be logical that the origins of this cult lie in more advanced western economies where the culture to feed such a movement exists. The capitalist crisis, with its shrinking profit rates, may have inspired the corporate elite to revive 19th century economic liberalism and push it to its very limits.

Structure:
No leadership figures have been identified at present. The Order has not been successfully infiltrated at present. The cult is speculated not to have a strong hierarchical structure, but is founded on an intricate international network. The possibility of a pyramidal system with monetary attachments cannot be excluded. Methods of Cult financing are unknown.

Security risk to governments:
Contrary to what ideology would suggest, the Order appears to be either benign in its resistance, or outright friendly towards States.

Doctrine suggests that the Market needs the state because without the State there would be no free Market, no Market forces, and no resulting Market society. The existence of a police and a legal system are not condemned by cult doctrine. In scriptures, the (ideal) government is mentioned as an 'ideal all-around capitalist', who must uphold not just the society as such, but the 'Market element'. The different forms of state interventionism are explained both as an expression of functional needs of the accumulation and reproduction process of capital. The general requirements of capital accumulation such as basic infrastructure, functioning law systems and legitimisation mechanisms are tasks that cannot be carried out by individuals, but instead require a "fictive all-around-capitalist". This "Market referee" must guarantee the fulfilment of these tasks in the interest of maintaining the system of the Market.

The relationship between supporters of the Order and opponents of the free Market is similar to that of democrats and anti-democrats. They are enemies, inherently, without the possibility of compromise. According to doctrine, the free Market either exists, or it does not exist. It can disappear by consent or without consent. Any attempt to end the free Market is, by definition, an attempt to overthrow the fundamental social structure. To quote Order Scripture: “The state exists to preserve the Market. It uses force to defend the Market and advance its power. Obey a state that protects the Market.”

The security risk to governments deemed by the Order as ‘defending the Market’ is very low. The effects of possible infiltration in the higher ranks could be political, however, as Order cultists can be expected to push for pro-business, anti-welfare and anti-government interference neo-liberal policies.

The risk to governments not seen by the cult as ‘defending the Market’ (ie. Communist nations that have illegalised private enterprise) is unknown at present, but analysts predict it to be medium-to-high. What measures the cult is willing to deploy against ‘enemies of the Market’ is unknown. Suicidal attacks are deemed unlikely, however. There is a high probability of cultists attempting to use public power against such governments.

Ideology:
The definition of Order Doctrine presented suggests that the Order has been underestimated.

General Characteristics of the Order ideology are:
-The belief in the moral necessity of Market forces in all areas of society is probably the first defining feature of the Order. The Market is the sacred primary process, and Market transactions are the primary interaction. Cultists believe that important aspects of society should be determined by the Market, certainly the distribution of income and wealth. Order Doctrine extends this belief, claiming that all social life should be determined by the Market.
-A general characteristic of Order Doctrine is the desire to intensify and expand the Market, by increasing the number, frequency, repeatability, and formalisation of transactions. The ultimate (unreachable) goal of the Order is a universe where “every action of every being is a Market transaction, conducted in competition with every other being and influencing every other transaction, with transactions occurring in an infinitely short time, and repeated at an infinitely fast rate.” This overlaps with semi-religious beliefs in the interconnectedness of the cosmos.

Some specific aspects of Order Doctrine are:
-The belief in ‘entrepreneurs’, as the good and necessary social group. Without the entrepreneur there is no free Market, therefore Cultists demand a privileged social status for the entrepreneur. Documents take a have a quasi-heroic attitude to the this profession, and the general idea is that everyone should be an entrepreneur.
-The Order is hostile to economic self-sufficiency and has repeatedly published against it. This antipathy is so strong that they believed in war to 'open up Markets'. (See also: ‘Security risk to governments’)
-Cultists are hostile to trade barriers: "free trade" is a classic slogan of Market liberalism. That meant traditionally, the free flow of goods and capital: Order Doctrine later developed a more diffuse version, where 'flow' and 'interaction' are treated as quasi-ethical values.
-All Cultists are hostile to interference in the Market, by church, state or others Cultists are clearly anti-utopian, in the sense of opposing economic planning, especially centralised state control of the entire economy. They believe that the Market produces the best 'design for society', and that is is wrong to substitute any other design. However, as mentioned before there is no inherent hostility to governments seen as ‘defending the Market.’
- Followers tend to see the world in term of Market metaphors. Referring to nations as companies is typical. In such a view Reichskamphen GmbH competes with Iansisle Ltd, Knootoss BV and Menelmacar Inc. This looks back on the theory of mercantilism - which saw the countries of Europe as competing units.
Competition for inward investment is seen by Knootian analysts as a core doctrine where it regards political activism. These policies are easy to understand and generally unpopular: wage cuts, less money for public services, less tax on the rich. The nation according to IH principles, in other words, behaves like a caricaturally mean and nasty capitalist.
-Order Doctrine has provided answers to stereotypical philosophical questions such as "Why are we here" and "What should I do?". We are here for the Market, and you should compete. Sentient beings exist for the Market, and not the other way around. Those who do not participate have failed in some way. In personal ethics, the general vision is that every human being is an entrepreneur managing their own life, and should act as such.

The general ethical precept of Order Doctrine can be summarised approximately as:
1) "act in conformity with Market forces"
2) "within this limit, act also to maximise the opportunity for others to conform to the Market forces generated by your action"
3) "hold no other goals"

Conclusion:
For followers of the Order of the Invisible Hand it is not sufficient that there is a Market: there must be nothing which is not Market. There is therefore no distinction between a Market economy and a Market society in Order Doctrine. With the attitudes and ethics set out above, there is only Market: Market society, Market culture, Market values, Market persons Marketing themselves to other Market persons. In a sense Order Doctrine has returned to the position of early liberalism - which also combined culture, values and ethics with economics. But Order Doctrine brings a far more intensive 'Market' - replacing not only traditional social forms, but also the concept of private life. At the same time this 'Market' is increasingly remote from the necessity of production, which was so real for the early liberals - when there were still regular famines in Europe.

OOC: Since I'm allied w/Chimaea, who is alllied w/Knootoss, I might get it that way. I also have an embassy in Den Haag. I also might have intel in Knootoss. Anyway, I'll get it.

Knoot, you get my TGs? Syskeyians won't buy Knootian. Maybe that will cause Syskeyia to be a OotIH target, perhaps? :D

God bless,

The Republic of Syskeyia

OOC: I got the TG, and I considered the matter handled. The boycott stands as long as the Systkeyian boycott remains. I think we were discussing the other thing in the 'social elites' thread already.

If you think you can get the document through Chimaea you'll have to ask them ICly of course. Wouldn't be nice of the Chimaeans to do so though. :) And I don't know how good your IT sector is...

OOC: I doubt I would recieve this, we've tended to ignore Knootoss in terms of intelligence gathering...however one quible, 'anti-utopian' implys that socialist and communist systems lead to a 'utopian' existence. Which seems a bit off for Knotoss Intelligence :? considering how free market you guys are/were.

Oh, Tag...

OOC: well, 'Utopian' in the sense of 'striving for a Utopia.' The classless society and the workers paradise. Communism is oriented towards ends, liberal market processes don't have ends. Its about processes. The Market is a process, a way to do things. It doesn't have 'goals' in mind about what society should be like. Thats anti-utopian.

:Tag-because everyone else is doing it!:

OOC: Yes, tag, tag, and tag. And I will now consume the intelligence information in my data gluttony.

OOC: Tag. Sounds... essentially... very Santa Barbaran. We like the free market, as long as we do so well in it (auto manufacturing and agriculture are the exceptions; as our weaker industries, but important measures in the eyes of the CoFedCo of Santa Barbaran power, they are subsidized and competition is tariff'd).

I dunno how this cult would view the CoFedCo. One can easily say that CoFedCo is not committed to free markets really; it- and it's constituent multicorps- wants to remain wealthy and powerful. But on the other hand, the line of the party is entrepeneurship and economic freedom, and it IS a privatized government. The ITDO is run purely off profits, not taxes. So long as the free market supports the status quo, its free market, but if a small, non-CoFedCo corporation were to start overthrowing the dominance of one of the big megacorps, that could change as the megacorp would use its political and raw power to survive and outcompete the usurper. Ah, I'm babbling here.

-multi-

-multi-

-multi-

OOC:
All nations formally Allied to Knootoss or in possession of advanced treaties (UnAPS, Iansisle, Valinon, The Vortex Corporation, etc. etc.) will be forwarded the following file.

[OOC: Well, even if I may or may not fall under this category...]

Nations who have an intelligence presence in the DDR can assume they have similar information.


[OOC: I definetely fall under this one :P ]

Esperanza, Chimaean Armed Forces HQ

Brigadier Charles Worset looked up into the blue sky, studying the multitude of helicopters that seemed to clog the CAF HQ at all times of the day. They ferried soldiers, aid workers, diplomats and prisoners around Chimaean-administered Colombia and was preferred to travelling by road--while Chimaean planning for Colombia involved roadworks, things like law and order and education recieved more attention, at least for now.

Worset loved Colombia. The people, the land, the spirit of the rejuvenated Colombia was intoxicating. Where there had been hate and despair were now the beginnings of a new hope. Faith was being restored, corruption being stamped out. Children were going to school and employment was on the rise, resulting in a decrease in drugs and substance abuse, which was also helped by the CAF's zero-tolerance policy on illegal substances. People weren't yet care-free or one hundred percent happy and trusting... but perhaps their children might be, and their children's children.

The challenge was daunting, to say the least. Initially the Chimaeans couldn't trust any of the Colombian government's remenant administration, or the FARC geurillas that had taken over. But slowly, as security had been restored, and Chimaean police and soldiers visibly patrolled the streets, helped out in community work and generally acted as decently as possible, good and honest people slowly came out of the woodwork.

The Chimaean police force had been cut by more than three forths, now peopled by Chimaean-trained Colombian policemen. Chimaean military trainers were also in the process of training and reconstituting a Colombian national guard, adept enough to handle the country's internal security problems.

The biggest problem was with the smugglers, the cartels and the militias that were part and parcel of the former regime's lack of control and corruption. At least they had stopped trying to bribe their way out of trouble--they hadn't understood that the well-paid and informed Chimaean forces were a completely different kettle of fish compared to the Ejercito Nacional, the Policia Nacional and FARC.

The latest injured in Chimaea's battle for a drug-free Colombia were being stretchered to the expansive medical centre that had been built in the HQ. Two civilians and one Chimaean soldier, by the brief glimpse Worset had caught before the medics carried them out. His expression darkened. While well-trained and ready for tropical and jungle warfare, the Chimaean forces were getting a few casualties against the bloodthirsty militias employed by the drug cartels.

Worset felt a presense behind him and turned around to greet the nervous face of Captain Harski, one of his aides. He frowned at the man. "Aren't you supposed to be liasing with the DDR?"

Harski bit his lip. "I was, sir. That's why I'm here. There's been... an incident."

TelAGram

((Tanah Burung, Chimeaea, Biotopia and Falastur have telegrams...))

Biotopia return theirs SWAK :wink:

*TAG*

-----------------------------
A remote prison
Knootian Columbia
-----------------------------

Beyond the towns and villages, beyond the mountains and beyond the corporate-controlled drug plantations of Knootian Columbia, a small dirt road led into the jungle. Amidst the dense layer of trees, greenery and animals and birds crying out was a small concrete building surrounded by an electrical fence. The top of a tall white windmill turned ever round, providing the complex with its own electrical power. The building was topped by a purple-white-green flag waving quietly amongst natures splendour.

The inside of the complex was pretty simple in its lay out. A room for personnel, a canteen, prison cells, and a room that was for authorised personnel only. The interrogation chamber.

Two young persons blindfolded by a long black cloth were led in to the chamber by armed and uniformed white men. One was a Biotopian and the other person was from Tanah Burung. ((Character descriptions, of course, as you want them to be.)) Both had been arrested during the Regional Economic Summit demonstrations that week, and had not been heard of since.

The white men roughly put the two down on concrete tables. Their blindfolds were removed, and both stared into a disorienting bright white light that seemed to encompass everything. The door swung open again, and peering through their narrow eyelids they could see a shadow in the form of a man.

“So,” a voice from the shadows direction spoke. “I think its time that you start talking.”

The shadow slowly walked between the tables. The footsteps of boots thumped on the concrete floor.

“We know who you are. I know more about you then you know yourselves. We know you are trying to destabilise the regime here. And we know all about the communist sleeper cells. You are here to destroy the Market, aren’t you? But you don’t know yet that the Market is Eternal, now do you?”, he asked rhetorically. When he said ‘Market’, there was a devout admiration in his voice. When he said ‘communist’ there was a mixture of fear and hatred. He turned around and walked back to the other side of the room.

“So spit it out. If you start talking now you will save yourselves a lot of pain. So… lets start with an easy question. Who do you work for?”

---

((OOC: the following is not really important for replies. Ok, its totally irrelevant, but is more of a cultural background thing meant to display a bit about how the Order can rise. + General stuff that is going on. A bit like the roaring twenties ;) ))

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Club ‘Contraste’
Roaring Twenties Revival Party
Utrecht, Knootoss
--------------------------------------------------------

Music could be heard outside of the famous Club ‘Contraste’ as the band inside played one song after the other. (http://www.btinternet.com/~dreklind/sounds/Gloranna.wav)

Inside, young, white Knootians were swinging to the fast-paced jazzy tunes. Elves in outrageously short skirts and glittery garments mingled freely with young human males in their twenties, looking to make an impression. Tuxes were the standard along with drinks in all sorts of strange synthetic colours.

“Hey wanna have a drink?” a young guy with black hair and a silver smile daringly asked to a tall pointy-eared blonde beauty sitting at the bar.

Her face, that looked like it hard been carved out of marble, broke into a smile. “One Mountain Doobie please”
“Make that two,” the guy added to a barkeep of about his age. He grinned, scoring someone twenty times your age was going to get him a lot of points.

Together, they downed the popular drink that had taken the more liberal nations of NS by storm. The jazz band started another fast-paced dancing song, and the elf and the boy danced to the bright coloured lightning effects that spread the room. The two swung their arms and legs around. For the boy, life was short, and its best to be enjoy it as long as it lasted. For the elf, this was just another night with just another boy.

As they went outside together late at night, the elf was holding the boy up around his arms. She never got drunk, because of her genetics. A group of gangsters of Arabic decent was making trouble getting into the club. They were denied by the local people and when the two came out they made some brawny remarks. She dragged the young Knootian into her pink cabriolet like a cat would her latest prey and drove off...

-----------------------------------
General developments
-----------------------------------

The Allanean war (http://www.nationstates.net/forum/viewtopic.php?t=138193&highlight=) and the subsequent withdrawal from the United Alliance of Progressive States (http://www.nationstates.net/forum/viewtopic.php?t=139254&highlight=) saw Knootoss retreat into isolation. The government raised tariffs, although not to levels that appreciably discouraged imports. The Order slowly became a part of public life, achieving much of its success through propaganda tactics thrown at middle classes deepest fears. While socialism had achieved its greatest victories to date in the last election, many felt that societies problems were due to the large influx of immigrants from Third World nations. In this environment, discrimination was the norm. Most important, perhaps, the new conservative nos Cirdan government ended free immigration into the DDR. Just as Mrs. Bi Bere from Tanah Burung had predicted the year before.

More than 10.2 million immigrants had come to the DDR in the year before she took office, but once the immigration restrictions took effect, the overall total was fixed at only a million or so immigrants a year. Moreover, different nations had different quotas. The quotas for immigrants from allied and other likeminded countries were more than ample for the demand. The quotas for immigrants from poorer nations and war-torn regions, however, were very small. The nation tried to pretend that the rest of the world did not really exist, and its people retreated into provincialism. As they turned inward, they found that they had plenty to do to entertain themselves. Jazz music became extremely popular again and people danced the night away in clubs. Automatisation, meanwhile, made the post-UnAPS Knootoss one the materially richest societies the world had ever seen. Everyone who was someone had excess money to burn.

In general, it was a period of great contradiction: rising optimism and deadening cynicism, great hope and great despair.

(( :lol: @ mountain doobie.... As this appears to be somewhat in the future, adjusting characters accordingly, and re-using one)

Knootian imperialist torture chamber, occupied Colombia

Sebastian Gomes blinked hard against the sudden light. The concrete cold against his back, his sweat cooling fast.

"If you start talking now you will save yourselves a lot of pain," he heard a voice from the shadows say, after a lot of talk about something called the Market (he could almsot hear the capital letter in the unseen figure's reverent voice). "So… lets start with an easy question. Who do you work for?”

Sebastian recognized the voice of a fanatic, and started to sweat hard again. "I don't have to tell you anything," he said with an air of desperate bravado. "And i'm not a communist, i'm here to support the people of Colombia. I only work for them."

Ukun Rasikan

Mari Alkatiri read the reports of the massacre without a trace of emotion crossing his face. He'd heard too many tales of atrocity, too many stories of flagrant abuses of human rights, too many reports of state-sanctioned murder.

But this one provided the chance to act that he had been waiting for. He began to type out a letter.

To: Prime Minister nos Cirdan, Knootoss.

We have received an appeal from the interior of Colombia, from a people demanding their independence. They ask mediation in their quarrel with the Knootian government. We have now learned of a massacre committed by the soldiers of your government in Colombia. We are accordingly passing the request for mediation to the UN Mediation Council, and request that you agree to take part under the UNMC treaty which your government has signed.

Mari Alkatiri
People's representative for foreign affairs & human rights

Some more about the motivations of all this and why we need to have a confession. (http://www.nationstates.net/forum/viewtopic.php?p=3064190#3064190)

((Did I mention the two were bound to the tables? It was kind of implied, of course. No torture chamber without leather straps. EDIT: Did I say torture? I meant... ))

------------------------------------------------------
Anti-terrorist information-gathering centre
Democratically-befriended Columbia
------------------------------------------------------

The voice ignored the Biotopian, and turned to Sebastian Gomes.

“I can assure you, I’m not as nice as Ambassador Vogels when it comes to terrorists. I know all about your record of destruction. You will give us your knowledge, communist.”

He spat out the last word. The shadow seemed to gesture to someone else. Another shadow. A hand forcefully grabbed his jaw and poured in a liquid. The liquid tasted extremely sweet, causing the boy to get a bit nauseous. The voice of the person pouring the drink in, meanwhile, hummed the Pink Bunny Cola jingle "If you drink it, you’ll just want to hop to the store for more" The strong hand held the jaw until the drink was swallowed.

“Soon, you’ll be begging for more.”, the voice of the interrogator said. “You have just drunk an extremely concentrated version of PBC extracts. Without the 87% water the publicly sold drink contains. You’ll also feel a bit strange, but that’s just the disorienting effect.”

The voice was silent, waiting for the thirst of the addiction to kick in. “Now…” he slowly asked. “You can get another sip. Just answer a very simple question for me. A test, so to speak. Who did you vote for as peoples representative for foreign affairs?”

-------------------------------
Noordeinde Palace
The Hague
-------------------------------

Galadriël read the message with disgust. She complained loudly to one of her party friends. ”This… barbarian trying to lecture me. ME! Lady of the House of Cirdan. Holder of the sacred third chalice of Lothoriën. Prime Minister of the Dutch Democratic Republic! Telling me how to run my… err… their… some other country. And trying to instigate the mob against me. Truly this is sickening.”


To: Alkatiri, Foreign Affairs and human rights.

I would like to thank you, the peoples representative of human rights, for bringing the recent local protests to my attention again. I assure you that we appreciate dissent as an act of faith in democracy.

I can only be sorry that there were some inevitable casualties amongst those who violently resisted the police during communist riots at the Regional Economic Summit in Columbia. I can assure you that Knootian police, in assisting the local authorities, have only used non-lethal weapons.

Your appeal for mediation between Knootoss and any insurgents by the UN mediation council can unfortunately not be honoured because the treaty stipulates negotiations as an affair between nations. This is evidently not the case here. Any case regarding domestic matters for Knootian Columbia should be taken up with the local government. The Knootian governor there will be happy to assist you, but is in no way politically responsible for the local democratic process.

~Galadriël Táralóm nos Cirdan

dup

Illegal detention chamber, in a free nation groaning under the imperialist jackboot

"Rumbiak," Sebastian choked out. "Rumbiak, Rumbiak, Rumbiak!"

Green Palace, Ukun Rasikan

Alkatiri let a slight smile cross his face at the diplomatic note. He turned back, once again, to the keyboard.

Prime Minister,

Thank you for your prompt reply. May i point out that the concept of human rights has been extended in this country to all forms of sentient life, including Bovines, Biotopians, dolphins, sentient vegetables and artifical intelligences. Our friends in the Non-Human Union will testify to this.

As to your interpretation of the UN mediation council treaty signed in Lavenrunz, i am afraid that we do not share your view. The treaty quite clearly allows "colonial peoples seeking their independence" to petition for mediation. If you are unable to accept mediation, i shall have to appeal to the UNMC regardless.

Please accept the expression of my best regards,
Alkatiri

(ooc: you want the UNMC argument on this thread or a new one?)

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Righteous intelligence barrier for the Eternal defence of Freedom™
Quasi-independent IMF-subjugated dependency of Knootian Columbia
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Very well”, the voice of the shadow said. “If only this man was not dead because of some barbaric ritual. No cola. You’re working for Alkatiri, aren’t you?”

The hand (it was hairy, he noticed) held a cup almost under the nose of Sebastian. He could smell the extract. The synthetically sweet odour. It filled his nostrils and his mind was clouded with desire. ((Well, it should be))

The voice was now reassuring, almost friendly.
“Just confirm to us that you are working for Alkatiri now. You’ll get your cola then.”

((Well, I suppose we'd best use the argument to BUMP the UNMC thread. Torture with Cola can continue here. Jo/Lavenrunz, btw pointed out to me on IRC that it is (now?) called the International Mediation Council and not the UN Mediation Council. Well, and when the player behind Her Royal Highness the late Empress Joanna von Sachshausen of Lavenrunz says so, I can only humbly oblige... :wink: ))

-------------------
Message
-------------------
Instead of a prompt reply, there was a laps of about 4 weeks between Alkatiri’s sending of the letter and an actual reply. This reply was shifting responsibility between the three legal incarnations of Knootoss.


To: Alkatiri, Foreign Affairs and human rights.

Dear Sir,

I am writing you on behalf of the Office of the Prime Minister regarding a document invoking certain parts of the UNMC charter. We have looked into your request and unfortunately we cannot accept your invoking of the charter as valid in this particular case.

As the Prime Minister already pointed out in an earlier communication, domestic matters for the protectorate of Knootian Columbia should be taken up with the legitimate local government of the Protectorate of Knootian Columbia. In no way can the Dutch Democratic Republic of Knootoss, which is signatory to the treaty, be legally responsible for affairs inside the Knootian Protectorate except when concerning the actions of Knootian government officials, the governor and his staff in its advisory function or the local police force under Knootian command.

The Knootian Federation is a supranational Federated Entity by form of commonwealth which cannot be part directly to international treaties apart from those stipulated by the Federation Constitution. The UNMC agreement does not fall into this category. As such, responsibility cannot be asked from the head-of-state Prime Minister Lady nos Cirdan, who is heading both the DDR and the Knootian Federation. Knootian Columbia is a separate-but-equal part of this federation, along with the Knootian Protectorate of Ale-Yarok and several minor dependencies.

Furthermore, should you wish to pursue this matter with the local Columbian government, we would like you to point out that their inhabitants are not a ‘colonial people seeking their independence’. First off, because the Protectorate is not legally a colony, and secondly because the legitimate representation of the people is not seeking independence. As such any negotiation as a result of pledges for independence are null and void. Anyone desiring separatist action against the current status is, in fact, guilty of rebellion. We stand for the protection of Columbian sovereignty, and insurgents against Columbian sovereignty will be dealt with. We stand united with the Empire of Baron in the fight against the drug cartels and their associates, who have plagued the region for so long. We understand that you are new to dealing on the international scene, and advise that you keep this an internal matter so that you will avoid international humiliation.

Madam nos Cirdan's Chamber of Horrors

Sebastian had never much liked PBC, or as it was called back home, Knootian imperialist black sticky water of putrid death. And yet this was strangely enticing, somehow. He wanted to get some, but he couldn't say he was working for Alkatiri: it simply wasn't true.

"Rumbiak!" he shouted. "Rumbiak, damn you."

------------------------------
Interrogation chamber
Knootian Columbia
------------------------------

"NO!", the voice shouted. The hand that had first given him the cola now lunged out towards him, hitting him hard in the face.

It didn't matter now. He had to be working for the current man. The Knootians couldn't believe that his grassroots organisation would still be so alive. They did not want to believe it, at any rate. There had to be more.

As he hit Sebastian, the voice shouted in one of his ears:
"YOU WORK FOR ALKATIRI! CONFESS IT, YOU TRAITOR TO THE MARKET!"

OOC: Sorry I haven't replied in a while. Been busy, you know how it is =/
--------------------------


Caton Gregorio, the Administrator of Chimaean Colombia, sat in the darkened room with the rest of the Chimaean and Colombian officials as Brigadier Charles Worset turned on the projector linked by a multitude of wiring to a small laptop computer on the desk before him. The screen at the far end lit up in white for a moment, before the blurred picture of an aerial photo of a town appeared.

Worset tapped his pen on the surface of the long table where they sat. "This is a town in Knootian Colombia. There was a meeting held there by important Knootian business leaders and officials. As is usual in most democratic nations, this meeting attracted the attention of protestors who were against everything from globalisation to a free market. It was around this time that CAF had reports of an unusually large buildup of Knootian security forces in the area, larger than is really required to control a crowd like this one. We didn't think much of it, just reasoning that the Knootians are being extra cautious."

The picture changed, smoke obscuring much of the town peripheral area. "This happened in the middle of the protest. Apparently, the situation was sufficient to allow the deployment of smoke bombs, and suspected gas bombs which could have contained some sort of drug. Reports are sketchy at best and we all know the reliability of eye-wittnesses, or lack thereof, but a consensus seemed to be that the protestors were experiencing some sort of artifical 'high'."

Gregorio leaned forwards in his chair. "They gassed Colombians?"

"Colombians and foriegners, too, by the early reports. We have not heard of any Chimaeans in the area but my guess is that there was. There usually is."

There were a few wry smiles around the table.

"At some point, whether before or after the gassing, shots were fired. We cannot ascertain who at, but we believe that the protestors were unarmed. A fair few of the protestors died from the gassing. The Knootian security forces moved into the crowd and began attacking them... whether in defence or by order we don't know."

"Jesus Christ in Heaven!" Gregorio exclaimed. "Why are they... what are they doing?"

Worset shook his head, almost to himself. "We're not completely sure. Anyway, a number of those arrested have dissappeared without a trace... Well. Without a public trace, anyway."

Another picture came up, this time a map of Knootian Colombia. Red dots appeared on the map on the map.

"In the course of our war on drugs and warlords, we have a lot of intelligence assets operating in Colombia." Worset coughed, embarressed. "They have kept a... watchful eye on our allies."

A few chuckles from around the table added to Worset's discomfiture. "Look, it's part of Chimaean policy to keep all parts of Colombia under a certain amount surveilance. Anyway the red dots on your screen accounts for Knootian bases, mostly security-related. Apart from a few known and suspected bases catering for... other needs, most that we know of are accounted for. Apart from this one."

The red dots vanished apart from a single one, in an area of dense jungle.

"We're not sure what it is. It could be their outhouse for all we know. It's not very big, though there could be more underground that we don't know of. It's just a bunker in a country full of bunkers... and it so happens to be where we think some of these protestors are. Why? Well, Baron sattelites have been probe-mapping Colombia in an effort to dig out the cartel strongholds and weapons dumps. We've looked very deeply at a lot of area, and apart from the background heat of the jungle, our heat maps have produced a timely increase in activity in the area. Now we aren't sure, with all these troop movements, as to whether this is indeed a sign that prisoners have been taken to this place, or just some random resupply or something."

Gregorio stared at the red dot. "Is it a prison?"

"Perhaps. Not one on their official lists. Not one a lot of people know about."

"A secret prison? We had a few secret prisons in Colombia, Brigadier. We know what they're like."

Worset looked away from the man's gaze. "I'm sorry Gregorio, I don't know what this place is. This is our informed 'best-guess'. We don't even know if the people there, saying that there are people there, are Colombians."

"What are you going to do about it?" Gregorio demanded. "What can we do about this? It's an outrage! Colombians have had enough of oppression!"

There was an awkward silence. Worset sighed. "It is in Knootian-administered Colombia and they're our allies, Administrator. My advice is to launch a complaint and demand the whereabouts of the missing people. I have already sent a full report to General Garrison, who will no doubt forward it to the Governor. Anything like a military strike... would probably be construed as an invasion; specially if Knootian personnel are hurt."

Gregorio thumped the table angrily. "Surely there must be something more--?"

Worset frowned. "I'm sorry, Administrator, but Chimaean hands are largely tied, at least until this reaches the Chimaean government... which will be fairly soon. I urge you to contact the Knootian government and demand an answer."

Gregorio stood up abruptly. "Thank you." he said shortly and stormed out of the room.

Worset frowned after him. Like a clockwork terrier, he thought, and immediately tried to quash the thought from his mind.

((OOC: Chimaea, If this isn’t what Gregorio would do then tell me and I’ll edit accordingly.))

------------------------------
Knootian mission.
------------------------------

“Prisoners? Yes. Which ones?”

Ralf Metusen, the Knootian in charge of the DDR mission held the earpiece of his red phone between his ear and his shoulder as he looked through some leafs of paper. Carefully, he ran his finger along the fine black lines of the table displayed in the paper on his wooden desk.

”Oh… yes, those that haven’t been released. Oh, no that’s nothing imp…”

He was broken off. Slightly annoyed he answered:

“Please Sir Gregorio, you don’t have to yell. I can understand what you are saying perfectly.” Metusen hated people yelling at him in Spanish. He had learned the language prior to getting his job in Columbia, but when they started ranting passionately he was always lost.

“Listen – I already told you that we will release a statement soon. I’ll have it sent over to you before we release it…”

“Yes. I am very sorry about what happened.” Annoyed with repeating it for the third time in the telephone conversation, it didn’t sound very sincere anymore.

“No. I cannot tell you where he is. All the other Colombians have been released. Yes, we’re holding him for interrogation along with some forei…”

He held the earpiece of his phone at arms length for the next 5 seconds. After that he put it back to his ear.

“No, no and no. No torture camps. Of course not. If they are innocent they will be released… Yes, that is a promise. Now if you’ll excuse me I am terribly late for a meeting.”

“Goodbye Mr. Gregorio.”

---

Colombian combined Security Forces press release
http://flagspot.net/images/c/co)cd.gif
"Listos en paz o emergencia"

The total death toll in last weeks demonstrations during the Regional Economic Summit has been set at fourteen. All the casualties have been identified and a list of names is attached with this message. Two of the dead are police officers: one Knootian who was mortally wounded when hit by a brick, and one Columbian who was shot from a higher location. The other 12 were unfortunately killed while resisting arrest by a combined effort of Knootian and local police forces to contain the violence at the demonstrations. Eight were native demonstrators from Knootian Colombia. Two of the antiglobalist demonstrators were from Chimaean Columbia. Two foreigners who had flown in especially for the demonstrations also perished. ((Whoever wants to claim them can. ;) ))

The Columbian Civil Defence and police forces mourn for both their fallen comrades and those demonstrators who perished during their arrests. The Knootian representative, Metusen, has also expressed a deep regret for these inevitable deaths.

By far most of the demonstrators have been released from custody after temporary detention until after the summit. The police forces have made a small number of successful arrests in the fight against terrorism. 3 persons who have been detained are suspected of supporting terrorism and separatist action against the local government. For security purposes, their identities will not yet be released but the three have the Colombian, Biotopian and Tanah Burung nationality respectively. Security forces are glad that these potential terrorists are off the streets, but emphasise that in light of the casualties this is at best a bittersweet victory for freedom and justice.

A dungeon

"Argh!" Sebastian shouted as his face was pounded. "I don't work for Alkatiri, i tell you! But stop beating me, and i'll tell you who i do work for!"

The truth is, Mari Alkatiri was very unhappy indeed that some citizens had gone to Knootian-controlled territories. It was undisciplined, reckless, counter-productive behaviour. And it raised some problems that he'd rather not deal with.

Tanah Burung Embassy, Knootoss

Kay Rala, the long-serving ambassador to Knootoss, had been dreading this call. She preferred the glittering parties of the diplomatic circiut, the decadence of the smoking parlours, the slow cruises down the canal sipping champagne and picking idly at the finest pickled herring money could buy. But there was nothing for it: duty, with an angry ring, called.

"What's that, Bapak Mari? ... Yes, we are doing all we can to get an answer on their whereabouts ... Yes, yes, i'm trying ... But it's opera night! ... What? ... No, are you sure that's wise? ... Not ... Not an aide-memoire! ... All right. I'll try to get an appointment."

Her face fell. She hit an intercom button. "João? Contact Minister van Mierlo's office, and ask if he would be able to see me."

A jungle clearing, Loro Sae province

Ten boys were drilling with wooden rifles, trying to stay in formation. They didn't do it well. Only their chants were in unison. "Down with colonialism! Free the oppressed! For Rumbiak! For Rumbiak!"

--------------------------------------------
Evil Terrorist detention centre
--------------------------------------------
The hand stopped and withdrew itself. The shadow seemed to nod, indicating Sebastian to speak.

-----------------------------------------------------------------
A boat slowly cruising the ‘Keizersgracht canal’
Amsterdam, Knootoss, Friday night.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
The Keizersgracht by night, linked to make page easier to load. (http://www.philipwarner.com/amsterdam/postcards/images/pictures/keizersgracht-night.jpg)

“I am very happy that you were able to meet me here, ambassador.”
With a faint boyish smile he excused himself: “I’m sorry that I have to meet you here instead of in the ministry, Ambassador. Friday night really was the only time I still had left in my agenda.

The Knootian foreign affairs minister van Mierlo leant back onto his bench as Kay Rala sat ((or lay, if she’s comfortable)) on the pillowed bench across him in the narrow, long white boat. The minister waved his hand to the elderly man steering the boat, and with a soft humming the boat started to travel forward.

As if she were an Egyptian Queen, travelling down the river Nile, he poured her a glass of transparent white stuff. After that, he rose his glass of champagne back in the direction of Kay Rala. “To prosperity,” he said with a warm, old voice.

---

lol @ the canal coctail parties. \^_^/ <-- happy elf. If this is, uhm, an inappropriate place meet I’ll edit it into some dreary office environment of course. I realise full-well I am violating your characters personal integrity by determining the setting. I just thought she wouldn’t mind overly. ;)

OOC: Can I get involed? No way am I going to let you make the evil sodomites the good guys and the conservatives the bad guys. I'm against the "order of the Invisible Hand," buy the way. Remember I told you about how my country fought Objectivist rebels in the '80s? Objectivism and the OIH have the same basic values (pro-selfishness, pro-greed, etc.) C'mon- socioeconmics=boooring. Not to metnion that since your government seems hell-bent on funding abortion and euthanasia, we're still not trading with you. That good enough to the the OIH's wrath. :D

God bless,

The Republic of Syskeyia

OOC: Discussion and planning in This thread (http://www.nationstates.net/forum/viewtopic.php?t=133200) please.

I'll answer there.

This is a TAG post, I don't feel up to thinking right now x_x official government reaction to follow.

(ooc: the canal srtting is lovely. Most of my characters would avoid it like the plague, but the Kay Rala set-up should be enough to indicate she's not the typical TB government official. Years back, she was hostess for talks between Iesus Christi & SeOCC, so she'll sleep with the devil himself if the champagne is good!)

A stately pleasure boat, Keisersgracht Canal, Knootoss

"To prosperity," Kay Rala replied, with every indication of complete sincerity. She upended her glass and drained it. Ah, the life of an ambassador in a decadent country. Kay Rala loved decadence. Actually, she was almost wistful for the days when the tribute fo the world had flown into Knootcap, and Tanah Burung had been the emerald in the Knootoian East Indies tiara. Those had been the days of luxury. Almost wistful.

But then, tonight was not bad. The waters may have been polluted, but they shone so in the evening lights, and conducted sound from the canalside parties so well. If only the messy business of diplomacy was not intervening with what might otherwise be a witty conversation.

And so, after askign after van Mierlo's family, and gently inquiring about his "chosen family" and his thoughts on the current operas playing (she had especially enjoyed the new performance of Persée et Andromède), Kay Rala turned with reluctance to the diplomatic protest she had been ordered to deliver.

"We are receiving reports that one of our citizens is being detained without legal counsel in Knootian Colombia. There are even some people claiming he is being tortured." She shuddered slightly to have to utter such an indelicate word in such a charming setting. "On behalf of my government, my compliments to you, Minister, and would you please do us the honour of investigating these allegations and replying at your earliest convenience to the allegations? I need hardly note that this is a matter of grave concern to my government." She handed over a written aide-memoire containing the same message and embossed with the official seal of the Tanah Burung embassy. Embossed with a motif of birds, and engraved with the words [/i]Yang terhormat Mulia, Ibu Kay Rala, Kementerian Rai Persatuan Tanah Burung dalam Republik Demokratik Belanda Knootoss,[/i] Her Excellency Kay Rala, Ambassador of the United Provinces of Tanah Burung to the Dutch Democratic Republic of Knootoss.

Contested terrain, underground, Colombia

Sebastian gathered his courage, his wits, and his rhetorical flourishes, and started to answer the unseen torturer. "When that great man Markus Rumbiak perished at the hand of an imperialist killer, a group of us decided it was better to fight for his ideas than to mourn him. Do this in memory of him, we decided. This is our new and everlasting covenant: to go to those countries unjustly held under the colonial yoke, and to stand alongside the people longing to be free. We go to any colony, to oppose colonialism in all its manifestations. And though you may capture us and torture us, you can't stop the forces of history form sweeping you away."

((OOC: figured that about your character ;) Nice to see someone who isn’t all ‘righteous condemnation’ for a change. :P ))

Cruising along the Keizersgracht canal, Amsterdam

The vessel steamed on, heading under one of the lower bridges that decorated the canal. As they approached the boat was bathed in the gentle yellow light of the lamps that had been placed on the arches under the stone crossing. As it passed underneath there was the momentary darkness of the overarching stone and the black water below. But darkness lasted only for a few seconds and the ship then came out into the light again; the city once more visible.

When the light returned, van Mierlo glanced over the aid memoir. "Tortured? Oh – that is quite impossible I think. But I will take this matter very serious, your excellency.” He smiled, indicating genuine respect. He moved his body to sit up a little bit more and his tone became somewhat less witty as he was discussing work again. “Well… this is an Domestic Affairs matter but I can tell you that have heard about it as well. You see, this is rapidly becoming a rather high-profile case. And you know how the press gets when they smell a story. I will have someone draw up an official report for you that will explain a matter. For now I can assure you that if this works out, there will be a normal trial. I will speak personally on your behalf for that.” He rose his glass again, and took a sip.”

“If you wish, you can tell Alkatiri how you managed to wrestle this information from me using your great diplomatic skill.” The boyish smile that had been so characteristic of him when he had first become minister returned, as he granted Kay Rala this opportunity to make her look good. “Alas, I am but a weak old man,” he said shrugging with the same smile and twinkle in his eyes.

Bunker in Colombia
“Very good”, exclaimed the voice. “And as a reward, you’ll have cola.” A cup with thick pink fluid was given to him by the hand that had only just hit him. Gently it was poured into his mouth.

The drink gave instant satisfaction, and Sebastian felt a shudder of pleasure come through his body. At the same time, the drink had the same high concentration and the chemical reward only increased the craving for more.

“Now – please tell us some more. How long have you been here?”, the interrogator said, starting with a simple question.

OOC: All right. This is my second attempt to post this, and if it doesn't work, I am this close to having a psychotic episode.

----------------------

[code:1:e66ee854c5]TO: Dutch Democratic Republic of Knootoss
FROM: Commonwealth of Chimaea

Governor Tanya Bryce wishes to make a state visit to the DDR, with the intent of reaffirming our alliance, strengthening our friendship and discussing various important matters.

We would be very grateful if Prime Minister nos Cirdan would be able to meet with Governor Bryce at a location and time convenient, in either Chimaea or Knootoss.

~Office of the Governor of Chimaea[/code:1:e66ee854c5]

----------------------

"But they did it, right?"

General Garrison shared a look with Prime Minister Achefield, who sat beside him before an irritated looking Lady Bryce. He risked a discreet cough and gave a half-nod. "We believe so. The protestors were gassed by Knootian security forces."

"And we're, what, helping them to cover up?"

The Prime Minister blanched. "Well... not exactly--"

"Actually, that's exactly what we're doing," Garrison butted in. "Colombia is in no state to have a third party start some sort of independance movement. The economy and the peace we have achieved is fragile, based on the premise that things keep heading up for Colombia. If there's a major disturbance... There's no telling what could happen."

Lady Bryce scowled. "I don't see why I need to go, anyway. We're almost at war in Africa, Street Island is going to bits and you want me to sit around eating cucumber sandwiches with some high-class Elf? Why not send one of the army of beauracrats that line the walls of our Parliament?"

This time, Achefield looked annoyed. "There's no need to bring her race into any of this, my Lady. And we need an official state visit, which is a clear signal to the international community and to the cartels in Colombia that the Chimaean-Knootian solidarity is still strong."

"You mean you haven't noticed? Most of the Elven upper crust in the world seem to consider humans as inferior. They never say anything to your face but the way they act...!"

Garrison looked curiously at Lady Bryce. "You don't like Elves?"

"Don't get me wrong. I'm certainly no Mathew Iesus. It's just a pet peeve. How many Elves do we have living in Chimaea?"

Achefield shrugged. "Close to two or three million, I'd say. Maybe more."

"Exactly. And most of them are fair enough people right? Not the ones that run nations though. Hah! They have this whole holier than thou attitude--"

"All right, all right. Galadriel seems reasonable enough, never fear." Achefield nodded at Lady Bryce. "They're our allies, and they're important. Please do this, if only to prevent major headaches for me."

Lady Bryce shrugged. "Fine. But I'm not a diplomat, Mr. Achefield; just be sure that you remember that."

Canalside

Kay Rala smiled, sniffed a nearby tulip, and removed her clogs as she admired the fine workmanship on the dikes and the picturesque windmills in the distance. She raised her glass to the wily diplomat facing her. "Santé," she said. "Thank you. Now that unpleasantness is out of the way, would you care for a toke? Fresh this morning from Tiga Burung by diplomatic pouch."

Pit of too much cola

Sebastian could feel his teeth rotting already. This was one bad trip, dude.

"Me? A few weeks, maybe. What day is it anyway?"

"Intelligence on that invisible cult thing that you wanted, Prime Minister-"

Prime Minister Lin Pak took the file from her clerk, reviewed it, and tagged it on the to-do list. She quickly placed on top of her large stack of papers and turned back to the news on the Hamptonshirean Revolt.

OOC:
A KNN news report with things relevant to this thread:
http://www.nationstates.net/forum/viewtopic.php?p=3110774#3110774

I'm actually oping to see Chimaea on IRC soonish for RPing the state-visit if that is possible ;)
I also think that the 'canalside' storyline has served its purpose, if you want to attempt to drug up my minister for some reason its fine with my though, TB. ;)

IC:
A week after the aide-memoire had been handed to van Mierlo the Tanah Burung embassy received a letter assuring the government of the United Provinces with much official language that all Tanah Burung citizens would be treated according to the law. It denied that any Tanah Burung citizens would currently be held ‘against the law’.

Attached with the letter was a document with information detailing Tanah Burung citizens currently in Knootian custody. The letter itself did not further detail much about the individuals, but stressed the confidential nature of this list.


Metaki Rasikan (M)
Status: convicted for selling forged tourist visa to Haven refugees. Currently held in Rotterdam penitentiary, release pending in 14 days with a fine of €645,67

Leticia Consuelo (F)
Status: currently in custody of the Amsterdam local police, charged with violation of the 26th article of the Cannibalism Regulation Code, failure to send in morgue-release form to the regulation authority within the three-day time period before release. Police investigation pending.

Sebastian Gomes (M)
Status: currently held by local Colombian authorities for questioning. Extension of detention to the first 30-day holding period approved by police judge. Suspected of terrorist activities.


---

Innocent detention centre.
“I’m asking the questions here, boy,” the voice said. “Who have you met here? And where?”

(oh yeah, we're done canalside. i just couldn't resist the jazz atmosphere, baby)

Detention of innocents centre

Sebastian was beginning to feel a bit giddy. Perhaps it's because he is not accustomed to refined sugar and addictive preservatives.

He giggled.

"Well, i met a very officious customs officer who was quite rude. Then i met a Colombian clown. He was sure funny! Then, i went into the jungle and met some nice people and saw some parrots. You know, the birds here are really spectacular! You should see them, the plumage is incredible. i really hope that's a protected forest. Back in the Emerald Heights, i hear they're trying to put a superhighway through the wildlife preserves. I think i might have met a jaguar spirit too, or maybe i was just drunk. Who can tell these days? After that, i came back here and met some more Colombians. They were protesting for their rights. And then you guys gassed them! That wasn't so nice."

Father Santiago Gonzales was hoping that the promised representative from Tanah Burung would show up soon. It was dangerous for he and the others to linger together in one place for too long. The Knootian security forces had dossiers on at least three of the people present in the back office of this godown by the canal side, and there were others who were totally unsuspected and whose effectiveness would be compromised if they were seen together. Still, it was vital to coordinate things and stay in touch.

They decided to get started, anyway.

“Father, when will the next anti-Hand sermons be preached?” Juanita Marquez asked.

“Two weeks. Bishop Quintiraura is sending out the letter and the drafts tomorrow. I believe we will have especially good coverage in the barrio churches, as well as the rural factory farms and mining areas.”

Quinto Mendez scowled. “I still think we should schedule another march, to coincide with the preaching. We must show the imperialist occupiers some strength.”

Carlos Illaquita shook his head. He was as close to a leader as the looseknit organization permitted. “No. We must not let them know how strong we are growing. The general strike must take them completely by surprise, and we need another six months to generate enough solidarity to close down sufficient factories and mines to make it really hurt them. If they get too nervous, they will begin taking random actions, and it could escalate into violence and give them the excuses they need to move still more military and police forces into position.”

From her position near the door, Graciela Quilaco hissed: “Silence! Someone approaches!”

IC:
Knootian Colombia – ours by divine right for all eternity
The hand lashed out again, slapping the boy in the face left and right. It continued to hit him for about 10 seconds on both sides of his face. The spots on his face would become ugly and blue in a short while.

”DON’T - BULLSHIT - ME!” he boomed.

A low punch in the stomach finished the ordeal.

“YOUR CONTACTS! NAMES. NOW! OR NO COLA!”

OOC:
@HVS: Presuming you and TB have something planned I’ll leave it alone for now.
@TB. Lol. And meh, I should outsource this kind of stuff and hire someone from Iesus for torture scenes. They are more effective, generally, but I would hope to present someone alive for the inevitable trial.

(OOC: Knoot, nothing "planned" with anyone, that post was just running it up the flagpole, as it were. Thought it might be interesting to see where something like that went with this group of players.)

(yeah, it does sound interesting, let's see where it goes. I love all forms of thread development that do not involve the world Inquisition.)

Flustered, almost in tears, a large woman dressed in a nun's habit knocks at the door. "Clara da Cruz, i'm so sorry to be late, but there's trouble afoot that i couldn't even have guessed at."

In a cell closer than is really comfortable, or safe, Sebastian spit blood on the cold slab. "They didn't tell me names, menheer! All i know is that their boss was called Sub-commandante Carlos."

Graciela nodded to Clara da Cruz, and peered around anxiously before closing and re-locking the door.

Father Gonzalez looked concerned. "Trouble?"

The others all started to talk at once; Carlos Illaquita silenced them with a gesture. "What trouble? And what news from Tanah Burung? Did our message reach the Friends of Rumbiak?"

"Message? Those boys are always talking about messages they have received from important people. What message did you send?"

Sister Clara wiped her brow and sank into a chair gratefully.

"The trouble is, it seems one of the Friends is in prison right now. And my sources say that it's not the normal nice Dutch boys, it's this Invisible Hand outfit that has him in custody. I don't mind saying it scares me, scares me for all of us."

Carlos frowned. "The message was supposed to go all the way to Tanah Burung. We were told that we had... sympathizers there."

He sighed. "Well it is less important just at the moment, but we must begin building a favorable public relations climate in anti-Imperialist nations so that our General Strike will receive the right kind of reporting."

"We were hoping for financial support from the Friends as well, but that is less important, now. My friends, I have important news... and very good news:

Juan the Bellmaker has decided to back us."

Juanita Marquez gasped. "The real Juan the Bellmaker? He is alive?"

Carlos nodded, a little scornfully. "Of course he is alive. Those Imperialist idiots could never kill him. Not only is he alive, he has revived his production network, and the money is pouring in. None of that mass-farmed, commercial quality garbage for Juan the Bellmaker." He glanced at the priest, apologetically, and left that subject.

"In any case, he is well-hidden, but we have ways to contact him. He will provide us with financial backing through half a dozen channels." Again, he glanced at the priest. "One of them, Father, should be the collection plates in certain rural Churches. If the felt lining is loose... well, we can talk about the specifics later."

There was an appreciative murmur among the others... "Juan the Bellmaker..."

[Tag]

OOC:
This thing really belongs with this thread, but since other issues were also discussed it gets its own place:
The state visit of Chimaean leader Lady Bryce to Knootoss (http://www.nationstates.net/forum/viewtopic.php?t=144312)

HVS, I love this idea. Mind a Knootian infiltrator in your Colombian network? :P

IC:
In the cell, Sebastian was fed more cola. Slowly, the insidiously sweet taste of pink cola mixed with the natural but dirty taste of dark-red blood...

"So, tell me more about this Sub-commandante Carlos..."

Back to OOC:
We could pursue these negotiations, or leave them background so not all will be OOCly spoiled for when the resistance meets the UNMC. Your call, TB ;)

(ooc: i've had Sebastian stalling so as to save the news for the visit. Anyways, information obtained under torture is never reliable, right? :wink: )

"The Sub-commandante is a great man," Sebastian said, eagerly lapping up the liquid despite what he knew about its bad effects on human health. "He leads brilliantly. But i never saw his face."

---

Sister Clara had not heard of this Bellmaker, but then, she had led a sheltered life. He sounded pretty cool, at any rate. But there was one thing she knew she could help with.

"Financial support? Now there, i can be of some service." She reached into her purse and took out a small plaster statuettte of the Virgin. She smashed it on the table and from the shards removed a dozen glittering round stones. "The finest pearls from the Loro Sae seabed. I trust they will fetch a good price on the black market."

She looked to the priest. "I have to say, your preparations for the general strike sound impressive. Tell me, how are your connections with the guerrillas? Will they back you, or work against you on this?"

(ooc: i've had Sebastian stalling so as to save the news for the visit. Anyways, information obtained under torture is never reliable, right? :wink: )

"The Sub-commandante is a great man," Sebastian said, eagerly lapping up the liquid despite what he knew about its bad effects on human health. "He leads brilliantly. But i never saw his face."

---

Sister Clara had not heard of this Bellmaker, but then, she had led a sheltered life. He sounded pretty cool, at any rate. But there was one thing she knew she could help with.

"Financial support? Now there, i can be of some service." She reached into her purse and took out a small plaster statuettte of the Virgin. She smashed it on the table and from the shards removed a dozen glittering round stones. "The finest pearls from the Loro Sae seabed. I trust they will fetch a good price on the black market."

She looked to the priest. "I have to say, your preparations for the general strike sound impressive. Tell me, how are your connections with the guerrillas? Will they back you, or work against you on this?"

(OOC: Knootoss, check TGs. We like infiltrator, let's determine parameters.)

Colombia is full of places that no one can get to unless a) they know such places exist; b) they know precisely how to get to them--including the avoidance of abundant natural and man-made hazards impeding access; and c) the occupants of those places are welcoming, or at least non-hostile, to the traveller.

In such a place, then, Juan the Bellmaker relaxed by his swimming pool. He was aging--streaks of grey showed in the adundant mane of black hair, and his beard was almost entirely grey--but he was still wiry and fit for his age, with the same combination of shrewness and insouciance that had carried him to his first success as the world's foremost producer of exquisitely high-quality cannabis products.

In his heyday, not even the cocaine cartels had attempted to cut in on the Bellmaker's business. He despised cocaine, in any case, reserving the passionate love of a single-minded artist to the quest for the most perfect pot ever grown. The Bellmaker's product had been the lodestone for connoisseurs, the standard against which all other luxury cannabis was measured. The comparatively tiny output had kept the price at a premium prohibitive to all but the most affluent aficionados, and his years of steady and reliable output had made him rich beyond the dreams of avarice.

It had all changed, when the Imperialist occupation had driven the small, independent producers out of business, either hegemonizing them into factory farming operations or methodically depriving them of markets, labor, and land. Knootian-subsidized, heavily marketed commercial-grade operations had taken their places. Less publicized, but more ruthless efforts had been made to displace important independent local operators like Juan. In such efforts, Chimaean "anti-drug" forces had been given free rein.

For three years, it had been a running battle; a battle the Bellmaker had finally conceded only temporarily, abandoning all of his known operations and, apparently, vanishing from the face of the earth under the firepower of a military "investigation" of his last stronghold.

He had been presumed dead, by those ignorant of the Bellmaker's endless ingenuity, resourcefulness, and determination.

The Bellmaker's financial resources, untraceably hidded in dozens of physical and virtual mazes of banking and less official channels, had never been found, but everyone knew they must have been immense.

Now, in such places as this--nonexistent to the uninformed, impenetrable to all but the most determined, elaborately-equipped military operations--the Bellmaker's network was re-emerging.

He was still the same genial combination of easygoing outlook and ruthless efficiency, but now it was overlaid by an implacable hatred of the imperialists who had deprived him and 'his people' of their livelihood and independance. Although it had been Chimaean military "anti-drug" forces that had carried out active eradication operations, he hated the Knootians even worse, if that was possible, for what he regarded as their "crass, mass-market commercialization" of what should have been a loving art form. He felt about them much the way a Lafitte Rothschild must feel about the producers of wine sold in cardboard boxes.

He would bring them down, if he could. But he was a patient man, and he had a deep appreciation of the virtues of unobtrusiveness. No public crusades, for him. He knew full well he would be an unsympathetic figure, at best, to the larger world. No, better to let ardent young revolutionary idealists carry the public banner. Juan the Bellmaker would be the behind-the-scenes logistics and supply resource, the grey eminence of advice and connections--for his connections, from years of supplying some of the world's most wealthy and powerful connoisseurs, were many--and he would see El Movimiente to its conclusion: A Colombia free of foreign interference, where he and others like him could resume the time-honored independent traditions on their own terms.

Squinting out from under the shading camoflage that so cleverly combined beauty with function, he noted that it was getting late in the afternoon. Time for Vespers. Late in life, Juan had become a most ardent Catholic.

He rose from the chaise longue, and made his way in to change. It would not do, to attend chapel in tropical-print swim trunks.

They all gasped, at the sight of the pearls. "Madre de Dios," Father Gonzales murmured almost reverently. They all thanked Sister Clara profusely. Carlos gave the pearls to Quinto. "See that they are taken through foreign channels. With this, we can put some real money into our overseas public relations operations."

He nodded to Clara. "We already have sympathetic interest in the Colombian occupation from a number of entirely legitimate human rights and international development organizations located throughout the world, both in younger anti-Imperialist nations like Tanah Burung, and in the more developed nations--not to mention those whose own economic and political opportunism would be well-served by the failure of the Knootian and Siskeyian imperialists, here. Money will allow us to fund discreetly, through 'grants' and 'donations,' the closer attention of the world media and human rights communities to what is happening here."

"As to the guerillas," his smile changed from ingenuously sincere to something overlaid with a slightly cynical enjoyment, "you might think of them as our 'stalking horse.' They serve a number of functions--they siphon off the more dangerous hotheads and violence-prone fools and give them a useful outlet for their energies; they provide the occupiers with a nice, juicy project to make them think they are making headway in "controlling" the resistance; and we give them code names and operational language that is just similar enough to our own that it provides a useful cover for us."

He laughed. "Their leader, for instance, is named 'Carlos.' He has a comparatively high profile, and should any references to a 'Carlos' be uncovered by the occupation intelligence, they will not unnaturally assume it to be the guerilla 'Carlos.'"

"Only a very, very, few key operatives in the guerilla organization are aware of the existence of El Movimiente. Their purpose as a distraction, something to siphon off the violence-prone and enable the occupiers to pull their fangs against the day when we have our freedom back, remains carefully hidden."

"The General Strike must seem a spontaneous, loosely organized action reflecting the very real, widespread discontent of the people being turned into corporate serfs. Of course, the occupation will suspect some kind of organizing hand, but we have othe distractions to occupy them in their search for answers there. El Movimiente will not be allowed to surface as an organization until the guerillas are at the height of their action plan. We will then look to a sympathetically-inclined world like what we are-- a non-violent, rational, indigineous alternative to the occupation AND the violent guerilla action."

"And yes, before you can ask," Juanita broke in, seeing the questions forming on Sister Clara's face, "we do have plans for dealing effectively with whatever remnant of the guerilla organization is left after they and the occupiers have torn one another's throats out." Juanita's smile had a touch of feral appreciation in it that might have made the others nervous, were they not all good friends.

Carlos nodded. "If you can, Sister Clara, try to sound the Friends of Rumbiak about our plans, and see if they will be sympathetic in helping us build up a public relations effort in Tanah Burung."

They were all growing restive; they had been in one place too long as it was.

"You can continue to use the current contact until the end of next week. After that, someone will contact you to arrange another channel. The emergency contacts remain valid."

Like smoke, then, they all melted into the night along the canalside. Within minutes, none of them had ever been anywhere near the district. And they could all prove it, if needed.

(HVS, telegrammed you some info.)

Clara nodded as things were explained to her. "The Friends of Rumbiak lack discipline. I can however promise you that there are people in Tanah Burung who will carry your message with sympathy. The government of Tanah Burung has already agreed to act as a voice for the Colombian independence movement at the UN Mediation Council, although everyone is well aware that the movement does not speak with a single voice. And there are many reliable human rights groups ready to work for international symapthy for your cause." As the group dispersed with admirable silence, she too moved into the darkness, her black garb mingling with the night.

"The Sub-commandante is a great man," Sebastian said, eagerly lapping up the liquid despite what he knew about its bad effects on human health. "He leads brilliantly. But i never saw his face."

The interrogator allowed to Tanah Burung citizen to drink more. “So… how did you end up in this country?” he asked with a pseudo-friendly voice.


-------------------------------
Santiago del Cristobal
Mountains near Medellin
-------------------------------

Benignus de los Gosepa made his way on the rocky path on to the rural Catholic church in Santiago del Cristobal. The road was long, and it was a hot afternoon. He was also tired. The 25-year old had come all the way from the capital Bogota to visit this distant church and meet up with the local people of El Movimiento.

Benignus was sweating, with small drops of water covering his slightly greyish skin. As a poor city boy he was used to hard work but not to these appallingly long walks from the distant place where the bus had stopped. He saw a particularly tall tree and decided that it would be the place for him to rest. The Colombian nestled himself in the shadow of the tree and closed his eyes. This place contrasted heavily with Bogotá, huge and grey and filled with Chimaeans, Knootians and other westerners. Along this part of the road, there were no people at all.

With his eyes closed and the shadow cooling him down, images began to scroll by before his eyes like a movie-screen. He recalled Mr. Weerman, sitting behind his desk in that small building in Bogota. Weerman had been the one to recruit him for the service. To spy on his own contrymen or, as Weerman put it “to protect your countrymen against those who ruined Colombia.” The memory of the cold chill of the air-conditioning almost made him shiver.

“Why do I do this?”, he asked himself. In a moment he would have to go and lie to his countrymen. To priests no less!

But as he kept his eyes close the images changed back to those very familiar to him. That those who sought to ‘liberate’ Colombia had been the ones who had killed his mother and his father. He had never known who had done that. Government death squads or FARC rebels, the difference was small. He recalled what he had been told by the Knootians all too well: that the people trying to help Colombia would be the ones to bring it into chaos. Benignus forced his eyes open and noticed that his fists were clenched together. “that it why I am doing this.”, he thought, “to prevent it from happening. To get those bastards.”

He wasn’t the one being manipulated – he was the manipulator, he believed The Knootians would be the ones to give the punishment that he could never give those who had killed his parents. They would pay – they would all pay dearly.

The Colombian decided that this was the end of the break. He quickly said a small prayer and got up, hurrying on to the small Rural church.

---

Finally, he had arrived. Benignus let out a small sigh as he knocked on the door of the church of Santiago del Cristobal.

UN mediation council visit preparations

Colombians were hard at work in a poor neighbourhood of Bogotá: painters were painting walls and small houses, and electricians were laying down power lines while a small group of women stood and watched. (All the while exchanging the latest gossip.)

The neighbourhood has been selected for the International Mediation Council visit, and a bit of work on the appearance of the area was being hurriedly done by hastily contracted Colombians. The paint would by dry by the time the delegation arrived; the electricity would be finished a day before that.

---

The sound of a helicopter overhead roared over the sounds of birds and animals in the jungle as the huge black monster patrolled over some of the more distant parts of the divided country.

---

In the Knootian mission, diplomat Gerard Vermeer was practicing his Spanish pronunciation behind his computer. The female digital voice of the linguistic programme patiently repeated “I deeply care about what happens to these wonderful people.” in Spanish over and over again as the diplomat slowly tried to repeat it. He had received strict instructions from his superiors to ‘blend in’ with the ordinary Colombians during the visit and that included learning to use the language well.

The StarLight Club, North Bogota, 9:55 PM

The Starlight Club had been a remenant of the Colombian government; a hang-out for the corrupt officials which made up the ranks of inefficient bureaucracy which had passed for government.

After the peacekeeping operations had turned into a nation-building operation, the Chimaean forces had converted the decript old building into an unofficial exclusive Chimaean club, furnished by imports from Chimaea, serving Chimaean drinks and food, playing Chimaean music and smoking, in the smoking rooms, Chimaean cigars. It was where the military and civilian higher-ups met to stave off homesickness and talk shop.

Very few Colombians ever saw the inside of the Club, apart from the ones Chimaea had appointed to positions of authority, or guests of the members. Though unofficial, security was tight.

Brigadier Worset walked up the broad steps of the renovated Spanish facade of the building and nodded to the two soldiers, who held their salute until he stepped through the ornate double-doors. Inside, even by day, all natural sunlight had been blocked off in favour of carefully controlled hidden light sources. The carpet was red and deep, the cielings were decorated and guilded, the walls were panelled with dark oak and mahogany. Worset smiled at the attractive young receptionist who smiled back and handed him a security pass, which he put in his pocket before heading through the inner door into the main bar area. He scanned the room until he saw the group of Chimaean military officers who were at a round table in a shadowy corner. He stepped his way between the tables and took a seat, greeting each officer in turn. The strict observations of rank was waived in the Club by mutual, unspoken agreement.

A smartly-dressed waiter took the group's drinks order and returned with a tray which contained a number of small shot glasses containing a clear liquid, with a tablet of concentrated lemon extract placed in a little holder beside each glass. Each officer took a glass and a tablet, then, exchanging looks, put the tablet into the liquid.

The liquid immediately turned an angry yellowish red and started spitting bubbles. Each officer grabbed his glass and tipped his head back and swallowed the contents whole.

Worset winced as the strong alcohol and the concentrated lemon gave him a momentary high. It tasted absolutely foul, like drinking battery acid, which Worset had been told was the point to it. He didn't see this as a good point, but partook of the ritual as a gesture of togetherness.

The waiter came back and placed a cigar and brandy in front of each officer. Worset sipped the brandy, though he didn't touch the cigar. He had no idea why it was put there in front of him every single time, and he'd given up a long time ago trying to have it stopped. It wasn't as if he smoked.

Some of the officers had lit up though, puffing scented smoke into the air. The cigars were the best Chimaea had to offer. Everything in the Starlight Club was the best Chimaea had to offer.

One of the officers nodded to him. "How goes the drug-hunting, Brigadier?" she asked.

Worset shrugged. "As well as it could go I suppose. Because of these damned IMC vists, we've had to curtail some of the riskier operations and divert resources to preparations. I hope it's bloody worth it."

Another officer shrugged. "Bryce knows what she's doing."

A high-ranking officer leaned forwards suddenly. "I've got some bad news."

There was a succession of groans from around the table. The officer shrugged his broad shoulders. "Sorry. General Garrison is coming here ahead of the IMC visit to make a formal inspection and so forth."

There was a dead silence, then worset wearily rubbed his forehead. "This gets worse day by day. I thought General Garrison was going to retire, anyway."

"He was! But the Street Island thing came up and Lady Bryce kept him on for a while."

"Jesus. Well, if he's coming here, we might as well pack up and leave."

There were a few wry laughs around the table, and Worset took a deep gulp of his brandy. The liquid coursed through his throat like fire. "Look," he said after a while, "Here's the deal. We keep the IMC off all military property. That means every installation, barracks, everything. We take them through some select civilian prisons. We'll guide them through our housing schemes, our schools, as much of Bogota as we'd like them to see. They'd never understand exactly how much we've accomplished; the presense of a single slum would tell them that we're evil tyannical oppressors--nicely not realising that there were fifty other slums we've managed to clean up and resettle. We show them what they expect to see. Then it's shaking hands, cucumber sandwiches and a swift kick up the ass in the direction of where they came from."

There were nods and raising of glasses from around the table. One of the officers spoke up, "I'll organise some low-level military and police activity while they're here. Round up the usual suspects, make it bloodless and effortless."

There was a small silence following this as each officer thought of the real fight against the cartels--the decapitated soldiers impaled through branches of trees, the body bags lining the morgues, the lengths they had to go to fight in a nation without rules. As one they raised their glasses to their lips and drank.

Worset was the first to speak. "Do what you have to do. Tomorrow, I'm going to speak with our rogue Administrator and tell him not to spit in the IMC's face."

This time the laughter was strained and a little over-loud as they surfaced from whatever scenes played in their heads.

Worset stood up, a little unsteadily. "Thank you, anyway. I've got to sleep this off. Have a goodnight."

As he stepped out into the warm night air, he wondered just how he was going to handle security for both the General and the IMC. Glaring at the distant Bogota skyline, he wondered who else was plotting tonight.

"Convictions are more dangerous enemies of truth than lies."—Friedrich Nietzsche

This has been an official tag by the Five Civilized Nations.

The interrogator allowed to Tanah Burung citizen to drink more. “So… how did you end up in this country?” he asked with a pseudo-friendly voice.

Sebastian was very much afraid it would earn him another punch in the face from the interrogator's hand (which while it might have been invisible, was all too tangible). But he couldn't resist the urge to sass the interrogator. It must have been the Youthful, Rebellious-within-approved-norms vibe of the Pink Bunny Cola. With attitude!

"Well," he said."They always tell us to see the world. So, me and some buddies decided to work our way around the world on a deep-sea fishing boat. Oh, you should have seen the sunsets! Then we came ashore in beautiful Colombia and unloaded our... uh, souvenir bottles of maple syrup to give to the locals. They were so friendly. But i have to tell you," he added, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "the standard of hospitality seems to have declined a bit recently."

---

Back home, there had been an extensive debate over who to send along on the Mediation Council visit. Mari Alkatiri, in charge of foreign relations, had been against the fact-finding visit from the start, preferring to go straight to mediation. Violeta Bi Bere, the representative to the IMC and this the obvious choice, was in the doghouse for agreeing to the visit. And many felt that her unfortunate habit of addressing officials of other governments with endearments like "dear heart" and "sweetness" might not go over too well with the somewhat thin-skinned officials in control of Colombia.

Nor, given the fact that at least one Tanah Burung citizen was being held under arbitrary detention, were many high-ranking diplomats terribly keen to make the trip. Much better to issue stern denunciations from what seemed to be a safe distance.

In the end, the choice fell on Dominic de Groot, a young priest fluent in Spanish and Dutch, the grandson of a Knootian plantation owner from the colonial days and his native "maid." It was hoped that this ancestry, along with the priest's dog colar, would be enough to keep him out of jail. If not, there were plenty more priests where he came from.

David Davinci residence

David Davinci (http://www.nationstates.net/forum/viewtopic.php?p=3173339#3173339) walked with a regular step into the entrance hall of his residence in the very heart of the new Knootcap. With marble flooring and high painted windows it was a splendid apartment adorned with lavishly-framed paintings, far away from the industrial areas or the noisy highways. He went at once to the dining-room, the nine windows of which looked out upon a tasteful garden, where the trees were slowly beginning to blossom again; and took his place at the Oakwood family table. His solitary dinner was served in silence by a butler

Half an hour later several visitors came in and drew up to the fireplace, where a fire was steadily burning. They were Davids usual partners at bridge: Klara Stuart, a corporate executive and colleague of David; Lodewijck Maas and Ignaas Maerland, both successful stockbrokers; and Gauthier Laarbeek, one of the Directors of the Knootian Central Bank-- all were rich and highly respectable personages, and all sympathised strongly with the Order of the Invisible hand. They exchanged information, as always, on a confidential basis as was the unspoken arrangement.

“How are the KIST preparations going?”, inquired Lodewijck Maas, “I understand the Elvish nations are in? But how about Haven?”

Gauthier Laarbeek laid down his card, and spoke as the turn passed: “The Elves are not yet in for certain. Aelosia and Menelmacar may have given us certain pledges, but Taurenor is still doubting. From haven I have heard of Haven there are some positive words, but again the diplomatic corps has not yet been able to sufficiently approach all nations.”

“I do not suspect the diplomatic corps to have the same… haste… that we might want them to have,” said Klara Stuart as she took a card, “worried as they are about maintaining good relations.”

“From what I know,” Director Laarbeek said with a small pause, “the treaty is to be broadened by including Fair trade as a separate level of participation. The mentioning of fair trade was met with expressions of disapproval. “… to get more partners on board”, he continued, “the Vaadians for example; and surely it will make a better impression on the International Community.”

“But how about Colombia and our other protectorates? They may wish to apply for such a status as well outside the current agreement? With the recent unrest and all,” inquired the other stockbroker with some worry. Director Laarbeek glanced at Maerland with some unease and David quickly intervened.

“Please, friends, let us not speak only of such business-minded items during our game”; he suggested, “Instead, what does this esteemed company hold of the recent discussion on these ‘worlds’, (http://www.nationstates.net/forum/viewtopic.php?t=144715&highlight=) this notion that there is a first world, a second world and a third world?” He looked around invitingly, and as usual Laarbeek was first to give opinion on the matter.

“I must say that I am somewhat confused by it,” he articulated, “But indeed I think that the present-day world is composed of three different parts in terms of types of civilization. That of Market civilization - our own part. This is to be seen broadly, really, from the Elvish empires in Tareldanore to the humans in Greater Prussia and most of Haven. In the second part live peoples advanced enough in some respects, but ones which either stagnated or had not been able to constitute themselves as stable Market nations, following a regular development.... Colombia, before our intervention, or Tanah Burung, represent particularly this second type. Interestingly enough, Zvarinograd seems to be heading in the direction of becoming an example of failure in such a state.”

The others nodded, and Maerland wanted to say something but the Director did not want to be interrupted.

“Finally, a great part of the world is inhabited by barbarian regimes of savages, some given over to wars without end, and others knowing so little of the arts and being so little accustomed to work and to invention that they do not know how to exploit their land and its natural riches. They spent their time churning out military goods while their people live impoverished and oppressed, in enormous territories which could nourish vast numbers of people with ease under proper guidance.”

“In my opinion,” suggested Lodewijk Maas, “this state of the world implies for the Market societies a right of intervention ... in the affairs of the societies of the last two categories. After all, it is impossible not to consider advancing the Market as one of the tasks that has imposed on the civilized states for the last two centuries, but more particularly in our own age.”

“A war to open up Markets”, said David languidly, “a not uncontroversial part of Order Doctrine.”

This only encouraged Maas to continue. “We Knootians accumulate the marvels of science, the arts and civilization, and at the same time we see the rate of interest fall more each month for lack of good investment opportunities, and can only outsource to a fairly limited number of nations when half the world is left to groups of ignorant, ineffectual men who are like feeble children . . . or to exhausted and inactive populations, without energy, without direction, who may be compared to old men . . .”

“Advancing the Market is often confused with commerce...” countered the Director, “it is not just the sale or purchase of commodities. It entails a profound action on a people and a territory, providing the inhabitants with some education and regular justice, teaching them the division of labour and the uses of capital when they are ignorant of these things. Look at Knootian Colombia.”

“And is it not a success?”, said Maas as he laid down his cards. “I agree… advancing the Market is a systematic action of an organized people upon another people whose organization is defective and who have not embraced the Market,” he concluded as if he was quoting a textbook. And he probably was.

The other bridge players listened with interest to the developing discussion. Gauthier Laarbeek was not out of arguments yet: “Ironically, this presupposes that action is taken by the State, and not only by Market forces.”

“Advancing the Market by just capital should not be underestimated”, he continued, “investment of capital in general, and not only by bankers, but by every person putting aside a little money, a modest employee, a worker, or a widow - can work effectively at this. It is the exploitation of the globe, without ever leaving this fireside... “ His voice was calm as he pointed his hand indicatively at the fire that was comfortably warming them. “All they need do is place their savings in a corporation which constructs railroads, digs canals, erects factories, clears the land in the young countries. Countries like Knootoss are enormous producers of capital, and without Ale-Yarok or Knootian Colombia the difficulties in reinvesting all that capital in our own land would be huge.

Maas agreed as he did not feel his point as invalidated “The export of a part of these funds across the seas to the second-class countries, is much more productive for the entire planet. The same capital which will produce 3 or 4 per cent when invested in recreational drugs production here brings 10, 15, or 20 percent when invested in Colombia. Surely a little… push… by the state would serve us well. Look at Tanah Burung.”

“What about it?”, asked Klara Stuart.

“Well,”, replied Maas, “It is a prime example of a state that c/ould use a little push. We already have ties to their people; we know the place, so to speak. And they could profit so much if their Markets were opened up to the world. I know what I would invest in,” he said with a smile. “Coffee.”

“But for now,” the Director concluded, “It is your turn to play.”

Sebastian was very much afraid it would earn him another punch in the face from the interrogator's hand (which while it might have been invisible, was all too tangible). But he couldn't resist the urge to sass the interrogator. It must have been the Youthful, Rebellious-within-approved-norms vibe of the Pink Bunny Cola. With attitude!

"Well," he said."They always tell us to see the world. So, me and some buddies decided to work our way around the world on a deep-sea fishing boat. Oh, you should have seen the sunsets! Then we came ashore in beautiful Colombia and unloaded our... uh, souvenir bottles of maple syrup to give to the locals. They were so friendly. But i have to tell you," he added, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "the standard of hospitality seems to have declined a bit recently."

The hand of the interrogator smacked Sebastian in the face again. He obviously hadn’t had a lot of Pink Bunny Cola himself because the youthful vibe had obviously not been conveyed to him.

“Enough for today”, he boomed. “Back to the cells. I will see you again in the morning.”

And with that, he left.

http://www.bogota-dc.com/trans/images/el_dorado.jpg

--------------------------------------------------
Aeropuerto El Dorado
15 km northwest of Bogotá
--------------------------------------------------

“Flight GMC-203 you are cleared for landing”

The airplane carrying the International Mediation Court delegation skirted along the sides of the runway as it landed on the runway of El Dorado airport. It had been a long intercontinental trip from GMC to South America, and no doubt the important passengers it carried were glad that it was over.

The sun was shining brightly, and there was a delegation of Knootians, Chimaeans and Colombians awaiting the international representatives near the exit of the plane. First among those Knootians was Metusen, the Knootian in charge of the mission of the DDR in the dependency. A small group of security forces had gathered around the plane.

((OOC: please post the arrival of your character – coming out of the plane or something, by way of checking in.;) I think it would be best if security arrangements for the occasion are Chimaean :) ))

(ooc: Hey, Knoot! Check your TGs! :P

Also, sorry to be nitpicker but I just couldn't resist it as a Spanish-speaking argentinian: You refer to the rebellion movement as "El Movimiente" while the right spanish word for "movement", if that's what you mean, it's "Movimiento", with an "O". Also, don't trust babelfish is my first advice: It sucks! :P )

IC:
The rebellious and anarchistic ambassadoress Gia Grassfun stepped out of the plane with almost arrogance. The duque had appointed her as UN ambassador only to make a personal favour to the father, one of his best friends. But in fact, he considered Gia to be very impetuous and rebellious and that, perhaps, was not the best thing to have in a time Knootian-Hell Bovinian relations seemed to be weakening. (IC, not OOC :wink: ) This impetu was specially shown when she refused to send a delegate to this inspection and, instead, go herself in person.
And here she was. Gia stepped out of the plane, her strip of head hair dyied in purple and her balck eyes scanning at the sunny and forested landscape. *Ah! A fellow spanish-speaking country and as rain-forested as my homeland. I almost feel at home.*, she thought to herself.
She looked with dislike at the "opressive viceroys and their lackeys" as she descended torwards the airport stairs....

The Nachxa leaves the transport closely followed by two of his advisors. He looks dignified, his long white hair standing out against his tanned skin. His dark blue suit is embroidered with even darker blue Tolteca glyphs, mainly of double headed serpents. He strides confidently down the steps to meet the delegation, carrying his cane more than using it a neutral look on his face, his inscrutable eyes hidden by impossibly dark wrap around glasses.

He warmly greets Metusen "So pleased to meet you. I am so looking forward to seeing this country and speaking with it's peoples. Thank you for your generosity and hospitality."

For the lackeys of the oppressive viceroys, things were going as smoothly as possible. With snipers at good positions along the airport, plain-clothes military police and a fair amount of well-armed Chimaean soldiers scanning the small crowd and surroundings, the airport had been easy to lock down.

As Worset watched Administrator Caton Gregorio being polite and friendly to the IMC delegation, he wished the same could have been said of the rest of Colombia. He glanced up into the sky, knowing that somewhere there were several helicopters waiting for the convoy of cars to start travelling from the airport. With the midnight arrival of General Garrison into the already dangerous mix, security had been a nightmare--one which, as usual, he had to organise.

He was half glad and half annoyed that Violeta Bi Bere, Tannah Burung's usual diplomat of choice, hadn't been selected to go on the mission. While her choice of phrasing would have driven the military representatives up the wall, she was a known entity to the diplomatic corp. The pious-looking priest who had descended from the plane could possibly upset things.

He watched as the stern-looking Gia Grassfun followed from the plane and blanched inside. He considered himself lucky he didn't have to be talking to these people. The formal, white-haired looking official from Ilek-Vaad was more the usual sort of diplomat, though diplomats couldn't be trusted to fit into a steretype even though they might portray one. Well, so long as this bunch didn't get their asses shot off, Worset would be a happy man.

---------------------------

Administrator Gregorio shook hands with each of the officials, murmuring a polite word to them in greeting. Worset had spent a weary hour or so talking him down from giving them a piece of his mind, and he had eventually given his word. He smiled to himself, remembering the officer's worried eyes. Gregorio knew he was prone to outbursts of... honesty, which Worset had in turn to clean up the effects of.

He didn't like siding with the Knootian officials much, after the protest and what followed, but he supposed that it really was the lesser of two evils.

Beside him, General Garrison was being polite too, though in a more strained manner. He felt decidedly uncomfortable standing besides a man who was a living legend in his own time, and with a reputation that bordered on the mythical. When Gregorio had greeted him, he was reserved but polite, his steel-grey eyes, which were currently covered with sunglasses, going right through Gregorio. He was possibly the second most-powerful man in the Commonwealth.

Putting the General out of his mind, he smiled warmly at the IMC delegation, hoping it didn't look as insincere as he felt.

Padre Chiam Pacal was a tiny, very brown-skinned man with Indian features and snowy-white hair. He was methodically sweeping the Church, something he had to do every other day, to keep the grit that the nearby mining operation spewed into the air from collecting and crunching underfoot with every step.

As he passed the rather crude statue of St. Joseph, he unobtrusively lifted the glass votive holder in front of it and quickly checked. Nothing. Good. El Movimiente—so called to distinguish it from the operations of the other (and better-known) ‘revolutionary’ group El Movimiento—had no need of a courier today. Just as well, really, since Juan Setubal had taken his burro down the mountainside to Santa Rosita to help his daughter bring her beans to the central depot. And that good-for-nothing Martin had disappeared at sunrise, probably to go and hang out at the cantina by the mine and hope for a glimpse of some of the girls.

Quietly, he continued sweeping, the orangey-red grit piling up behind his broom. They had taken off the whole side of the mountain, and their pulverizers worked round the clock, spewing clouds of this stuff into the air and shaking the heavier grains that contained precious metal down into the pans for the chemical baths. Virtually everyone in the district now worked at the mine—whether they wanted to or not, some said—and some terrible cases of lung disease were starting to turn up. Father Pacal believed this dust had much to do with it.

But no one listened. All they wanted was money! The little cash pittances that the mine supervisors handed out each month, after deducting the costs of the miners’ tools and their dormitory rent (most of them stayed in the dormitory camps six days a week, returning to their homes only on Saturday night,) and their meals, and a dozen other “fees” and “assessments.” Not to mention the debt payments—there was easy credit from the mine operators, and it was disheartening how many of the workers ended up with no payment at all, but only a slip telling them their debt had been reduced by a meager amount. Often the interest cancelled out most of that, too.

A few—a very few—managed to save some of the tiny allotments. But most of the ones who received any cash spent them at the cantina, run by the same greedy devils who ran the mine. They saw to it that liquor in abundance, and gambling, and women, and every kind of vice—not to mention cheap imported trinkets and that foul beverage “Pink Bunny Cola” were available to entice the coins back out of the miners’ pockets.

The little farms on the mountainside—those that were left, after half of it was carved away by the huge machines, were being reclaimed by jungle and blanketed with this filthy dust. No one ate his own produce anymore, except a few of the women who doggedly kept gardens going, potatoes and peppers and beans. No one wove anymore. Many of the alpacas had died, most of the rest had been sold. There was no place left for them to browse and pasture, since the area around the mines had been bulldozed to build the acres of dormitory shacks and other facilities.

The boys who had traditionally been the herd guardians were all at the mines now, those who could pass for old enough to work. The younger ones spent every moment they were not in school (and many skipped school regularly these days, with parents both off at the mine) cadging odd jobs around the cantina, running errands, fetching and carrying, even pimping unofficially for older female relatives. The cantina staff occasionally, and not very enthusiastically, ran them off, but they always returned.

Occasionally Padre Pacal went up to drive them back to their homes and schools--that worked for a couple of days. But the lure of coins--coins that could be spent on cola and candy and dirty pictures and caps with indecent sayings printed on them--these were as strong or stronger than the thought of a distant Divine grief over their sins.

As he reached the altar, Padre Pacal paused in his sweeping, to genuflect, and say a quick “Hail Mary.” In the silence of the Church, the knock was very loud.

Startled, he dropped his broom handle with a clatter. Who came to the Church on a weekday in the middle of the day, any more? The morning Mass—a few of the oldsters still attended, and a couple of mothers with small babies—but they were long gone.

Frowning a little, he made his way down the aisle and eased the door open a crack, cautiously. “Yes?”

A moonless night, off the coast of the Knootian-occupied Colombia. Silently, a deep sea fishing boat approaches a remote beach. Ashore, a few young men -- boys, really -- emerge from the dense jungle. Hoot, hoot. They imitate the sound of a baby owl calling out for food.

A small boat leaves the fishing vessel and approaches the beach. Two fishermen silently pull it ashore and begin to unload crates labelled "maple syrup." Several times they make the journey, unloading crate after crate.

"Syrup for the Markus Rumbiak Brigade," says one fisherman who has stayed ashore. He speaks Tetemelayu, the national language of Tanah Burung.

"Yeah, syrup." A boy receiving the crates giggles. "Syrup to aid the revolution. Merdeka or muerte, eh?" He too is speaking Tetemelayu. His brown Malay skin gives away the fact that he too is not Colombian.

The fisherman rolls his eyes. No discipline, these lads. Better get under way quickly, for all i know they were followed. He scrambles back into the boat to return to the fishing ship, with a parting "Viva Rumbiak. Viva independence."

The boys gather around the crates and crack them open. They lift out the contents. Rifles. Just what they had ordered. Rifles far better than anything made in Tanah Burung: these were the good stuff.

One boy takes aim at a nearby treetop and squeezes the trigger. Target practice.

Quietly, he continued sweeping, the orangey-red grit piling up behind his broom. They had taken off the whole side of the mountain, and their pulverizers worked round the clock, spewing clouds of this stuff into the air and shaking the heavier grains that contained precious metal down into the pans for the chemical baths. Virtually everyone in the district now worked at the mine—whether they wanted to or not, some said—and some terrible cases of lung disease were starting to turn up. Father Pacal believed this dust had much to do with it.

OOC: What in the... Knoot, HVS, check your telegrams >.<

A moonless night, off the coast of the Knootian-occupied Colombia

Silently, a deep sea fishing boat approaches a remote beach. Ashore, a few young men -- boys, really -- emerge from the dense jungle. Hoot, hoot. They imitate the sound of a baby owl calling out for food.

A small boat leaves the fishing vessel and approaches the beach. Two fishermen silently pull it ashore and begin to unload crates labelled "maple syrup." Several times they make the journey, unloading crate after crate.

"Syrup for the Markus Rumbiak Brigade," says one fisherman who has stayed ashore. He speaks Tetemelayu, the national language of Tanah Burung.

"Yeah, syrup." A boy receiving the crates giggles. "Syrup to aid the revolution. Merdeka or muerte, eh?" He too is speaking Tetemelayu. His brown Malay skin gives away the fact that he too is not Colombian.

The fisherman rolls his eyes. No discipline, these lads. Better get under way quickly, for all i know they were followed. He scrambles back into the boat to return to the fishing ship, with a parting "Viva Rumbiak. Viva independence."

The boys gather around the crates and crack them open. They lift out the contents. Rifles. Just what they had ordered. Rifles far better than anything made in Tanah Burung: these were the good stuff.

One boy takes aim at a nearby treetop and squeezes the trigger. Target practice.

The dry thud of the rifle being fired is followed by a bright pillar of light, an emerald green chemical flare lights up above the jungle treetops. Suddenly the dark and silent night is bathed in artificial light and high-speed rotors of a black machine coming out above other treetops.

The boys begin to run for cover in the jungle, but are followed by searchlights on the helicopters – they can’t determine how many but the sound of the rotors is in disunion- as three pods are fired rapidly. Coming down on the beach the pods open and a pink gas begins to spread quickly. The gas causes coughing, nausea and a sudden rush of hormones impairing the thought-patterns of the aspiring revolutionaries.

Men in dark-green uniforms wearing gasmasks grab everyone coming off the beaches. The others are rounded up as they still sit around their crates of "maple syrup" without resistance. It is over quickly, and as the Colombian sun greets the new day, silence returns to the jungle.

((As agreed with TB))

---

A grey dawn , the city of The Hague, Knootoss

“The operation was successful. As we suspected we have found weapons shipments, and arrested the Tanah Burung citizens assisting the Colombian insurgency. Rumbiak Brigade, as I’m sure they will soon confess.”

The voice of the Brigadeer-General over the video communication-screen was a bit garbled; but perhaps Galadriël was simply tired from being woken at dawn. The human in uniform on the other side of the screen definitely looked more exhausted from the all-nighter.

“The International Mediation Court visit?”, she inquired.

“Arriving this afternoon, Madam, the plane is already on its way,” the Knootian in Colombia replied. “Would you like to inform the IMC on this development?”

“They were the ones kicking up this entire row about Colombian independence in the first place. It changes everything. And if Tanah Burungs government is indeed actively or passively supporting this..:”, she left the thought unspoken, “…I desire to speak with Metusen in one hour. Please make sure he is available.”

“Yes Ma’am.”

The Elvish Prime Minister of the DDR nodded goodbye, and closed the connection.

“The time to Act is now,” she said to herself, “cabinet meeting this afternoon. Press conference after that. Then – parliament.” She geared herself up for what would be a long day.

A letter sent to the Brownspot family home in Hell Bovines



To: Mr. And Mrs. Brownspot,

It is with great pain that I am duty bound to inform you of the death of your daughter, Malvina Brownspot, on April 9th 20xx during demonstrations at the Regional Economic Summit in Knootian Colombia.

Malvina Brownspot passed away without any pain as a result of accidental overexposure to a non-lethal incapacitating gas while resisting arrest by local police authorities at the demonstration. The police officers involved sincerely regret this tragic accident, and offer you and other relatives and friends their condolences.

Malvina died at the young age of 19, when life could still have had so much for her. But she did pass on while fighting for those ideals that she felt were right.

We have obtained permission from the Bovine government to transfer the last remains of Malvina back to Hell Bovines and have chartered a plane for this purpose. We hope that further arrangements can be made for a proper funeral.

Both the Knootian and Colombian government sympathise with you in the difficult times that lie ahead.

Signed,

Metusen
Head of the Knootian mission in Colombia, in charge of police and security forces


((TG sent to HVS and Chimaea regarding progress in that area – hoping for Weegies and Lavenrunz to check in before I continue with the IMC business :P))

(OOC: Please note—due to an unfortunate confluence of travel plans and a bug-infested network being taken offline for some days, it is unlikely that the muns of the Holy Vatican See will be doing much posting for the next week. We apologize for the inconvenience; please feel free to move events along and we will try to catch up.)

(ooc: my own schedule means i won't be around much -- or possibly at all -- for the next 2 weeks. Another player will handle the Rumbiak Brigade in the meantime.... Anyways, slow RP is OK, right? :wink: )

On the beach, the young men scatter and try to escape as the Knootian security net closes in. The trap, though, is too efficient: none escape.

Back at base camp, deep in the jungle, their comrades are beginning to worry. "We need that maple syrup," said Joao Alomang, one of the fighters here as part of the Markus Rumbiak Brigade. "Dude, we need it bad." He entered the ramshackle hut and asked the large figure sitting there if there had been any transmission from the boys who had gone to the beach.

"Not a whisper," replied Jersey Ampleudder. "This doesn't look good."

---

Dominic de Groot followed the Nachxa off the airplane, making every effort to fade into the background. He wore a drab outfit, with his priest's collar the only indication of any status. The Nachxa was someone he respected immensely, and he planned to stick close, gaining experience and a little camoflage from the proximity.

He greeted the Chimaean officials quietly, speaking in a humble tone. And while they responded in a friendly enough fashion, he sensed that their hearts were not in it. As if they wished he wasn't there, or wanted to say something they weren't saying.

"Your hospitality honours us deeply," he said. "I am so happy to be here in Colombia. So happy, and so pleased that you have invited us." Reaching the tarmac, he bent down and kissed the ground.

OOC:
El Movimiente—so called to distinguish it from the operations of the other (and better-known) ‘revolutionary’ group El Movimiento—had no need of a courier today
lol.
*starts repeating to himself* "I will never nitpick anyone again", "I will never....." :P

IC:

A letter sent to the Brownspot family home in Hell Bovines



To: Mr. And Mrs. Brownspot,

It is with great pain that I am duty bound to inform you of the death of your daughter, Malvina Brownspot, on April 9th 20xx during demonstrations at the Regional Economic Summit in Knootian Colombia.

Malvina Brownspot passed away without any pain as a result of accidental overexposure to a non-lethal incapacitating gas while resisting arrest by local police authorities at the demonstration. The police officers involved sincerely regret this tragic accident, and offer you and other relatives and friends their condolences.

Malvina died at the young age of 19, when life could still have had so much for her. But she did pass on while fighting for those ideals that she felt were right.

We have obtained permission from the Bovine government to transfer the last remains of Malvina back to Hell Bovines and have chartered a plane for this purpose. We hope that further arrangements can be made for a proper funeral.

Both the Knootian and Colombian government sympathise with you in the difficult times that lie ahead.

Signed,

Metusen
Head of the Knootian mission in Colombia, in charge of police and security forces



-In a condominium in the city of Moo Moo Farm, Hell Bovines

Glenda and Benito Brownspot at first couldn't react. Glenda was holding the letter, shaking, a bit in shock. Her daughter Malvina, just about to enter university, had passed away. "That human bastards!", was the father's first reaction. A scream of anger and fury. The mother just stood there, trembling, crying. "Why her? Why? We shouldn't have let her travel over there!"
Jorge, a friend of the family stopping by, joined the couple in their crying.
The peon that had delivered the telegram decided to leave. As he hadn't read the message, he was expecting a tip, perhaps also a small joyful chat about the weather, but he would have never imagined the message he had delivered to be such a sad one. He left with a simple "I'm sorry about this", closed the door and left the griefing family alone.

-Offices of the tabloid "The Snooping Cow", Blackhooves' Barn City

The phone rang for a seventh time. Pedro Sugarush, the secretary left in charge of the office, had to rush out of the bathroom.
"Who would call on a lonely night at 3 am?", he wondered.
"Hello. The Snooping Cow here"
"Hello. I wanted to report a story that will interest you very much...."

A few hours later, Malvina's death would be in the newspaper's first page, causing a huge polemic, as all Snooping Cow's articles always tried to do....

Baroness Bennigsen smiled as she glanced out the window. What a lovely tropical country! Ideally not full of nasty muslim extremists like Lavenrunzian Surya, which was giving the Empire such a headache. She pictured it being picturesque, green mountains, campesinos leading burros and charming dark eyed youths serving her tropical drinks.

Major Wolfmar, a hard eyed young man, his class A green dress uniform somehow belied by his reserved manner and air of potential danger, had been appointed her military secretary. She thought he had nice manners but was clearly on another mission. She didn't want to know what it was; she wanted to carry out the diplomacy with flare and obedience to her instructions and have a nice time.

"Baroness," the deferential chief steward of the plane said, bowing to her, "The plane is preparing to land. Our escorts have received permission." he glanced discreetly at her seatbelt, which she put on.
"Thank you." she murmured.
The pilot was very good--but then she was an Imperial Air Force major, so she ought to be--and the Baroness was just getting engrossed by the Lonely Planet guide to Columbia--apparently there was a drug problem or something--when she was told that they had landed. Such an engrossing book...
The Baroness, elegant, dark haired, a smiling mouth, light blue eyes and an air of grandeur, wearing a light tropical white suit jacket and skirt, rose, nodding as she was bowed to by her staff and the stewards, and went to descend the steps. The Lavenrunzian Ambassador to the Mediation Council had arrived.

Santiago del Cristobal
Benignus de los Gosepa peered from the outside of the the church door, his face being something of a shadow as the light was in his back. “Good afternoon, Padre”, he said timidly , “I am Benignus and I am here now… perhaps you have received my letter? My friend Sebastian carried it to you several weeks ago. I am from the Bogotá group.”

He said it with a meaningful look, hoping that this was the right padre, if it even was the right church! His handwritten letters –drawn up with the help of the Knootian intelligence presence in Colombia – had detailed his story about being part of an urban opposition group in Bogotá, and Benignus’ compassion with the plight of the peasants and his desire to help and (perhaps) coordinate action.

Truth and lies mixed here, as Benignus was part of that group of disgruntled teenagers. It had been his first undercover job, but since the youngsters did nothing but go to every demonstration around and put graffiti on government buildings the AIVD had felt the need to transfer him to an assignment that could really be dangerous. Benignus could be trusted, they felt, to blend in.

The story certainly seemed sincere enough, and since he had written it himself he knew it very well.

((Assuming a letter here – they would have been in touch a bit so he knows. :P))

A moonlit beach
After the goods had been packed onto the helicopter, the units took up their stealthy positions again, waiting for any Colombians foolish enough to come looking for their lost countrymen and their weapons.

“Why are we still here? We nailed em, right?”, whispered a private putting off his gasmask momentarily. A rather stern-looking officer replied. ”There might be more – we’ll remain on guard till morning and then they will pick us up.”

A quiet nod acknowledged the officer.

Aeropuerto El Dorado - IMC Delegation

The Knootians warmly welcomed the four delegates. Metusen, who had read up a little bit about the personalities of the delegates, exchanged a greeting in Dutch with Dominic de Groot, trying to test his affluence. The Knootians had considered it somewhat annoying that a member of the committee was able to speak their native tongue. It eliminated their possibility to speak freely. None of this was apparent in the greeting though. The ‘imperialist viceroy’ also shook a paw with Gia Grassfun while their ‘lackeys’ smiled politely. Metusen gave a respectful nod to The Nachxa as he strided towards him, and returned his warm words. As Baroness Bennigsen approached him, the entire Knootian delegation bowed as one. (Something that had been meticulously trained in the mission – not too deep so as not to look ridiculous, and not too light so as not to look disrespectful.)

When everyone had acquainted themselves with one another, Metusen raised his voice. “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, for attending today and I will gladly be your host for the duration of your visit in this country along with my Chimaean companions. I hope you will come to love this place as much as we do,” he said with a smile.

“I have prepared a small brunch for you in the Knootian mission in Bogotá, so you can rest from the long journey and perhaps replenish some of your energy. Unfortunately, I must inform you that there have been some important developments last night in the security situation here that could gravely impact the nature of this visit…” he paused and looked around to allow the words to be processed but did not elaborate . “I have taken the liberty of scheduling a briefing on this after the Brunch, so the schedule will move to the back a little bit because of this. My apologies for this.”

The Knootian elegantly swung his hand in the direction of the southeast, pointing at the capital city. “I would suggest we go to Bogotá now; the Chimaeans have arranged for a secure transport.”

((I Hope you don’t mind me moving your characters around a bit. If there are huge objections to me moving them around a bit to some place then let me know. I am only trying to hurry you though this visit without the delegates actually seeing anything ICly, not OOCly. ;) This is only to move the story on a bit :P If there is no protest then I would like to move on to the briefing *after* the brunch. (Which, you may assume, was nice and edible. Cucumber sandwiches, and something… I dunno… high-quality grass for Gia Grassfun.)

Also, I’m leaving room for a Weegies delegate to be presumed ‘there’ if he wants to join in still at a later time. If not, it’ll just be the four of you and us. ))

Baroness Bennigsen gave a smile that was almost like a benediction, and which also expressed her pleasure. "Thank you Mynheer Metusen, for that lovely welcome. Ah, Bogota...such a lovely sound to it, it casts a spell of tropical romance, verily! I cannot wait, I've heard so much about it," she added, lying blythely. With supreme confidence, she swept off to one of the cars, which she saw had a Lavenrunzian flag on the hood, and somehow her entourage caught up with her as a Chimaean security officer was holding open the door.
Ah, Chimaea, the Baroness thought, admiring the cut of uniform. Fine country. Must look up that nice Lord Bryce at some point...or is he the one who's dead?

Aeropuerto El Dorado

James Johnstone sat up in his chair, removing some papers from his face. "Aye, nothing like a good rest before doing some work." He rubbed his neck, twisting it so he could relieve the tension in his shoulders. "And that was nothing like a good rest." He rubbed his eyes slightly, and looked out at the plane.

"Aw, no." He turned about, no-one else was about. "Aw, no." He unbuckled his belt, and sprinted to the still-open door. He sighed as he noticed the delegation just leaving. He ran down the steps and tagged along to the end of the delegation, hoping that he hadn't attracted too much attention.

The Nachxa smiled as the delegation are all hurried along for for lunch, he turns to the priest from Tanah Burung that had quickly become his shadow, "You know, Father, when they feed you before showing you anything, they have something to hide."

He grinned and took his seat , and as he settled in for the ride he posed the question that he always posed to representatives of the Christian faith when he had the oppurtunity

" Father de Groot, why is it that Christians need the fear of hell and punishment in the after life to be kind to their neighbors and to do what is right? I find that I am often dismayed that Christian charities seem to focus more on conversion and gaining brownie points with the almighty rather than simply doing what is right because it is right? I have read many Christian moralists that decry atheism because without god , one cannot have right or wrong, that without god's teaching, and the fear of god's punishment that morals could not exist. Wouldn't it be more useful to teach men that the basis of morals should be out of concern for your fellow man instead of morals as a way to stave off gods pounishment?"

He chuckles before de Groot can even answer

"Why is that Christians decry the human sacrifice once practised by my people, when every sunday they worship the images of a man being horribly killed and tortured, and then ritually eat his flesh and drink his blood?"

He then sighs

"You see, when you give someone from Ilek-Vaad free time, they ask questions. I'm quite looking forward to lunch..............."

Aeropuerto El Dorado

Metusen turned his head worriedly as The Nachxa made his critical atheist remark. The Knootian governor was an atheist too; virtually everyone raised in the better echelons was and while the civil service preached tolerance and equality it certainly was not representative in this regard. All of his college professors had spoken with the same mild disdain for Christianity that The Nachxa displayed. ”But they also made it very clear that it is a non-topic for diplomatic missions.”, me thought to himself. ”Especially when in Colombia.” Having to consult regularly with the local Catholic church in ethical matters had annoyed him most of all; since it clearly was not as liberal as the Tanah Burung church.

In fact – Metusen had secretly been thinking of visiting Tanah Burung as a tourist, after the many tales he had heard about willing Catholic girls. (Avoiding the e-mail spam of certain ‘tourist organisations’ was difficult.) Not that his wife would ever have approved, of course.

((Interesting discussion as it is, I’ll just park it since TB will be gone, and I presume that it can be answered in fluidic time, k?))


Bogotá
The trip to the Knootian mission in the Colombian capital was fairly pleasant, if one liked to travel in black limousines with tainted windows that is.

The drivers of all the cars were all employees of the Knootian mission. Rather deliberately, the chauffeurs of Gia Grassfun, James Johnstone and Dominic de Groot were all native Knootians, so as to avoid any difficult questions from being asked. Baroness Bennigsen and the Nachxa had a local driver: the mission had not expected difficult questions from the Baroness and the Nachxa was the only one on the committee the mission fully trusted of being unbiased.

The asphalt on the highway into Bogotá was new and dark-black, and the drivers had all been instructed to point out that it had been constructed only 4 years ago with funding from Knootian institutions, and how glad the people of the capital city had been with this improved connection.

Bogotá itself looked like a typical major South American city. However the slums that had been in view on both sides of the highway had been removed and had made way for a self-reliant building project for homes. Many of these slum areas still existed around the Colombian capital, but these particular slums had been given priority for clearing with the eye on tourism. When driving by, the drivers were again eager to tell more about the progress of the project and how happy everyone was with it.

The Knootian Mission in the centre of Bogotá was a rather dull building, it was high and grey and had previously been used by the Colombian government as the ministry of social affairs. (Should anyone have asked.) The brunch was extensive, with a mix of Knootian, Chimaean and Colombian pleasantries. Foods were from the continent, and special dishes had been prepared for bovine tastes. All sorts of drinks were served by local personnel, who were all remarkably quiet. Metusen shared several moderately interesting anecdotes about Knootian/South American culture clashes and linguistic misunderstandings.

After the Brunch, the delegates were guided into a conference room with a table shaped like half a circle, with comfortable seats prepared for the IMC delegates and Metusen. Across the room was a projector screen. When everyone was seated, the Knootian apologised again for the delay and put out the lights. On the projector, the logo of the Colombian civil guard was displayed.

The Knootian spoke with an unenthusiastic voice. “This presentation was made with images from last night.” He pressed a button on a small device in his hands, and dark photo’s appeared on the screen that had been made from a helicopter. It featured a large piece of jungle and a strip of beach where tiny figures moved about.

”last night, the military conducted a successful raid against smugglers trying to get weapons into Colombia. Presumably, to arm rebel forces who are trying to overthrow the local government here by force. To FARC remnants, or perhaps to another group.” There was a new shot, much brighter this time, displaying an opened crate with weapons in them. The crate was labled ‘maple syrup.’. “We don’t know yet to which Colombian group the weapons were delivered. However, we do know who delivered the weapons.” He pressed the button again, and the picture appeared of a young man with the features of someone from Tanah Burung. His eyes looked dulled out and it seemed as if he could barely hold is head high. A careful observer would note that several small blue spots were visible on his neck.

Metusen stared at Dominic de Groot intently to measure his response. “We captured several members of what we believe is a group called the Rumbiak Brigades, from Tanah Burung. It appears that these Tanah Burung citizens were actively trying to aid the rebellion. That they were able to obtain such high-grade weapons would seem to indicate that they have support or backing of some kind.”, he let out a small sigh. This wasn’t a moment of pride for the administrator, but rather an embarrassing moment. “Needless to say, this worries my government greatly. The politicians back home are infuriated, and action is demanded. It also puts the IMC visit in an extremely bad light”, he emphasised, “considering that it was pushed for by, of all nations, Tanah Burung just after the election of a new peoples representative for foreign affairs.”

His voice was now confiding, not accusing, “If anything, there will be a great need for Mediation in the coming days – Galadriël told me that she planned on holding a press-conference this afternoon. I persuaded her to wait for at least a day. I am still willing to offer you my hospitality, but this visit may have been overtaken by events beyond our control.”

OOC: I'm supposed to post for TB while he's absent, but he hasn't clarified me yet if he wants me to invent the new posts or if he will send me what to post... I'll wait a few days more to see if he answers me, if not, I'll post his character's reactions, ok?

IC:

*Bogotá

After greeting "kindly" Metusen and his neocolonial bullies, Gia enjoyed to listen to the questions made by the Nachxa delegate. After all, she didn't came from a christian country either and the characteristics of that "strange religion" were subject of her curiosity.
She then enjoyed a long and pretty restrictive travel to the colombian capital.
She had made a few questions that managed to make the knootian driver uncomfortable, like, "What do you think of your government's reactions of popular colombian protests?" or "Do you actually live here? Where?".
and also heard the driver's uncessant babbling about road construction and all, but she dismissed it as political propaganda.
Almost near the end of the trip, she had a small argument when the Knootians didn't allowed her to open the blackened windows, not even witht he excuse of "needing some fresh air".
Finally, they let her open the window and, while she didn't perceive any opressive or negative situation, the entering breese did calm her a little.

After arriving to the certainly beautiful South American city, she enjoyed a fresh lump of grass and lettuce, surprised that the knootians had actually cared to provide her of that service, having in mind her vegetarianism. And that courtesy, as irrelevant as it may seem to humans, did help the knootians to gain some points with the bovine delegate.

Still chewing the last leafs of grass, she heard the intelligence report on the briefing room. The report caused her many contradictory feelings: The photos seemed real, but how can she knew it wsn't propaganda? Was really HB's ally, Tanah Burung, supporting this group?
While the group had an ideology Gia considered noble, the other countries would consider it more like terrorism and this would certainly de-legitimize Tanah Burung's claim in the UN mediation council. Finally, after all this thinking, she spoke. Looking to the knootian speaker, she said:
"Indeed, the photos you show us are a proof that this resistance group exists. But how do you know Tanah Burung's government is behind this? Do you have any evidence to back up this strong accusation?"

Meanwhile, that same morning, a polemic article was filling all the frist pages of main Hell Bovinian newspapers. First, tabloids like the "Snooping Cow", but then, more respected newspapers like "The Bovine Herald" or "The Combatant" joined the scandal:

From The Combatant (Radical Left-Wing)....
El Combatiente

Malvina: Shocking Story of the bovine heroine murdered by Knootian police

Knootian Colombia - Sorrow, opression, genocide. These are the words that fill today the territory of Knootian Colombia, as well as its Chimaeran counterpart. What was once a free and proud country, a fellow spanish-speaking nation, is now a territory being choked under the knootian fist of opression. Neo-colonialism can be strongly felt here, at the land were police seems to be still allowed to murder protesters.
And here I travelled, to a land were freedom's voice is silenced daily and where Malvina Brownspot, a young and idealist compatriot, was brutally murdered by what was supposedly qualified by european opressors as "non-lethal" gas. Perhaps, with a bit too much of irony, because that "non-lethal" gas, became lethal to Malvina.
Malvina traveled here in the search of a dream, the dream to free yet another country from imperialism and colonialism. The dream of helping the colombians to find freedom. The best about her was that she never endorsed violence, she wanted freedom, true, but always by pacific means, unlike the police"men" that murdered her, and many other natives also asking, peacefully, for what was their own, freedom.
Malvina was killed for no reason, with no trial. The only thing she was guilty of was excercising her right to free speech. Is that what the knootian "democracy" does to free thinkers?.
Personally, I think we should all learn the lesson from Malvina. May not her death reduce the dissent to Knootoss, but may it cause more.
And, finally, in this situation I ask, what will our government, our country, do on this situation? Just wait until they unfairly kill more of our citizens? or will we demand action, justice?
For Malvina, may our government stand up to defend her and seek revenge against the european opressor.

-Gabriel Fernandez, Editorial

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Vice-duque Whitey Bighorns was annoyed, very annoyed. From one day to another, chaos erupted in the nation. Most newspapers were demanding some sort of action and the deceased bovine's family was already organizing a public protest for the following day.
What should he do? Risk a damage in international relations and demand an apology? or protect relations and risk instead his own political post?
Worst of all, the duque was missing, too busy in a meeting in Larkinia.
After much thought, he decided to go moderate, yet determinated.
*I hope this calms that girl's family*, he thought as he dispatched the letter:

Official Comunique:
Her excellency, Lady Galadriël Táralóm nos Círdan,
Prime Minister of the Dutch Democratic Republic of Knootoss:

Dear madame,
Is with much concern that we received the news of the accidental death of Malvina Brownspot, a young female citizen of our nation, in a public rally at your nation's territories in Knootian Colombia.
As we see it, Malvina was protesting peacefully, not violating any law or edict of the DDR. While we totally understand the police intention was not to kill her, we would like to still demand a small investigation to be made about this, as we consider this kind of accidents, accidents that cost innocent's lives, something unnaceptable. After all, shouldn't a responsible policemen had realised that such non-lethal gases could have different effects on Hell Bovines?
If not possible, we would at least demand a public apology and explanation, to satisfy the griefing family in such difficult time.
We hope Knootian-Hell Bovinian relations can continue being as strong as always and wish your government a good luck in its future endeavours. Yours,

Whitey Bighorns, Vice-Duque, Hell Bovines


edit: Nothing to see here :P

OOC: btw, the actual killing of protestors didn't happen in Bogota; Bogota would be a City that's controlled by both the Knootians and Chimaeans, and holds a lot of Government offices and so forth. :)

---------------

The Chimaeans had been informed of the raid and the discoveries beforehand, but Worset hadn't seen the pictures. He sat beside General Garrison and studied the photos, noting with a sinking feeling that the weapons delivered seemed to be of a better class than the ones that were already in circulation in Colombia. He cursed internally and made a mental note to yell at the Navy for not doing their coastguard job properly--after all, the coast made up roughly about a third of Colombia's borders and it wasn't hard to defend.

He was surprised that the rebels had used the coast at all--getting the weapons through Ecuador or Venezuela would be simpler. Well, would appear simpler, since there was a lot of little border gimmicks that Worset had personally seen to that would give any smugglers a nasty surprise.

He glanced at General Garrison, who sat still as stone, face carefully blank. In a way he was glad that the man was here--there was something about the him that gave off a reassuring solidity, as if he was more real than his surroundings.

Through his concealed earpiece, Worset recieved the security updates from time to time as Chimaean forces went deftly about their business, maintaining a strictly controlled cordon of the streets around the Knootian mission, checking and re-checking buildings, vehicles and people. It was like an orchestrated chaos, with randomisation carefully injected to give the soldiers freedom and achieving the crucial element of uncertainty.

So far everything had gone fairly well...

---------------

Administrator Gregorio sat near the Knootian representatives, away from the Chimaean military yet not too far away. The seating had been carefully planned to give off a message without speaking.

He listened to details of the raid, which he had only been briefed about in the sketchiest detail as he had gotten ready for the IMC visit. It was an unexpected news as suspicion was genteely put on Tanah Burung and he studied the IMC delegates from that country, wondering if it was true and in what interests they would act in Colombia.

OOC:Fixing that, right away! :D

James grinned as the Nachxa started enquiring about Father de Groot's religion. If only we had some diplomats like that, who could criticise in such an innocent way, he thought. He stepped into the dark car. He shuddered. It looked so cold, so forbidding... and of course, it cut himself off from the people outside... of course, what the Knootians wanted.

The driver was also Knootian, and so James decided not to bother asking any questions. After all, he'd already received Knootian opinions on Colombia in the IMC; he was not about to waste time garnering an opinion that he already knew. He instead flicked through some of his books in his bag, mostly on the subject of Colombia, it's history, it's customs, and the state it was in at the moment. He relaxed slightly, engrossing himself in the customs of Colombia. Unfortunately, that was not to last.

The Knootian driver started extolling the virtues of Knootian organisations who had built such wonderful roads, with such links to Bogotá being beneficial to all people. James sighed, and raised an eyebrow.

"All people? Do those in the slums of Bogotá walk the road as well?"

The Knootian looked slightly rattled. "Sir, the slums are also being cleared, with many new homes being built by the DDR."

"I'll believe that when I see it. Now, I believe that your job was to drive IMC delegates to Bogotá, not prosletise about the Knootians in Colombia. I am here, after all, to make my own mind up about the Knootian occupation of this spot, not to be unduly influenced by those who would have it in their best interests if I was to give a favourable report."

James went back to his book. He muttered to himself, "How easy it is to make a fact-finding mission find only the facts you want them to find." He smiled again. He was glad to have come from a country that had been considered a backwater for decades. Barely anyone outside his home knew the language. Always an advantage. He ignored the Knootian when he started metioning the housing again. He could only see bulldozers and construction equipment around the highway, not anywhere else. Obviously it was bad publicity for the Knootians to have poverty-filled slums under their control, so clearing the slums where people could often see them was probably the most... profitable venture. The SLP back home would call him a cynic. He was just being a realist.

The brunch was not bad, although he stuck mainly to the interesting Colombian cuisine, although he wondered how many in Bogotá were enjoying the same sort of food.

OOC: Drat, no TB? I was looking forward to a flustered de Groot

The Nachxa sits quietly through the brunch and the briefing. The briefing ended and The Nachxa raised only one question

"The young men whose pictures you showed, the smugglers, we may speak to them, of course?"

He stated it half as a question and half as an order.

OOC: HB, well, since he is sorta gone I presume you need to invent stuff. At any rate, he told me you had control over the Rumbiak brigade. I don’t know about your control over Dominic de Groot. :P

During the trip to Bogotá

"What do you think of your government's reactions of popular colombian protests?" or "Do you actually live here? Where?".

The Knootian driver, who looked like a New York cabbie in a ridiculously posh suit, looked over the steering wheel, and answered the questions.

“Well, I think it is a nasty situation right now and the police just tries to handle it the best they can – you know?.” I do think that the government is basically doing a good job here, you know what I mean?. The general population really just, you know, needs peace and quiet, but its lose-lose really with these antiglobalist rallies gone all wrong you know?.”

Answering where he lived was visibly easier: “Oh, yes, I live in a nice little apartment in a suburb. It’s a good living, you know, driving them diplomatic folks around. It’s a big city, you know, and it’s a nice place where I live. Four other Knootians in my apartment building and some of the local people too, you know. My Colombian neighbour is this really fat… errr…you know…”


Knootian Mission

"Indeed, the photos you show us are a proof that this resistance group exists. But how do you know Tanah Burung's government is behind this? Do you have any evidence to back up this strong accusation?"

Metusen shook his head slowly and spoke apologetically: “Truthfully, I cannot give you conclusive evidence at the moment regarding this.” He phrased it very diplomatically – during his talk that morning with Galadriël there had not been any doubt regarding this. With a flushed face the Elvish Prime Minister had cried outrage and retribution. Metusen himself had a little more doubtful personality and unlike Galadriël he did not have the picture of Mari Alkatiri pinned to a dartboard in his office. Weighing his words carefully, he continued; “These weapons were only discovered hours ago and AIVD ((OOC: Knootian intelligence)) people are probably on this already, but I don’t know. With all due respect for Mr. de Groot, the link seems plausible enough. Modern weapons, political sympathy. And I don’t know what information the central government may have on Tanah Burung.” He shrugged, “ I’m an administrator, after all, not a spymaster.”


"The young men whose pictures you showed, the smugglers, we may speak to them, of course?"

Metusen frowned – again he had to improvise this morning. He really disliked having to say no to the Nachxa but he strongly doubted the military and the police would allow in the mediation council –especially with someone from Tanah Burung – while they were still being interrogated for this politically sensitive crime. He stuttered a bit. “Well, uh, when there is a trial I am sure you will be allowed to visit. At this point they are still being interrogated. And considering the nationality of one of your members…” his voice trailed and the Knootian cringed somewhat under the stern look of the Nachxa. He then took a deep breath and spoke with renewed confidence. “This is for reasons of State security, after all who knows what other revolutionary plans there are. A coup or revolution may have been planned to take place this very moment to take advantage of your visit! Speed is of the essence. He looked around the room forebodingly.

What the papers say
The outcry over the death of Malvina Brownspot received only minor attention in the Knootian papers. (http://www.nationstates.net/forum/viewtopic.php?p=3213016#3213016) De Telegraaf ignored the entire (politically inconvenient) event altogether while Trouw and NRC Handelsblad mentioned the letter in a one paragraph message on the ‘the rest of the world’ page, mentioning only the basic facts. (Dead Bovine from Colombian protests, public outcry, call for an apology.) The progressive Volkskrant did feature a small article concluding that Galadriël should indeed apologise. They even managed to include a picture of the young bovine.

Official Comunique:
Her excellency Gälardiel Nos Cirdan, ruler of The Dutch Democratic Republic of Knootoss:

Dear madame,
Is with much concern that we received the news of the accidental death of Malvina Brownspot, a young female citizen of our nation, in a public rally at your territories in Bogotá, Knootian Colombia.
As we see it, Malvina was protesting peacefully, not violating any law or edict of the DDR. While we totally understand the police intention was not to kill her, we would like to still demand a small investigation to be made about this, as we consider this kind of accidents, accidents that cost innocent's lives, something unnaceptable. After all, shouldn't a responsible policemen had realised the "Gay Spray" had different effects on Hell Bovines?
If not possible, we would at least demand a public apology and explanation, to satisfy the griefing family in such difficult time.
We hope Knootian-Hell Bovinian relations can continue being as strong as always and wish your government a good luck in its future endeavours. Yours,

Whitey Bighorns, Vice-Duque, Hell Bovines

Message from The Hague


Honoured Vice-Duque,

It is with regret that I learned of the death of Malvina Brownspot. It truly is a tragedy when any young life is snatched away at such a young age. That this happened as the result of an accident in which Colombian and Knootian police officers were involved is all the more regrettable.

While the police were only doing their duty to keep Colombia safe, accidents such as these are intolerable. I can assure you that everything is being done to prevent this from happening again. The police are already holding an internal investigation into the repression during the Regional Economic Summit. Lessons will be learned from this, but it does not take away the pain of the family and relatives of Malvina Brownspot. For this, I am deeply sorry.

A similar message has been conveyed to the family of the victims and a public statement to the effect of this letter will be released by the foreign ministry this afternoon. I am confident that Hell Bovines and Knootoss still share a basic faith in the rule of law and the open democratic processes that guide all acts of government. I hope that this message will also be understood in this spirit.

Yours duly,

Lady Galadriël Táralóm nos Círdan
Prime Minister of the Dutch Democratic Republic of Knootoss, etc etc


OOC nitpicks that aren’t really important enough to correct:
-Correct name and title see of my Head Elf letter.
-The letter still says Bogotá
-‘Gay spray’ is officially still secret. You wouldn’t know the actual name. Maybe there are some vague pictures of gas by an amateur camera, and of course eyewitness accounts. But the gas is still secret.

"The young men whose pictures you showed, the smugglers, we may speak to them, of course?"

Metusen frowned – again he had to improvise this morning. He really disliked having to say no to the Nachxa but he strongly doubted the military and the police would allow in the mediation council –especially with someone from Tanah Burung – while they were still being interrogated for this politically sensitive crime. He stuttered a bit. “Well, uh, when there is a trial I am sure you will be allowed to visit. At this point they are still being interrogated. And considering the nationality of one of your members…” his voice trailed and the Knootian cringed somewhat under the stern look of the Nachxa. He then took a deep breath and spoke with renewed confidence. “This is for reasons of State security, after all who knows what other revolutionary plans there are. A coup or revolution may have been planned to take place this very moment to take advantage of your visit! Speed is of the essence. He looked around the room forebodingly.

Worset opened his mouth but General Garrison, to his surprise, spoke first. "There's no question of seeing security-sensitive prisoners, sir, until the proper time--in Knootian Colombia or Chimaean Colombia. This is for legal reasons also. Of course, an independant watchdog will ensure the geneva conventions and human rights is adhered to and they will be given legal representation during the trial. You must understand that it is a grave matter that security must come first and foremost in Colombia, to win the trust of the Colombians--without security everything else is dust. We can provide all the housing, food, economical aid and medical supplies but without a secure national framework to drape this on, it will fail. As it is we're doing both aid and security at once; it's a fairly delicate balance but I'm sure you will agree that security must come first."

Baroness Bennigsen sat during this discussion looking wise, her slender fingers steepled together, her elegant features in a listening posture. She said little for a while, nodding sagely now and then. ah, interesting point her expression would suggest, or: hm...your response raises other questions..
In fact, however, what her thoughts actually were was a complete mystery.
Major Wolfmar looked at General Garrison with interest during his response, but said absolutely nothing, just pausing to make some notes. However, during a break he quietly went over to the General and said, "Excuse me, Sir--Major Wolfmar, the Ambassador's Military Attache." (General Garrison was able to note however the Para-Commando patch on the young officer's shoulder) "I was wondering if it would be possible to take a more direct look at recent intel?"

General Garrison gave him a thoughtful look, though in his mind was Lady Bryce's forthright views about the Lavenrunz move towards Metus. Then he shrugged hos broad shoulders and said, "For what purpose, exactly? CAF policy is that military intel isn't released to outside sources, for either their sensitive nature or for fear of exposing out intelligence assets... However I suppose I can make an exception in this case, given a suitable reason and based on the nature of the intel." He paused and said, "If the intel came from Knootian intelligence, or from the Chimaean Intelligence Organisation, you'll have to take it up with them. We're not allowed to release shared intel and the CIO isn't my department..."

The last was a half truth, of course, and the Major probably knew it. General Garrison had more unofficial influence in the security and intelligence areas of Chimaea (and most of Baron) than anyone alive, including Lady Bryce.

"I would like to see any report that this independent watchdog produces, and what the credentials of the watchdog are. No disrespect, but I prefer to see reports for myself, and not through a third party, I'm sure you understand."

General Garrison frowned. "The watchdog is part of the Military Justice Commission, which is directed by the High Court of Chimaea. While they don't release any sensitive information, they do release other details and the status of all prisoners held in Colombia, which can be accessed at their website or by request. No doubt Knootoss also has a corresponding organisation. I will request them to forward a copy of their reports as soon as they come out."

The Knootian nodded: “Oh, yes, we usually allow visitors when the trial is underway and Amnesty and the Red Cross sometimes do pay a visit. I can assure you that we treat our prisoners very well.”

He looked over to General Garrison. “The General is correct on intelligence. But I’m quite sure that more information will be released soon by the Knootian central government.”

Metusen could not help but glance at Dominic de Groot, who had said nothing so far.

"The young men whose pictures you showed, the smugglers, we may speak to them, of course?"

Metusen frowned – again he had to improvise this morning. He really disliked having to say no to the Nachxa but he strongly doubted the military and the police would allow in the mediation council –especially with someone from Tanah Burung – while they were still being interrogated for this politically sensitive crime. He stuttered a bit. “Well, uh, when there is a trial I am sure you will be allowed to visit. At this point they are still being interrogated. And considering the nationality of one of your members…” his voice trailed and the Knootian cringed somewhat under the stern look of the Nachxa. He then took a deep breath and spoke with renewed confidence. “This is for reasons of State security, after all who knows what other revolutionary plans there are. A coup or revolution may have been planned to take place this very moment to take advantage of your visit! Speed is of the essence. He looked around the room forebodingly.

Worset opened his mouth but General Garrison, to his surprise, spoke first. "There's no question of seeing security-sensitive prisoners, sir, until the proper time--in Knootian Colombia or Chimaean Colombia. This is for legal reasons also. Of course, an independant watchdog will ensure the geneva conventions and human rights is adhered to and they will be given legal representation during the trial. You must understand that it is a grave matter that security must come first and foremost in Colombia, to win the trust of the Colombians--without security everything else is dust. We can provide all the housing, food, economical aid and medical supplies but without a secure national framework to drape this on, it will fail. As it is we're doing both aid and security at once; it's a fairly delicate balance but I'm sure you will agree that security must come first."

The Nachxa frowned at both answers

"Geneva Convention? Are you saying you are at war? One of the Knootian objections to the IMC coming here is that what was going on was not an insurrection but criminal activity. I think we need to clarify if these young men are prisoners of war or have been arrested for smuggling.

If they have been arrested for smuggling than these young men have every right to have a representative from their nation present at all questioning and court precedings. If you are at war, and they are to be treated under the Geneva Convention, then I want that to be verified by the International Red Cross.

I don't like 'grey areas' . I think that there is considerably more happening here than we are being told."

The Nachxa tapped his cane derisively in the Direction of Worset and Garrison

"Are you conducting military operations against an armed civil insurrection, or are you conducting policing actions against smugglers and terrorists? If you are conducting military operations than I think we should ask for IMC intervention, it would clearly be under the Council's Charter."

General Garrison cursed inwardly and shook his head. "Chimaea considers all military operations in Colombia to be under a war heading." he leaned forward slightly, "These so-called rebels are mainly funded by the drug cartels; as a result they are heavily armed, bloodthirsty and dangerous. We have had casualties in our fight against them. We came here initially under a peacemaking initiative that meant we were indeed at a war footing and we believed we could lessen that after a while; we were wrong. There is no insurrection in Colombia, because an insurrection denotes that the populace is rising up. However we are at war with these cartel-funded geurillas." he allowed himself a grim smile. "Or at least what's left of them. It's a war we're winning, slowly but surely. And we're in this for the long-term, have no doubt about that.

"As for the Red Cross, naturally they have a presense in Colombia. During the less security-sensitive stages they are allowed to access prisoners that are in custody over matters such as this.

"You must remember that this IMC mission is concerned only with matters that have arisen in Knootian Colombia. Not Chimaean Colombia. The Knootian forces will have other rules that bind their actions and it is indeed true that they are not at an official war footing, though engaged in operations with Chimaean forces or similiar operations on their own. Also it must be noted that although Chimaea follows the Geneva Conventions, we do not have to follow them as we are not a signatory. We have our own domestic laws that reflect the spirit if not the entireity of the conventions. I can only speak on behalf of Chimaea--the events of last night was an Knootian operation in Knootian Colombia."

OOC: cf. Ienotheisan Crisis, Chimaea decided to enact domestic laws regarding most international principles and to operate tangent to international organisations. It would follow through.

The Nachxa smiles

"I think I now see the root of the problem. Chimea is conducting a war and Knootoss isn't. Regardless of who is funding the insurgents they are fighting an outside military force, Chimea, to gain independance. The drug cartels may very well be leveraging the insurgents with their money, but that says nothing to the motives of the insurgency. When enemy forces are on your home soil , tell me, who would you turn down money and weapons from?"

The Nachxa pauses and looks thoughtful

"I am sure that the insurgents believe that the 'ends justify the means' and rationalize that taking money and weapons from the drug cartels is justified to the end of bringing freedom and self-rule. I am doubly certain that Chimean and Knootian officals also believe that 'the ends justify the means' and have no problem targetting insurgents funded by the Cartels. If the insurgents had some sort of alternative to the Cartels, they wouldn't turn to them."

"I am also certain that the young men intercepted by the Knootians , are not funded by drug cartels, I have found that the people of Tanah Burung take anti-colonialism to the extreme and need no external prodding to fight it. While I do not agree with their methods, their motives are most likelly genuine. Killing insurgents armed by the Cartels does no good, it distracts you from the real targets in the Cartel and deprives Colombia of young men and women who are intelligent, resourceful and willing to fight for their nation, the exact type of people that Knootoss and Chimea should be aspiring to turn power over to."

**double-post**

-double post-

"The thing is, it is a grey area," added Metusen, "of smugglers, drug cartels, terrorists, rebels without a cause. It is a loose network of those who wish the Colombian people ill and those who do whatever they want for power and money," he said with disgust.

"We've been here for fifteen years* and I know the ordinary Colombians. They are a great people and we are not at war with them."

He pleaded: "This isn't a peaceful idyllic place like Ilek-Vaad or the Weegies, where the military isn't needed to combat these problems. This is why the military is here in the first place. And foreign powers trying to arm these... criminals... isn't exactly helping. Unless the grand plan of Tanah Burung was to have the IMC mediate with these people all along*"

*This is IC for Knootoss, I dunno about Chimaean time.
*This is where Dominic de Groot *really* has to say something.

The Nachxa smiles again

"Rebels without a cause? There is no such thing. Have you spoken with their leaders to find out why they are fighting you? Do you know who their leaders are? Just because you do not know their cause don't assume they don't have one. I'm sure there are many Columbians who do not know what Knootoss' cause is in Columbia.

That is why we are here. To find why you are fighting the insurgents, why the insurgents are fighting you and find out how to stop it. I cannot know why the insurgents are fighting you unless I can speak with them. Those young men from Tanah Burung would not be smuggling guns for a druf Cartel, I am certain they could shed much light on why the fighting is ocurring."

The Nachxa turns to Metusen

"If you allow military operations to be conducted in 'grey' areas, you open the door for abuses and indiscriminate use of force. Neither of these happen when soldiers are clear of their enemy and orders. Saying that the insurgency is a 'grey' area only points to a failure of intelligence to identify targets and the reasons for targetting them."

The Nachxa smiles again

"Rebels without a cause? There is no such thing. Have you spoken with their leaders to find out why they are fighting you? Do you know who their leaders are? Just because you do not know their cause don't assume they don't have one. I'm sure there are many Columbians who do not know what Knootoss' cause is in Columbia.

That is why we are here. To find why you are fighting the insurgents, why the insurgents are fighting you and find out how to stop it. I cannot know why the insurgents are fighting you unless I can speak with them. Those young men from Tanah Burung would not be smuggling guns for a druf Cartel, I am certain they could shed much light on why the fighting is ocurring."

The Nachxa turns to Metusen

"If you allow military operations to be conducted in 'grey' areas, you open the door for abuses and indiscriminate use of force. Neither of these happen when soldiers are clear of their enemy and orders. Saying that the insurgency is a 'grey' area only points to a failure of intelligence to identify targets and the reasons for targetting them."

General Garrison's brows furrowed and he smiled a little incredulously. "Erm... I don't quite follow. Knootoss and Chimaea have roughly the same amount of troops, go on the same operations and have the same goals as each other. This is not a war against Colombia or an occupation of Colombia, it's a war against geurillas and other militia funded by drug cartels--the same guerillas who were in FARC and who have been fighting law and order in Colombia for decades. This is nothing new. These people conducted operations against the former Colombian government, who tried to crack down on the drug cartels; now they're targetting Chimaea and Knootoss because we also have a zero-tolerance policy on the cartels. It might be a war and they may shout nationalism, but the average Colombian on the street isn't going to support a bunch of bloodthirsty thugs payed and supported by the people who have oppressed them."

Worset suddenly spoke up, after listening to the back-and-forth conversation. "Chimaea is on a war-footing because that's our policy. Knootoss calls it a police action. Whatever you term it the reality is the same; the difference is in words. These geurillas are fighting to gain control of Colombia--not to wage war against an occupying army. That's their motive; if you study Colombian history, that's always been their motive. I'm not at all sure how you claim to know their motives and thoughts, sir, from all of a few hours stay in Colombia. You're right about one thing, however--they would accept funds and arms from anywhere to achieve their aims, not just the Cartels alone. We have our intelligence sourcing any and all supporting them and we will take them out. The Colombians deserve the freedom to run their lives without pressure or tyrrany by the Cartels or the geurillas.

"We have been fighting the Cartels themselves since we've come here, sir, and I most strongly take exception to your insuinuating that we've been sitting idle against them. It is an involved process and requires not just military and intelligence effort but economical, too. We have to nip their supplies, their funds in international banks, their resources."

The Nachxa smiled at Worset

"I think had you been listening you may have heard me say that I cannot know the motives of the insurgents, unless I can talk to them. I simply asked had anyone bothered to talk with the insurgents, or to find out who their leaders are? Nor did I imply that you have sat idly by, your military has obviously performed it's duties very well. I would hate to see Chimean military sucesses wasted because they do not know who they are fighting or why.

I'm sure you've asked yourself why Columbians are continually joining and aiding the insurgents? Are they all on the Cartels payrolls? Are they are addicted to drugs? Why do they fight against their own governments? Why do they now fight against you?

To simply say that the insurgents are Cartel lackeys and that they have no motive other than power is to gloss over the facts that Columbia's previous governments funded militias and death squads to kill innocent villagers to take away FARC's power base. Previous 'legitimate' Columbian governments have supported the Cartels and served them just as the insurgents have. You expect the populace to react kindly when you show up heavily armed and insist you are bringing them democracy? The last democracy they had was corrupt and killed it's opposition.

You are winning the war against the Cartels and the rebels, they cannot possibly oppose you, what you are not doing is defeating the root causes. Bullets and security forces will not assauge decades of distrust of government and fear of the Cartels. They only see in your armed forces the same armed forces that either 'oppressed' or 'liberated' them in the past.

Even giving the people greater economic prosperity and returning services that we all take for granted will do little good to stem the flow of young men and women who will oppose you. All the people of Columbia know is that everytime an armed force shows up, they get killed, whether they are rebels or not. "

**dangit**

The Knootian smiled – The Nachxa displayed an idealism that he himself had had when he first came to Colombia, and it provided him with an opportunity to end the bickering:

“Oh I can assure you we are working on the root causes. We have been doing this for fifteen years and I can assure you that we are achieving many successes.

Apart from repression”, he looked at Worset, “we do favour a long-term approach. Building up local democracy and a civic society. It is perhaps more important then roads and canals. Problems are not solved instantaneously, but slowly erode. We are ‘winning’ because public opinion does not favour insurgence as it did before. The cartels have been eliminated not only by military force but because we created alternatives. We want to replace fear of government with trust in government. But gaining trust takes time and effort and, I’ll be frank, Colombia has problems that no man would be able to solve within a few years. We cannot wave a magic want to make poverty and misery go away but we must work for it. That has been my job for the last years,” he said with much sincerity.

He outstretched his hand towards The Nachxa. “I would like to invite you to come and see the real Colombia. I think that a tour of the jungle villages and a walk through the city can show you more then the poisonous words of an insurgent druglord.”

He got out a piece of paper. “The public relations department has drawn up a suggested programme. I could give it to you, but perhaps it needs a few adaptations..:” He looked waveringly, wondering if he should hand over the paper or not.

The Nachxa, for the first time, looked bored

"14 years? You have been here 14 years and still cannot tell me who the insurgents are? You have been in a 'grey' area for 14 years? No wonder the Columbians are protesting!"

The Nachxa then waved his hand dismissively at the paper Metusen held and the offer of a pre-planned tour.

"No thank you, I have had quite enough of being told what I should see and who I should talk to."

With that the Nachxa exits the conference room. He doesen't stop there, he strides purposefully out of the building, past the guards and right on down to the city streets, and hails a cab.........

The Nachxa's assistants stay put where they are and barely even acknowledge The Nachxa has left , only giving a little 'what can you do?' shrug.

OOC: What? Um no, I doubt he'd be allowed to leave the building without a security detail. He certainly wouldn't be able to take a cab :p This isn't Iraq and these aren't weapons inspectors. And please don't forget that we decide what Colombia is really like, argument aside.

-------------

Worset glared out after the man and opened his mouth before General Garrison gently patted his shoulder. "It's all right," he said, "Whatever we said, he was bound to find what he wanted in our words. Perhaps it is better that we show him what Colombia is like. I have a feeling that 'truth' is becoming a rare commodity to politics." he picked up his peaked cap from the seat, and nodded to the other representatives. "You'll have to excuse me, I must be getting on. I hope to be with you tomorrow to answer any more questions. Good evening, ladies and gentlemen."

When he walked out of the room two military aides fell into step on either side of him. He rubbed his hands together, his face thoughtful. "Get me a chopper. Have the representative from Ilek-Vaad traced--"

"Already done, sir, we have all IMD delegates on surveilance."

"Good. Take me to wherever he is going. Perhaps he should see the reality of Colombia."

James quite enjoyed the back-and-forth between the Nachxa, Metusen and the Chimaean general. He was disappointed to see the Nachxa storm off; although James had reached the same conclusion that the Nachxa seemed to have, that the only way to gauge what Colombia was really like was away from the "official" plans of people like Metusen, he would have quite enjoyed talking to him. He cleared his throat, and smiled slightly.

He pleaded: "This isn't a peaceful idyllic place like Ilek-Vaad or the Weegies, where the military isn't needed to combat these problems."

"Idyllic? Obviously, Metusen, you've never been to Mackintosh on a Saturday night."

"This is why the military is here in the first place. And foreign powers trying to arm these... criminals... isn't exactly helping. Unless the grand plan of Tanah Burung was to have the IMC mediate with these people all along"

"But on the subject of Tanah Burung, again you have claimed, or at least implied, that the government of Tanah Burung was directly involved with supplying the guerrilas - be they a people's army, drug barons, whatever - despite before admitting that you had no real evidence that the two were absolutely and totally linked. That citizens of Tanah Burung were found does not necessarily mean that the government is directly in league with the guerillas, any more than the fact that a majority of people in the Volunteer Army were citizens of SeOCC definitively showed that the VA were under the direct control of the SeOCC government. Knootoss seems to have a odd problem with that... discerning citizens of a country with the government of that country."

"In fact, given the situation, I would have found it odd if Tanah Burung citizens hadn't been found in the jungles of Colombia. After all, the citizens of Tanah Burung display a deep dislike of what they consider as colonialism that far outstrips even my own nation's... feelings toward colonialism." James again had a slight look of distaste. "And, considering Knootian involvement as well, I suppose that finding anti-colonialist citizens of Tanah Burung would not have come as a complete surprise. But where I take umbrage is where you imply that these "Rumbiak Brigades" have direct connections to the government of Tanah Burung, despite, as you have already admitted, no proof as to that supposition."

***waiting for Knoot***

OOC: Whoah there... he wasn't ICly stopped by security yet... just followed or offered to be followed since he is sortof totally new to the country, and I don't know if he even speaks Spanish. @Chimaea... this was sortof planned.

Could you please edit and wait for me to post Ilek-Vaad?
(and yeah - I'm working on my KIST backlog :P)

OOC: well, if he's followed, he'll have the same reaction ;)

Baroness Bennigsen finally spoke. "While it is unfortunate that his Excellency the representative from Ilek-Vaad had to leave...I think that it's going to be necessary to have a report that is perhaps more objective. It is naturally in the nature of a government to interpret things according to its own customs but that will not serve to help us advise or mediate here. What I'd like to suggest is that we actually get a look at some of the first hand intelligence ourselves. Also, I'd like to know why there are none of those with a grievance against the Knootian presence here right now--or if indeed they will be."

Inside the Knootian Mission in Bogotá
The mentioning of the Volunteer Army made Metusen clutch his fist together. The VA was one of the most hated organisations in Knootoss and its links to the SeOCC government had not been doubted for a long time. To Metusen, Ribaums ministerial position was the living proof of this. It took almost all the Knootians self-control to avoid acting on his high agitation by the Weegie.

Instead, he turned to Baroness Bennigsen: “I was under the impression that the IMC was here on a fact-finding mission. As we have consistently said, there is no organisation representing ‘insurgents’ that are pushing for independence. However, if you want to speak with the democratically elected voice of the Colombians then you ought to meet with the local council… it’s a parliament of sorts for Knootian Colombia that also has a nationalist party. We take it very seriously.”

The Knootian was getting frustrated Who the hell do they want us to mediate with?, he thought.

“As for intelligence – I can only give you what we have written obviously, but perhaps the IMC can use it to find out what it is going to do here and what it is going to investigate independently.” He looked over at a small Knootian woman who standing in the back of the room without saying anything and snapped in Dutch: ”Linda, could you get the level-2 AIVD intelligence report update for opposition forces that we got on file yesterday? Then give me the general developments section. That should be within your security clearance. Print it and get it back here, okay?”

The woman went off to fetch the document.

In front of the Knootian Mission in Bogotá

With that the Nachxa exits the conference room. He doesn’t stop there, he strides purposefully out of the building, past the guards and right on down to the city streets, and hails a cab.........

An ancient Lada that is spewing out black smoke from a loose exhaust pipe stops in front of the Knootian mission, using its poor brakes to come to a standstill in three slow shocks. The engine prattles and puffs and the smell of the black smoke fills the nostrils of the Nachxa. A window opens and the grubby unshaven face of a fat Colombian peers at the diplomat with squinted eyes. ¡Buenos dias senor. ¿Dónde deseas ir? *

OOC:
To the IMC delegation players:
You got to understand, the Chimaeans are responsible for security and they need to protect the delegates. If one of them gets killed or mugged while in some slum it would be infinitely embarrassing. It is not all an evil plot to prevent you from seeing anything. I would have used the programme as a rough red line along which the Rping of the visit could progress with a bit of structure. Because Knootians and Chimaeans actually know the country it makes sense that they would at least some along. I have no idea what your OOC intentions are, but if you (as IMC representatives) could draw up a plan of where to go then the Knootians would simply help you to get there. Our you could go alone – that doesn’t really matter OOCly. Maybe 'what you want to do' is something for you to work out OOCly via telegrams so the visit can move on?

Basically, you now expect me on the one hand to ‘show you the secrets and the Real Colombia’ but on the other hand you don’t trust anything the Knootians say or want to show you. It is an impossible position. So is the IMC delegation going to go out on its own? If so, where is it going to go? ICly, this would have been decided prior to the meeting of course.
~Knoot

*If the Nachxa does speak Spanish other posts will be in English/red. If he doesn’t know the language, well, it is going to be... interesting. How well he speaks Spanish will of course affect how people treat him ;).

OOC: whoa!!! Seems you did post quite a lot on my absence! :shock:
I'm really sorry about the delay! My internet broke and I've been having many personal problems last week, but now I guess I'm ready to continue....

IC:
*Inside the Knootian Mission in Bogotá

Gia Grassfun had been quiet during the last part of the discussion, chewing her own thoughs, but the storming out of the naxcha made her react:
"I shall not stand here to continue hearing all these lies.
Our noble friend from Ilek-Vaad is right. We are an international delegation, not turists in the hands of a tour guide. I think that, as an international delegation sent here to inspect the situation on this territory, we should do that: inspect. We musn't trust what the Knootians and Chimaerans want to show us, for it is sure they will show us only what they want us to see. I say we go and inspect the situation colombians live in for ourselves, all of us together, as the delegation of the UN mediation council. If some want to stay here, do so, but have in mind you will be letting yourselves in the hands of colonialist propaganda."
She stood up and walked torwards the door, waiting to see if someone followed her before leaving the bulding.....
"Anyone's with me?"

*At the front of the Royal Palace, Moo Moo Farm City, Hell Bovines

The face of Glenda Brownspot was dimly illuminated by the candles the crowd was holding. In just a matter of a few days, the death of Malvina had movilised the parents of the young bovine female, from simple and quiet peasants to political activists. And here they were now, directing a huge protesting crowd at the gates of the Royal Palace.
Glenda's face seemed to contain anger, as she delivered a fiery speech:

"It is unbearable the pain that my daughter suffered! Slaughtered by the knootians, as many humans and fellow colombians under that murderous regime!
And I feel here a lot of impotence, anger, fury. Not only because I know that the death of my daughter will go unpunished, but also because I can't believe our own country has reached such level of hipocricy and cowardry.
Are we just going to shut up about the murders in Colombia for the sake of international relations? Are we going to turn a blind eye on that and be contempted with a simple public apology? Are we going to forget all our people suffered under Galdagan (HB's former colonialist) opression and let our Colombian friends suffer the same fate?
I say no! Let us show the world that Hell Bovines cares about other people's freedom and not only it's own.
We, as citizens, have the right to decide how our country will react to this aberrating event. The government must call a referendum about this! We have the right to decide if we want to help Colombians or not, vice-duque!!!"
The crowds cheered up the speech and begun chanting "Metusen, Fascista, Vos sos el terrorista!" (Metusen, Fascist, you are the terrorist!)
As the protest went on, some tomatoes and even rocks were thrown at the Royal Palace, in what was one of the greatest manifestations the ancient and stoney capital had seen in the last years.

Meanwhile, inside the stone government building, decorated with ancient native-american symbols such as the puma and the jaguar, the vice duque was walking in circles, nervous....
"That woman! He's turning the country into a mess", he said
"Well, I think you should grant them the right to decide this in a referendum. It's what the duque would have done", Saturnino Vacuno, the minister of foreign affairs, suggested.
"Yes, it would. But the duque it's in a diplomatic mission and that means I'm the one that takes decisions here until he returns!", Whitey replied a bit angered.
"But our constitution dictates important decisions must be asked by referendums, protesters are right!"
"Well, I don't care. I won't let this country enter into a diplomatic mess just because our people are suicidal. It won't happen.
Now...Out of my office!"

"Ok, I'll leave, but I assure you the duque will hear about this", Saturnino warned as he dissapeared behind a llama statue, like a shadow.
"bah!", the vice duque mumbled as a flying stone broke though the window.

Baroness Bennigsen looked surprised. And there goes another one... she thought. "You know, she said as the Hell Bovines representative was going out the door, "Some kind of itinerary would be nice, darling. Some idea of what, where and when. I have no intention of charging around in this infernal heat after who knows what. Perhaps it might be a good idea," she suggested, smiling, "If we were to select a few places to go to and go together so that we could share opinions on them. The political groups Mynheer Metusen suggested sound nice, but what about an ordinary neighborhood market after that....I'm sure you know what I mean."

James saw the Knootian's hand curl up when he mentioned the VA, as if Metusen had jerked his hand away from a fire, an entirely involuntary movement. Nice to see the reciprocal hate still existed... even though the last recorded activity of the VA was the involvement in the revolution against the repressive Rigan government. Mind you, he might just slip it into conversation again... the twitch was fairly impressive, and he'd taken a dislke to Metusen after he'd all but said that Tanah Burung were funding the guerrillas here.

Still, he had not expected more walkouts, even from the hell bovinian.

"Grassfun, I do understand your frustrations... but are we going to be able to see any more of Colombia away from the officiality of the Knootians and the Chimaeans? I don't know about you, but I want to talk to this parliament... which I don't think will happen if we simply leave this plan. Yes, it is unsatisfactory, but I do understand the Knootian and the Chimaean security issues."

He turned to Metusen.

"You mentioned the, ahem, "insurgents" trial... that also would be interesting to view, or to inspect... to a point."

He did not mind that he wasn't getting the full picture about Knootian Columbia. He'd get most of it, soon enough.

OOC: As TB hasn't replied, I'm posting for him...

IC:
Inside the Knootian Mission in Bogotá

Father Dominic de Groot suddenly spoke, surprising everyone that had though he had became mute.
With the characteristic calmness of a priest, he said:

"Very unfair are the accusations our government has been put to in this debate. There is no proof the Tanah Burung government has been supporting this insurgents, or as you Sir Metusen call them, these "terrorists" and so, we would really apreciate if the Knootian authorities backed up on these senseless accusations untile there is a strong and real evidence, opposed to the "ideological" evidence now displayed.
As for the itinerary, I think we must not let this delegation to break apart in many, and we should stick together. We will gain nothing from inspecting a jungle for ourselves.
While probably the itinerary prepared by the Knootians is surely quite biased, I hope we can all discuss here what places we want to visit, calmly, and arrange it. I, for one, agree with the proposal to visit a local market, as Baroness Bennigsen stated.

In an encampment, in the depths of the Colombian jungle

Joao Alomang, one of the fighters part of the Markus Rumbiak Brigade, was walking in circles, very worried and nervous.
"Any reply, comrade?", he asked to Jersey Ampleudder.
"No, not yet. I'm very worried about this. It's been six hours and there are no signs of them yet.", the huge hell bovinian replied (this was agreed with TB)
"Damn! We really need that maple. Do you think something could have happened to them? I say we send someone to investigate."
"No! What if they were captured? We can't afford to risk more lives!", the humanoid cow said.
"Well, do as you want", the tanahburungian replied angry, "But it's our comrade's lives that are at stake here. I'll personally go to the beach to see what happened there. If you don't want, don't come!"

In the beach

The Knootian helicopter, full of colombian and tanahburungian prisioners and "maple syrup" boxes, took off from the sandy terrain.
A colombian boy inside it, still confused by the gay spray, asked its captor with a frightened voice:
"What will you do with us? Where are you taking us?"
The Knootian officer laughed with a grin.....

The Nachxa looked pleaesed as the questionable taxi lurched to a halt , he quickly went around to the passenger side and hopped in, patting the stunned columbian on the shoulder and saying in perfect spanish, with an Andulisian accent

"Just drive for now, my good man, I haven't quite decided where to go yet. Let's at least get out of downtown, I don't think there is anything to see here. "

He pauses and shakes the man's hand and introduces himself as 'El Hechicero '

*****
Back in the conference room, The Nachxa's assistants seem completely non-plussed and quite un-interested in the entire ongoing exchange. They both are dark-skinned and dark haired and appear to be Tolteca, just like The Nachxa. The Nachxa's chief assistant regards Metusen carefully

"I don't see any reason to not follow your itinerary. I have no doubt that the Knootian and Chimean military are doing all they can to combat the drug cartels and the insurgents. I also don't think that it is the position of the Knootian authorities to deceive us, at least it would be unfair to assume that at this point."

At best, The Nachxa's assistants look irritated that lunch was interrupted by a political debate.....................

OOC:
Just for those that don't know (I think Knootoss knows) that The Nachxa's assistants, like all appointed government officals in Ilek-Vaad , are active Velite Guardsmen, i.e. they are military officers.

Ambassadoress Gia Grassfun stood there, at the door, listening to what the other delegates said and thinking what she should do.
The words of the weegie delegate almost convinced her to stay, specially after she thought how mad would her superiors get.
"I'll stay", she said, "But with the condition that we can decide over here what we want to see!"

Worset shrugged. "As long as security can adequately protect you at all times, it's all right. If at any point my men think that they cannot offer you one hundred percent protection, then I've authorised them to extract you from the location. You have to understand that your security is of paramount importance to us, and I'm sure you know that we would like to avoid an international incident. Having said that, the Chimaean forces here are amongst the best in the world and I'm certain that there aren't many places you can't go and see. As for this market place... I'm sure it can be arranged."

Padre Pacal gaped for a moment, trying to remember… Oh, yes. His colleague, Padre Eduardo Escoval, had written him, enclosing this lad’s letter. It had all been most allusive and unclear, the young man wanted to do something “For the future of Colombia and freedom,” and was getting into bad company in the city. Father Escoval believed he wasn’t really a bad boy, and genuinely sincere about wanting a better future for his people. A little muddled, perhaps—as so many of them were, at that age—but worthwhile. Could his colleague find some way for the lad to make himself useful in the work Chiam was doing?

He peered out at the youngster for a moment, then broke into a grin, his missing teeth (he had a badly-fitting plate that he wore for Sunday Mass, but it was a cheap thing and if he wore it too long he got sores in his mouth, so for the most part he went without them,) giving the grin the guileless charm of a child. “Welcome, welcome, my son,” he opened the door widely. “Come in to God’s house. You are tired, yes? A long journey, up the mountain. Come, rest in the cool for a few moments while I complete my task, then we shall look to your comfort.”

He gestured vaguely at one of the pews, and continued his methodical sweeping, pausing as he passed the doors to shove the dirt piles out and sweep them off the rough stone threshold. As he swept, he prayed the rosary, stopping at the various statues and cheap representations of the Stations of the Cross to genuflect or make the Sign of the Cross.

At last, he had the Church sufficiently clean. He put the broom neatly away in the sacristy, genuflected humbly to the Presence at the altar, and made his way to the small side door, gesturing for his visitor to join him.

“You are weary from your journey, I do not doubt, my son.” He led Benignus to the tiny rectory, three little rooms with a big, screened verandah. The old woman who cleaned and looked after him had already left for the day, but she’d left a pot on the back of the stove and he was able to feed his visitor and himself. It was actually a relief to have a visitor, he assured the young man when he protested about sharing the priest’s food.

“In truth, my son, Concepcion nags me terribly about not eating enough, if I leave any in the pot. And old as I am, I need very little, truly. Such good puchero. And wonderful arepas, always fresh. Eat, eat! It is not good to bypass the good gifts of God when they are offered, yes?” He poured fruit juice from a big earthenware pitcher stored in a bowl of water to keep it cool.

He watched his visitor eat the simple chicken and plantain stew with pleasure.

“Now, my son. Tell me about yourself. What brings you here, to the mountains?”

((Ok... I was supposed to post today but I didn't work out since stuff interfered. I assure you that I have read all the stuff and a post will follow. But first, sleep.))

The Hague, Knootoss
With a suppressed, pop space-time parted, warped and distorted for a moment as the contents of one area were pushed into another like a knife buried in butter. Terrible technology abuse really, and enough to give most security staff nightmares. A tall man, with long hair, and wearing a long set of alarmingly clean white robes, appeared, smiling a little. He looked around, and raised an eyebrow. "Good morning?" he said, unsure of the exact time.

Galadriël turned around upon hearing the sound and strided towards the man with the friendly smile of someone who meets an expected visitor. Dressed in a long, dark-purple robe, the Elvish Prime Minister of Knootoss had expected the man, but not on that side of the room. "Good afternoon, and welcome to the Dutch Democratic Republic, Emperor," she welcomed. The chamber itself had dark, wooden walls covered with livesize 17th century paintings of men, aristocrats, in uniforms and sometimes in light armour. At the centre of the room was the painting of such a man in armour on a white horse, looking serenely with a piece of parchment in his hand. The robed man spared a brief glance, and then looked back at the elf, waking over, surprisingly gracefully, "Well, good afternoon then, may I ask, how have you been?"

"Very well", Galadriël said in a pleasant voice. "Matters of state are of course good as well as bad, but it is satisfying to see ones country progress as a result of ones management." She beckoned Mephet`ran, Emperor of the Ctan, to a chair that looked almost like a throne. It stood next to another seat of similar size that had more round shapes. "Please... do sit down," she invited.

Mephet`ran nodded, and walked over to the chair, practically throwing himself into it, very unceremoniously while Galadriël gracefully walked over to her chair, and sat down in it slowly. "That is, reassuring. You say good as well as bad?" he added, in a tone that revealed much curiosity. She looked over to the side where Mephet`ran sat. The Ctan was slightly taller then her so she had to look up a bit. Carefully, she spoke: "Yes, indeed. Good tidings we have with trade and reform, but unfortunately there are those who would deny us our successes."

"Oh? Who pose these particular problems?" he asked, seeming for some reason particularly trustworthy, something in his voice perhaps. Galadriël felt a need for openness that she usually did not display. The elf had been a shrewd businesswoman for a hundred years before going into politics but Mephet`ran threw her off. She sighed as if she were an employee coming home to complain about bad things at work to her husband. He smiled a little, encouragingly, listening intently.

"Well... perhaps you have heard of recent stirrings in Colombia. The anticapitalist nations in the world seem convinced that our activities there are motivated out of evil and they are using all means to obstruct us." She looked worried, but her eyes were spirited and burned brightly as if there were a small fire inside of her to feed them. He nodded, "Ah, 'anti-capitalists,' a wonderful strain of moron, though I'm afraid I've paid little attention to Colombia, could you elaborate a little?" he asked. "The UN Mediation Council is visiting", she explained, "which is just a diplomatic pain. However just tonight we...", she stopped as her eyes broke away momentarily from the Ctan. Apologetically she said: "I do apologise. I have not even offered you a drink! What a bad hostess I am."
She tilted her head slightly, smiling diplomatically, "Is there anything you would like?" He laughed slightly, though he refrained from passing comment on the mention of this mediation council, and for that matter, he would barely refrain from passing water over it. He echoed her little nod however, "Not especially, something local perhaps."

The elf stood up slowly, and walked over to a drawer that stood nearby. Opening it revealed expensive wineglasses and a small refrigerator that had been smartly built into the antique. "The wines of Knootoss are not renowned such as those of DNL, however I do find this one quite decent." She got out a bottle filled with a red fluid. "Chemically enhanced and with some genetic manipulation, if you do not object?", she asked the man sitting a few metres away from her. He actually giggled a little, "Oh, feel free," he paused, "I'm quite a fan of genetic manipulation." Galadriël smiled, sharing the same preference and poured the wine in two glasses. She walked back to the seats and handed the Emperor one. "I have also been baking some cookies especially for this occasion", she said, "They should be ready any moment." She raised her glass to toast along with her companion. "To the future", Galadriël said, and the two toasted their glasses. "To the future," he echoed, "may it be... blessed." Both took small sips from their glasses. Galadriël put her glass down next to her while Mephet`ran held it casually in one hand, regarding her in his easy, friendly manner again.

"I hope that matters in your Empire have been going well?", Galadriël politely inquired before the Ctan could speak. "Oh yes, most of my little projects have been doing quite well," he paused, "I can't complain really… though I've been wondering about this... 'treaty' thing of yours," “The KIST, you mean?", the Knootian Prime Minister inquired. "Indeed, that one," he said, looking into her eyes for a moment. Their eyes interlocked momentarily, but Galadriël was the first to look away as she casually regarded the glass in the hand of the Emperor before raising her head again. "Yes, it has gained many members so far. I sincerely hope that
it will stabilise trade amongst the various races and political groups." She took another sip from her glass and said: "It is one of the things that will hopefully contribute to a slightly better and more profitable world."

He tutted mockingly, for a moment it was unclear what he was up to, then he spoke, "Oh, I'm sure lots of anti-capitalists think that utterly evil..." The elf nodded. "Indeed. I have heard claims from their corner that this treaty was thought only to antagonise them. It would seem evidence that the world revolves around Aperin after all." She took another sip. "Though I must admit to taking a special pleasure in recommending the acronym." He smiled, "They've discovered that the world revolves? My, they're making progress..." Galadriël chuckled at the joke and commented with a clear voice, "So it would seem". She put down the glass. "However, there have recently been more serious problems with them. In Colombia, notably." He nodded politely, playing with his glass absently, he couldn't actually care what the fools were up to now, but he was prepared to humour her. Galadriël spoke casually but the 'worry' frown was back on her milk-white forehead. "Arms smuggling, this time. Involving Tanah Burung. I am afraid we may have to take strong action." He smiled again, and glanced into her eyes, seeming utterly peaceful and tranquil, fatherly perhaps, "Oh?" "I intend to make an example of them," she continued, "An example that they will all remember. A... colony...", she spoke the word with much disdain, "making a mockery of the DDR and of our authority cannot be tolerated. I do hope you understand", she concluded with a soft feminine voice that asked rather then commanded.

"An example you say?" he said, continuing his tranquil act, peaceful, encouraging her through silence and body language, and perhaps a little subtle 'power' to keep talking. His look spoke volumes of his understanding of the 'art of imperialism.' Galadriël nodded, believing that Mephet`ran truly did understand. "Root the arms smugglers out, so to speak, and those that protect them" she said confidently. He nodded a little, once again, "And yet such things are often rather difficult, how do you plan to do it, if I may be so bold as to inquire?" Galadriël smiled. "This is still... a work in progress," Galadriël leant a little bit closer to the Emperor, "you always appear to me very wise and… experienced in such matters," she suggested as if asking for advice from a teacher.

"Well," he said, wondering what to do with her, "I would need to be more than... passingly... familiar with the situation." Galadriël turned her head away in a dramatic gesture. "I always believed in the Emperors... infinite... knowledge regarding such situations." She then stood up, raising to her full length. "I shall be holding an address very soon. Things will become more clear then." The shadow of a nearby clock cast a line of darkness over the elfs face, revealing her burning eyes. He looked at her, and raised an eyebrow, "I'm hardly omniscient you know, though if you wish, I could make a point of learning such things now..."

Galadriël pondered, "I don't know"... she took a step forward back into the light, revealing her handsome face again. "It would be a lot to explain and I would not wish to bore you, Emperor." Mephet'ran looked into her eyes for a moment, and there was a slightly strange feeling and for the slightest moment, she felt, disturbed. Then, after that, he smiled again, "It's not boring..."

The Knootian Prime Minister reached to touch her forehead, which was sweating lightly. "I... excuse me." She sat back down in her chair. "Of course," he said, watching her sit.

Images and thought patterns were absorbed by the Ctan Emperor. In an instant he obtained over the memories of the last few months of the young elfs life. More recent memories were vibrant. Feelings, very strong feelings of hidden disgust and hate of those who opposed the Market; and jealousy for Tanah Burung. Another memory drifted up of himself on the bed in his own palace, the breakfast they had some time ago. Ambiguous feelings that were a mix of confusion, of pride but also… attraction. Love would be too much to say… but a strong admiration to the fatherlike man with the strange magical and technological powers. Other memories flooded in this instant, directed towards others. Of hatred, veiled friendliness, He saw maps… arrows… names of marine divisions. Aircraft carriers, and a digital projection of the KDF Sirithil nos Feanör steaming south this very moment. More prominent were economic projections… desire. Expansion. Market. Recurring words. A strong zeal reached the Emperors mind.

Galadriël looked confused, as if she did not know what was going on anymore. "I totally forgot!", she exclaimed. "I have baked cookies for you." He smiled a little, "Ah yes," he said, "I'm sure they'll be wonderful..." Galadriël stood up and said reassuringly: "I will be back in a moment." She quickly walked out of a door on the far side of the room. About 3 minutes later she returned carrying a baking tray willed with cookies with raisins and small pieces of chocolate on them. The cookies were dark-brown and still warm. The smell was strong and filled the chamber. "I hope you like them", Galadriël said with a smile. She held up the plate in front of the Emperor. "It has been almost a century since I last baked cookies." Mephet`ran extended a hand, and took one, "Well, I'm sure they're wonderful nevertheless," he said, and ate it, and then gave her an approving look. Galadriël put away the tray and took a cookie herself, munching on it enthusiastically. He watched, and smiled just a little, "Well, I think you wanted to go now..."

"Oh, I am still available", says Galadriël perhaps a bit too quickly. "I mean... you are my guest after all."
He smiled a little, seeming quite pleased with this, and gestured, imperiously, towards the other chair. Galadriël sat down again and turned to look Mephet`ran in his eyes. "So," she began slowly, "I have told you so much, but at the same time I still know so little about you."

"Just how I like it," he said, "but, as I like you, what would you like to know?" Galadriël let her finger trail over the armchair, following it with her eyes and then looking up again. "Your life... it must be fascinating. There is so much I would ask but at the same time these are little things. How does it feel to be the being that you are." Her attentive eyes looked down again. "Please forgive me my curiosity."

"Well, in general, naturally, it feels rather boring an uninteresting really. Lots of stars, which I suppose you would consider beautiful, but, small things," he paused, pointedly taking a sip from the glass still in his hand, and grabbing another cookie, "tend to be far more interesting..." Galadriël tilted her head slightly, absorbing every word. "Such as cookies?", she wondered. He laughed a little, and looked directly at her, "Among other things..." Galadriël blushed lightly. "Hmmm?", she dared him. He raised his glass a little, "Wine," he said, "of course." "Of course", replied Galadriël. She could not hide some of her disappointment and drank some wine herself to get rid of it. "Oh, well, people, such as yourself, are the real attraction in truth though..." Galadriël almost chocked on her drink, but managed to swallow it still. "Why thank you," she said, "I am most honoured." He smiled slightly, giggled even, "The rest of my... 'race' would agree on that point too, though perhaps for different reasons." Galadriël did not understand, but it did not matter at this point. She smiled at the strange sight of a half-god giggling. Light-heartedly she replied: "Well, yours is a wise race so who would I be to disagree on this point?" His face took on a sad look for a moment, "Not all of it," he said, "No, not all..." "Oh?", wondered Galadriël. He nodded, and returned his attention to her, "Yes, but don't worry, wisdom seems to be increasing of late... The elf only nodded, encouraging the Emperor to go on but he didn't seem like he wished to.

Galadriël sighed. "I could give you a tour of the palace if you'd like?" "Oh, certainly," he replied, "I suppose I'll tell you more about my race, and my people, as we do so." Galadriël stood up... "I would like that". She reached her hand out to Mephet`ran, who reached out and took it; his own being warm to the touch, and he stood gracefully. "Please follow me", the Knootian Prime Minister said, releasing the hand. He followed, though he seemed a little reluctant to release her hand. The two walked out of the room together and Galadriël began to point out paintings, looking continually at Mephet`ran to see if he was following. The door closed slowly, leaving the wine and the cookies alone with the two empty chairs.

((OOC: not the reply you were expecting… but this visit had been an outstanding RP for months. Babies, perhaps? Who knows! Anyways, it does tie in as you’ll know if you have actually read it. I’ll start replying to your stuff now, but don’t know if I can finish it. Days pass so quickly and stuff like Ruhrs interference with UNICAT *glares* eats into my NS time.. :/ Many thanks go out to the Ctan player for this long RP that mostly included me yakking about me. :P ))

((Humm. And me saying very little about me. Just the way we like it.

Now, how does the Imperial Necrontyr Province of Knootoss sound?)) :twisted:

Over dinner in Santiago del Cristobal
…“Now, my son. Tell me about yourself. What brings you here, to the mountains?” The priest, who ate very little himself, watches his guest with enjoyment. “Ahhh... young appetites are hearty.”

"I want to help you out, father! To fight the oppression!", Benignus exclaimed, perhaps a bit too passionately as he held up his spoon defiantly. His cheeks flushed slightly, and continued respectfully of the old age of his conversation partner: "I mean, uh, as best as I can." The priest chuckled slightly. "Fighting, my son, can take many forms. But in all cases, it requires something from the fighter." The boy nodded, but his look did not express much understanding. Instead he watched the old man, hoping for an explanation. "To be effective, a fighter must be disciplined. Focused. And deeply committed. Then, too, we ask one more thing--in this fight, we must never succumb to hatred of those we oppose. That would lead us down the wrong path, eventually to become that which we fight. Do you understand this?"

Benignus nodded eagerly, waving the spoon around. "Oh, yes, Padre! I am willing to fight and I have proven it in Bogotá. I can help, if you will allow me. God is with us, is he not?" "God is with all of His Creation, Benignus. Even with the Knootians and Chimaeans who occupy us.” Benignus nodded piously.

“Tell me, my son-- Why do you wish to dedicate yourself to this struggle?"

"It is the plight of the peasants, Father", he replied. "I have seen the suffering here, too. This village. The mine. It cannot be right."
"There is always suffering in this vale of tears. In part, we fight to lessen such suffering, for such is our duty. Even the Knootians and the Chimaeans believe that they are fulfilling this duty, do they not?"
"...I guess", Benignus reluctantly admitted.
"So. Wisdom begins. But knowing this, why then do you wish to oppose them?"
"Because they oppress our people!", the young one exclaimed - this time with a rather softer voice, and without waving a spoon around - "Because they murder and exploit!"
"Many of our own people are guilty of these crimes, as well. Surely you remember, my son, the bloody days before the occupation?"
"I remember, Father" he said bowing his head. His cheeks flushed red as the memories returned. Softly he whispered to himself. "I remember."
"Terrible things, Benignus. We--our own Colombian people--we did terrible things. We cannot condemn the Knootians and Colombians for their violence. 'First remove the beam from your own eye, before you would take the mote from your neighbour’s.'"

Benignus just sat quietly and listened to the priest. "If you are here to fight because you hate, the first task you face is to purge yourself of that hatred. We do not oppose the Knootians and the Chimaeans because they do evil. All men do evil, we are born sinful and redeemed only through the great Sacrifice of the Son of God. We oppose the Chimaeans and the Knootians because they do not belong here."
"Yes, father," the boy said. He was hoping they would let him join and became suspicious that this was a test, of sorts.
"They have fallen into the trap of their own good intentions, Benignus. Now, they cannot see that it is time for them to move on. The best among them believe this because they wish to 'improve' us. The base among them, because their occupation has become..." the priest's voice thinned, "profitable. In either case, they now believe that it is their destiny to control our destiny." The priest shook his head, and rose to begin clearing away the dinner things.

"They are wrong.", commented Benignus as he began to help out with the plates. "Yes. They are wrong, but not evil. And since we, too, know what it is to be wrong," the priest crossed himself, "we must not hate, but only oppose. You understand the difference?"
"Yes father" - right now the Colombian boy would say anything to join but it still sounded very sincere. The years on the streets of the capital had made him a good actor.
"Tell me, then. What do you think this means, to our struggle--that we oppose, without hatred?"
"We must... act with reason, with the mind and not the heart. To show the world our cause." He picked up some of the other dinner things and went along inside with the elderly man. Pacal chuckled. "Close. But we cannot forget the heart--without the heart it is all too easy to think of it as a calculation. No. We must join heart and head, and do the things that will convince the Knootians and the Chimaeans that it is too costly--in money and in prestige--to remain here." He scrutinized the boy keenly. "A long journey up the mountain. You are weary, my son. You must rest, first of all. Tonight, I will show you... Well. I will show you some things. First, though..."
He led the boy to a small shed. Once, perhaps, it had held a burro, but now it was clean (if dust-coated) and stocked with a few tools. He went to a wooden chest, and took out a bedroll. "You may rest here. Get some sleep."

"Thank you, Father", the boy replied with an appreciative nod. He began to spread out the bedroll. The priest blessed the lad, to keep his sleep sound, and returned to his church, to say the afternoon Office.

The Next Day
Benignus woke up at 7 AM to the sound of a bell of sorts; it was an annoying sound that could be heard around the village. It was the sound that signified that work was starting at the mine. Hastily, the Colombian got up and rolled up his bedroll, putting it away where he believed the priest had left it the other day.

Mass had already been said--attendance was sparse these days. The church scheduled the Mass so that the miners could attend, if they wished. But fewer and fewer had the inclination--or the energy--to do so. It was mostly old women and schoolchildren, now. Still, it was a lovely, heartfelt little Mass, in this tiny, simple mountain church. The priest, in his alb and stole, took on a new dignity. As it ended, he went to the door to bless and say a few words to each attendee. Benignus got out of the shack and wandered into the church, looking for Padre Pacal. He received some curious glances, but no one questioned him. Indeed, some of the old women smiled.
It was good to see a strong young man in the church. One old woman in particular, whose wrinkle-netted skin was stretched over bones that had once conveyed great beauty, stared with frank appreciation. When she saw the youngster returning her gaze, she winked, then turned to bow her head for the priest's blessing.

When all had gone, the priest smiled at the young man. "You slept well, my son?"
"Yes father", Benignus lied. "Very well." The priest peered into the boy's face, but accepted his assurance. "Good! Come and break your fast." He had fruit and maize porridge, a simple but sustaining meal, ready.
"This morning, if you have your mountain legs, I would like to take you for a little journey." Benignus smiled, the thought of another trip exited him and perhaps he would learn more now.

After breakfast, the priest set off up a path that led away from the village and the mine. It was a long hike, and the sun rose high in the sky while they were still walking--mostly uphill. They were above the jungle altitude line, here, and the trees gave modest only modest protection from the sun. As they walked, the priest picked fronds from a particular sort of bush, and worked them in his hands, weaving. Halfway through the morning, the leaves and grasses around them were no longer coated with reddish dust, and the air began to sparkle--although it was definitely a bit thin. Benignus was definitely less used to walking long distances, but he had the strength of his youthful body to compensate. As they continued it became clear what the priest's fingers were busy with--a hat, for Benignus. "You will need protection from the sun. This far in the mountains it can be cruel, and you are not accustomed." The boy carefully eyed the process, lacking the understanding of this skill and trying to follow the movements of the priests fingers. "Yes, Father," he said compliantly, "thank you."

The sun had almost reached its zenith when the barely-visible path split. The priest took the downward-sloping trail. Benignus was now walking behind him, and followed him carefully. Despite his care, he almost tripped two times over a branch that was running over the path. They passed through a narrow defile; the trail became complex, convoluted. But Pacal followed it with the ease of familiarity. Finally, the trail debouched into a broad, flat meadow area, with gentle slopes all around. Here, nestled in the hollow between the peaks, a small community rested. Coffee plants stretched in ordered squares, and among them worked a number of men and women. In the distance, a cluster of houses was ringed by gardens and fenced pastures.
The young Colombian looked surprised... "this is...", he said with wonder, stopping as the men and women noticed him.

The priest halted. "This is San Julio, my son." Most of the people had the dark skin and distinctive features of Indians, but not all. When they saw the priest, the men and women in the fields left their work, and came to meet him, with reverent affection, kneeling for his blessing. Benignus looked around, carefully eying the people with some shyness. He was not used to such religious fervour - not in the capital. He almost thought it... embarrassing... as if he did not belong here. "You are welcome, very welcome, Padre," said one woman, with strong features and square, capable-looking hands. "Will you say a Mass for us, while you are here?" She glanced curiously at the young man. The priest smiled. "But of course, Leola. This is my young friend Benignus--from the cities." Benignus gave a small nod to Leola and mumbled a greeting, not knowing very well what to say.
The woman turned to Benignus. "You are welcome, friend. You honour San Julio, we receive very few visitors."
They were continuing among the fields, along the path to the village. The woman Leola accompanied them, and some of the others, but most had returned to the fields.

"Excuse us, Padre... the beans are just coming, we must take off the first picking before the fogs roll in."
The priest nodded. "But of course, of course." As they reached the village, more people appeared, some women with babies and small children, some elderly men, sitting in a clear space with a big water tank in it. They were working leather. From one building, larger than most, with a broad verandah, they could hear the sounds of children's voices, raised, chanting numbers in some counting exercise. Many of the people followed them, and the priest went to the water tank, sitting on its edge, and blessing them all. "A drink for my young friend. He is not accustomed to our mountains." With ready hospitality, a cup was thrust into Benignus' hand, and fruit was offered.
"Oh, thanks", Benignus said, much flattered by the hospitality. He took only a small amount fruit, not wanting to impose on these generous people, and sipped at the edge of the cup. The people were dressed in a motley combination of hand-woven things and a few of the cheap shirts and dungarees that could be had from traders in any sizable mountain town; none looked very prosperous but all appeared well-fed.

"So, Leola, how did the meeting go?" the priest asked. The woman nodded. "Well, I think, Padre. They are mostly agreed to the conditions, and Gutierrez believes that he can get us a contact with a foreign firm." Benignus listened intently while pretending that his attentions were absorbed by drinking his drink. This looked as if it was important. "See? I told you he is a man who gets things done. There are almost enough now, to make it work, yes?" "We will need more burros, Padre. The men are working extra to make leather goods for trade, but we have not found anyone who has them to trade--or llamas, perhaps." The priest nodded. "I will ask Juan Setubal, he may know who has beasts to trade."

The priest said Mass for the villagers, summoned by a bell improvised from a piece of scrap metal. Almost everyone in the village attended. They were given a meal, Benignus was encouraged to eat lavishly. A couple of the older children finally got up the nerve to speak to him. "What is it like, the cities?" Clearly, the cities represented to them some undreamed-of El Dorado of wonder and mystery. Benignus eyed them. "It is, different", he said slowly. Trying to explain this might be difficult. "They are big, and there are a lot more people there. And people from other nations, who are white and speak in different tongues." "And there are no trees and the people do not grow coffee", he added with a smile. The children were astounded. White people some of them had seen--on rare occasions. But a place without trees? "How do people live without trees?" Benignus raised an eyebrow. "They, uh, they just do." One of the children, a girl of about thirteen or so, was clearly sceptical. The others exchanged wondering glances. "What do they build their houses from?" she challenged Benignus. "That depends", he said slowly. "Sometimes they use stone. But mostly, they use iron."

He was reminded of the place where he was born. From the air, the slums on the edge of Bogotá, surrounded by forest, could best be compared to a giant pool of crapulous vomit on somebody's expansive unmown lawn. Every building was roofed with corrugated iron in various advanced states of rusty erosion, an ochrous tin checkerboard, a bilious metallic sea, the paranoid vision of a mad townplanner.

"Iron? They must be rich." Metal of any kind was scarce, and valuable, here. "Is everyone in the cities rich, then?"
"Iron houses sounds hot," one of the older boys said wonderingly. "And cold at night. Do they not mind it, then?"
"Not really", Benignus said warily. He did not want to break their vision and he was not the type to rant of opression at any occasion. His hate went inward. "You get used to it."

The children glanced at one another. Clearly, the people of the cities were strange, indeed. The girl was still suspicious, but courtesy kept her from saying more. After the meal, Padre Pacal again blessed the villagers, and they said their farewells. Benignus rejoined Pacal to leave with him and go back to the church. Benignus might have expected the return, downhill journey to be easier, but travelling downhill constantly used muscles he didn't realize he had, nearly to the screaming-point. Dinner and the bedroll would be welcome.

The next day
The next day, after Mass, the priest took him to see a very different kind of village. They went down the main street of their own little village. The houses, coated in the reddish dust of the mine's effluvia, were in poor repair. A few gardens struggled and straggled around the margins, tended mostly by old women. However, an electric cable led to a power pole in the village center. From it, wires were stretched to a few houses. One had an old-fashioned electric washing-machine on the porch. They went through the village, which had a sad, confused feeling about it, to where a broad gravel-paved road cut through the old fields. Benignus shook his head as he walked along. This part of the countryside was worse then he had expected. As they walked the road, the efforts to keep the verdant mountain vegetation at bay made wide swathes of brown, dead brush on either side.

A mile down the road, it started sloping downhill, and from there, it curved. As they rounded the curve, Benignus could see a sight as ugly as any in the Bogota slums. It looked like the side of the mountain had been scraped away by a giant hand. Causeways and platforms gave access to work gangs and machinery, the dust was everywhere. Even at this distance (they were still perhaps a mile away) the noise was hellish. Benignus coughed as the dust filled his throat and his nostrils. Bogotá was dusty but it paled in comparison to this. Padre Pacal passed a waterskin to Benignus, who drank from it and passed it back to the priest with an appreciative nod.

Spread around the mine were acres of long, corrugated-roofed dormitory buildings, surrounded by wire fencing with razor coils atop. Just outside the heavily-guarded gate, a shantytown was coming into being, centered on the cantina. On the verandah of the cantina, a couple of girls dressed in skimpy, provocative clothing were sitting in lounge chairs, doing something to their toenails and laughing. Men in coveralls, with guns casually slung by their sides, stood around laughing and jeering with them.

Traces could be seen where runoff had washed large chunks of mountain away, now that the protective coating of vegetation had cleared. A muddy stream gurgled sluggishly along the margins of the mine camp. "All the benefits of modern technology," the priest said mildly.
Well, they *do* have electricity, Benignus thought cynically.
"You know, my son, this has always been a mining village. I wish you could have seen it fifteen years ago. We did not mine, then, by scraping away the mountain's flesh."
"Oh?", inquired the boy.
"Of course, the yield was small--only enough to trade a little. We had craftsmen, jewellery makers. But when the mine was closed and re-opened, the price of metal was too high for them to buy, unless they too became miners, and bought from the factors. But working in the mine leaves a man with little energy for craftsmanship."

As they stood there, a heavy bass rumbling from behind warned them of the approach of a truck. The priest quickly stepped off the road, pulling the young man with him. A big truck, copiously belching diesel fumes as it downshifted on the slope, roared past them. The priest coughed, and wrinkled his nose as Benignus squeezed his eyes together and turned to see the thing drive away. "ugh", he commented and asked: "But... did nobody do anything?"
"Do anything?"
The spies facial expression was one of earnest horror at what was going on. "This village... if what you told me is true, father, these people have had difficult years. Did nobody try to stop the owners of the mine?"
"The mine is on land that was once owned by the government of Colombia, my son. The men who worked it paid a modest percentage of what they mined to a corrupt government official, who gave them what he said was an "official permit" to work the mine. After the Knootians arrived, we found that the "official permit" was wastepaper--the government official was simply lining his pockets. The mine was leased to this Knootian corporation, which promised that they would undertake "economic development" in our village." The priest shrugged. "And so we are economically developed."

Benignus eyed the priest. "But what are we going to do! What can I do?!", he exclaimed, hushing his voice because of the nearby presence of the mine. "There is little we can do, my son. They have a legal right to be here." He turned, and started back up the road. "However, we do manage a few things..." he chuckled. "They use us, yes. But we are learning to use them, as well." Benignus looked at the priest with a small glimmer of hope in his eyes. "Well. More of that, later. For now, we wait. I am expecting a visit, soon. In a few days, perhaps. You may find it interesting. In the mean time, perhaps you can make yourself helpful around the village?"

"I will do that," he said with determination. "If I can just help."
"Good, good. You can get to know some of our people, as well."

stuff: http://www.nationstates.net/forum/viewtopic.php?p=3257736#3257736

Knootian mission in Bogotá

Metusen and the other Knootians watched the esteemed members of the International Mediation Council talk about where to go, seemingly unhindered by any advance planning or prior knowledge. “And then to think that I have been planning this bloody visit for weeks.”, the thought to himself.

He sat back and simply waited for the storm to pass. When all remaining delegates were silent, he wrapped up and stood up as if he was taken the orders in a restaurant: “So, if I may summarise, you wish to visit parliament, then a local market and perhaps attend something of the trial, yes?”

There was nobody who immediately objected and Metusen regarded this as agreement. “Well, the visit to the local parliament had originally been scheduled for the day after tomorrow, but perhaps I can arrange some people to be ready for you tomorrow.” He smiled. “The market is of course open that day and we can take you there, no problem…. The trial, well, you can attend the pro forma hearing if you want to. Its not very exiting but probably all we can get you in this short timespan.”

He looked around to check if this was okay. “For now, however, it is perhaps best if I show you the hotel? Tomorrow will be a long day and no doubt”, there was a light irony in his voice, “you will want to prepare yourself for that.”


Davinci residence – watching television

"Metusen, Fascista, Vos sos el terrorista!" – the news showed the bovine protestors chanting and thowing some rocks. The newsanchor, a middle-aged woman in a blue suit, spoke “Coalition politicians have not given any comment on the protests in Hell Bovines, but KGP politican Femke Halsema did say in KNN Afternoon that she worried about the present situation and that the protests should be investigated deeper. When asked for a response the SLP and RCPK refused to comment ‘out of respect for the deceased…’

The screen changed to images more familiar to Davinci… an oiltanker at sea, factories… the anchor continued
http://www.euronews.net/images_news/04-eco-oil.jpg

”…Crude oil prices have gone down since the DDR decided to increase output but in the markets, traders are saying that the falls actually probably have more to do with new figures showing that stockpiles in the North Sea are larger than expected. The decision by the ‘Global Hell’ corporation to boost their quotas by two million barrels a day from July was followed almost immediately by a fall on the Amsterdam Exchange market to below 16 dollars a barrel…”

David Davinci flipped off the television. He wasn’t worried about oil for the moment – the protesting cows had annoyed him. “Bad for our reputation”, he considered. He mainly felt sorry for Metusen – a man he knew as someone who had integrity. ("For a leftist.") That with the corrupt and greedy Knootians messing about in the protectorates, he would be the one condemned for fascism for a deed he had not ordered. The irony did not elude him.

He turned to his butler who sat behind him on a smaller chair. ((OOC: the butler who is, as is now established, a Weegie spy.))
“Nasty business there in Greenfields, don’t you think?”, he asked. He did not wait for an answer. “Just wait – in a few days these cow-people”, he pointed to the television set as if the protestors would be coming out of it, “they won’t be complaining about this one casualty much longer.”

Questionable taxi
The taxi driver shakes the Nachxas hand, a bit surprised, “Yes, Sir”, he muttered and started driving down the road. The taxi made a strange clunky sound in the back, but the driver did not appear to be paying any attention to it. After a few hundred metres, the road ended in a ‘T’ before a red traffic light. As the car turned left it promptly ended up in an endless traffic jam, a glittering sea of cars on the black asphalt road in the centre. The sunlight was reflecting on their roofs as a golden haze creating the illusion of rumpling water.

The taxemeter, however, was still running. Calmly the driver turned around. ”So, Sir, what brings you to Bogotá”, he asked. He had observed where he had picked this particular client up. “you working for the Knootians?

((OOC: HB: I tend to think of the ‘at the beach’ thing as something that has happened in the past already. If you have ideas, however, about what to do with it then by all means TG me.))

The Nachxa laughed as the taxi driver immediately drove into a traffic jam

“I'm going nowhere,but taking the scenic route....... you must be new to Bogota, I'm sure the traffic jam caught you by suprise. I know you wouldn't be padding the fare, who knows, maybe I don't even have any money?"

The Nachxa smiled as the driver asked if he worked for the Knootians

“Work for the Knootians? I'm sure they'd like that........I'd prefer to get away from them at this point. Not much chance of that in a traffic jam."

The Nachxa then simply sits back, relaxes and waits to see what the driver does.

OOC: Um, I'm kinda busy these days, suddenly I'm 20 and life seems busier at 20. Anyway I'm gonna reply to these things as soon as I can, but even now I have to go and shout at people. If you really need me to say stuff, feel free to telegram :)

“No money, Sir?”, the taximeter was still running despite the traffic jam and the driver turned his rather unattractive head around and looked at The Nachxa with the same squinted, distrusting eyes with which he had first been regarded

((Chimaea... ish okay ;) ))

((Useless post to get rid of that annoying bug that cuts off the page))

EDIT: AARG... still doing it

The Nachxa continued to relax, apparently oblivious to the taxi drivers discomfort at the suggestion that the Nachxa may not have any money

“Maybe not, I did storm out of there rather quickly, maybe I forgot my wallet? Did I even stop at the currency exchange? What day is today? I'm an old man, I forget things, I'm sure you understand”

The Nachxa grinned sheepishly at the driver

“Not that it matters. Being stopped and all....."

The Nachxa pauses and glances backwards out of the window

"....I'm sure at any minute Chimean security will catch up with us, maybe walk up to the car on either side, a quick bullet behind the ear for each of us......don't worry I'm sure you won't feel a thing, you won't even know it's coming."

The Nachxa relaxes, waiting to see if paranoia may induce the driver to suddenly remember a less crowded route through the city............

(OOC: no problem, Knoot. Sincerely, I haven't got any idea worth including in the "beach incident". i just assumed you wanted to continue the thing (prisioner interrogation, or something like that.)
But if you don't want, neither do I :P )

*Knootian Mission in Bogotá

With a bit of disgust, Gia stood up and followed the other delegates in their way to the hotel. *Well, I could use some sleep, I guess*, she thought to herself, *as well as a nice dinner. I'm starving!*

Davinci residence, Knootcap.

Aidan McColl sat behind his "employer", fighting the urge to stand up and smack him right in the mouth, something he had to do at least three times a day. He was getting rather good at it. Cow people, indeed. He despised the note of derision he heard in Davinci's voice as he said it, although he had despised Davinci as soon as he had started working for him. Still, at least the man had a loose tongue in front of him, especially when he kept the drink flowing, like with that bridge game a few nights back... some very interesting information was gleaned from that. He decided to say something.

"Indeed, sir. It seems that they shall soon have far more to ruminate on than grass, no?"

The Nialachan Fladh, the Weegie intelligence service that had replaced the colonial Inter-Island Intelligence Service (IIIS), had been pleased with his work, so far. Getting the butler job had been a stroke of luck; the under-funded Nialachan Fladh would not have been able to provide any sort of surveillance equipment that would have been half as effective as this cover for providing information, although the forging job they did with the passports to get him into Knootoss as a Stephistani immigrant was excellent. Anyway, installing that equipment would have been difficult to begin with; it was far easier, this cover.

The Nialachan Fladh had monitored the Order of the Invisible Hand very carefully since it went public; its' doctrines scared the intelligence service with their extreme free-market ideology, and the Order seemed imperialist by its very nature. What markets would be freed up at the barrel of a gun? To assess the danger, a few of the more experienced Fladh operatives had went undercover in Knootoss to discover more about the Order's plans.

It hadn't been very successful. The security of the Order was obviously far superior to that of the Fladh; after all, it had wealthy supporters. That was basically as much as the Fladh operatives could acertain; who actually was a major supporter of the Order - in secret, at least. Its' darker secrets had been elusive. Aidan, though, had got lucky. So lucky he was to remain in Knootoss for the long term whilst the others were removing themselves back to Headquarters in Mackintosh. Aidan thought that the Fladh had a funny way of thinking what was lucky. In Aidan's opinion, Knootoss was hell. Especially with such a pompous prick as Davinci as your employer.

According to his contact, the Fladh was now concentrating on Colombia, to see what kind of operation the Order were pulling off there, as they were convinced they had a very strong hold in Knootian Colombia, as well as garnering information for the Weegie in the IMC as to the conditions in Colombia. He wondered if the Fladh had passed on any of the info they'd got from him onto those who would need it, like Tanah Burung. Probably not, he decided. The Fladh never let anything take ten minutes when it could take ten months.

He stood up. "Will sir be needing anything else tonight, or are my services no longer required?"

A questionable taxi
Tiny drops of sweat began to form on the taxi drivers face, but the result of this provocation was not what the Nachxa may have expected. Instead, the man with the unshaven, fat face got out a gun himself. It was a rather old model with a bit of rust in the end, but still it pointed dangerously at the Vaadian. ”Get out of my cab you… “, he cursed some swearwords in Spanish that are best left unrepeated while he pointed his gun from the Nachxa to the exit of the cab and back again.

((I-V, as much as I liked it as a plot device to get the taxi going, Chimaean security guards doing random assassinations in the capital in a traffic jam in the middle of day isn’t too probable. The guy probably think you are just a lunatic, esp. considering the destination you gave him.

If you want to, you can presume to have found another taxi somewhat later after 10 minutes or so of walking though the city. Getting some money, or at least not mentioning that you don’t have it would help speed up your journey significantly.))

((Hell Bovines: I’m sort of assuming that interrogation happens. That they are Rumbiak brigade will also be fairly easy to find out. That’s all I need to know for now, and I will TG Tanah Burung about interrogation results when they become relevant.))

Davinci residence
“It’s all right”, David waved his hands dismissively to Aidan from the couch. “I will see you again in the morning.”

Davinci attached great value to the bond of trust between a servant and his master. After all, if you cannot trust your butler then who can you trust? The new lad seemed nice enough, not as contradictory as his previous maid. – he wondered idly what had happened to her and her children after he had fired her. It had not been more then reasonable, because the cancer treatments she had needed would mean an extended inability to work, if she would even survive the tumour, which was doubtful. Despite this sound reasoning, the thought bothered him a little... the woman had made a terrible scene at the front door which had been quite embarrassing. The woman had not understood that it was only Market, and not some unkind intent on his part that had brought him to the decision. Only Market, the thought comforted him. In the greater picture, it had been a good deed. He pondered the replacement, Aidan McColl. An eager lad, worked reasonably hard. (But what did you expect – he was a Stephistani after all.) Liked to listen also.

He finished his glass of gin and went to bed for the night.

((If there are no OOC protests I will continue tomorrow with the IMC and the trip to the Colombian parliament))

(ooc: sorry for being away, unavoidable trip. i'll bring my part of fluidic time up to the present now, with thanks to HB for filling in...)

"You know, Father," the Nachxa said, "when they feed you before showing you anything, they have something to hide."

Domic de Groot had spent a great deal of his student days at the Diplomacy Training School practising how to keep a straight face, how not to betray a single sign of what he was thinking. At the legendary Vaadian's wisecrack, though, he could not repress a smile -- a smile, indeed, that was in some danger of turning into a giggle. It was not the last time that day he would lose his composure.

As the Nachxa turned to more serious matters of faith, he winced inwardly, but this time kept his face impassive -- noticing, too, how closely Metusen seemed to be listening. "I'm no theologian," he answered. "I'm certain that one of Colombia's Bishops could give a better answer than a simple parish priest like me can manage. But for most of the church in my country, the threat of hellfire is absent from our homilies. Our God is a God of love, who so loved the world that he sent his only son to die for us, that we might be saved. A sacrifice freely given for us. Freely, for our sins that we might be redeemed. And is we drink of the cup of his blood, it is in memory of him. But really, i think meeting a local bishop would be good for all of us, and not just for the theology. This is a Catholic country, and very often that means the churches are the only place to get information fee of the government, uh filter."

He rather enjoyed his lunch, fairly confident that things had not so deteriorated in occupied Colombia that the authorities would resort to anything so crude as poisoning the food of an international delegation. He turned to Metusen, trying out the Dutch he had learned at his father's knee (when he was not bent over that knee for a good beating with a wooden shoe). "A spendid meal, you honour us with it," he said. "I hope that as the meal has been shared, we shall all be friends now and join in a mutual search for the truth. let me assure you, i'm here simply on a quest for the truth, not to further muddy the waters between our countries. This council, after all, is on a search for peace."

But as the images of the Markus Rumbiak Brigade rolled across the screen, he realized that things were going to be more complicated than he had imagined. A great deal more complicated. As he watched, his face went almost white: so white that he looked almost like the Knootian blood flowing in his veins was not half, but the whole. His heart leapt into his throat and his breath came in shallow gasps. As the others talked, he fled for the washroom to compose himself, taking a puff from his asthma inhaler and choking out a prayer as he grabbed his rosary beads, white-knuckled. Slowly, his breath returned to normal, and he grabbed his satellite telephone, not caring that the call was almost certainly being monitored by half a dozen intelligence services.

"Already?" Mari Alkatiri answered. "You've only just arrived, there can't be news yet."

"The worst, Bapak Mari." De Groot began to report the evidence to the appalled Tanah Burung foreign minister: the raid, the recitals of guilt by the obviously drugged members of the Rumbiak Brigade, the guns from an unknown source, the thinly-veiled hints that some in Knootoss were very angry indeed at Tanah Burung's government.

"Stupid children." Alkatiri spat out the words, almost cursing. "They've ruined six months of planning with their rashness. Well, tell the Company men that it's nothing to do with us. I'll try to find out who's behind this. Inshallah, i'll be able to put a stop to it before it does too much damage to our international reputation."

De Groot was relieved, to say the least. He entered the conference room again and when the chance arose, began to speak, denying any government involvement with the "terrorists," as Metusen had been pleased to call them. If there was evidence that Tanah Burung's government was involved, let them produce it. In fact, he was almost calm again. The lines of battle had changed, but Dominic was confident that the battle itself was not lost.

Baroness Bennigsen had noticed that there were two freckles on her hands. She was quite disturbed and decided not to do any work on her computer or any writing the rest of the day, preferring to rather stay in her rooms lying very still listening to the soothing notes of Rachmaninoff. Later on she sampled some of Columbia's culture and found it extremely tasty, though rather spicey. A lot of exotic vegetables and corn flour rather than wheat. She preferred wheat. The gift shop at the hotel had some interesting books on the country and she bought two to read.

Meanwhile, Major Wolfmar quietly stayed in his room as well, only he was glued to a radio headset. The antenna connected with a satellite, which was moving into position to begin listening in on conversations at the Chimaean headquarters and at the Knootian Residency. It was something of a test of security, and also something called 'fishing'.

The Nachxa laughed as the sweaty taxi driver pointed the firearm at him and then reached into his wallet and payed the fare, whatever amount it curently showed, "I don't think I shall tip, you've been a most unpleasent host, I believe your rear suspension may need work as well. Good day." and removed himself from the taxi

The Nachxa then decided to walk. He set off at a brisk pace, heading for the edge of the city to the northwest. He carried his cane at the ready and made many turns and twists and moved through crowded areas as much as possible to confuse any 'shadows' he had picked up.

-----------------------------
Bogotá suburbia
-----------------------------
The Nachxa made reasonably rapid progress through the Colombian capital city and soon he left the unpleasant busyness of the inner city. Keeping the Northwest in sight, he passed through a street with red lights along the windows. Should he choose to take a closer look he would find half-naked Colombian boys and girls winking to him and beckoning him to come in.

If he chose to walk on, however, instead of going inside, he would gradually find the building density to become less and less until he found himself in a suburban area with single homes and green lawns. Small children were playing on the front lawns, about half of them were Colombian while the rest was white. Suburbia stretched out before him.

------------------------------------------------------------------
Major Wolfmars radio conversations, that evening
------------------------------------------------------------------
While Chimaean security seemed adequate, the Knootian residence with its traditionally more lax security provided the listening Lavenrunzian with a clamour of conversation. Almost all of it was in Dutch, however, except a few internal calls ordering coffee and lunch in Spanish from the locals working in the kitchen of the Bogotá residence.

((A Lavenrunzian speaking Dutch? Its possible but unlikely. If Lavenrunzian, as I expect, is indeed a bit like German then he might get some of the words right. (Having lived near the German border myself I know – the languages are one family.) To simulate this effect, I have put the words through several language translators and this will hopefully simulate the level of understanding that Major Wolfmar has.))


(Female voice)
“Jaap says can bring those papers below to you? Jeweetwel, that immigratiedocumenten of the new ambassador… yes that”
(Male voice)
“naturally”

[…]

(Male voice #2, speaking with the first female voice)

“de IMC now away, yet?”
“yes, finally. What a bundle that was.”
“Nouwja… it natural Brunnenverwirren.”
“then yet – Trudy told me, had has is that it no single time a program or plan!”
“Hmmm… perhaps that well where. What is happened there now moreover? Is Metusen rung again?”
“now – can actual I not say who, but actually. It resembles there that it wants to go these rotations really actual action, undertakes. Say nothing of it however.
“No really?”
“yes yes – and not only here. Mouth closed, but I think that it something in Tanah Burung plans. Does power “only its allies? Red halve garen.”
“yes, appear me it also insane work. Only yes… what can you make to it?”
*sigh*
“it becomes here also well, that means means additional unrest– perhaps more troops.”
“says, has you so not lunch recess? Then I see you then well.”
”Okay.”

[…]

(Familiar voice of Metusen)
“Could Ms. Limoen, receive you please to my pantry for a… special… line?”
*naughty female voice is chuckling on the other side or the line*?


------------------------------------------------------------
The following morning –trip to parliament
------------------------------------------------------------
The gift shop at the hotel was already open the following morning as the IMC delegates came down from their bedrooms. Fresh newspapers (both international and domestic) has been delivered and stood in the paper rack in front of the shop. Big headlines in Spanish gave off different messages: " Colombian National Party: investigate corruption scandal” dominated along with the less ominous “Miss Colombia really a man?.” Whether the Colombian National Party wanted to investigate a corruption scandal or if it was under investigation for corruption itself wasn’t clear from the headlines, but the IMC delegates in the lobby were sure to find out soon. At any rate, they could conclude that the military action from the night before had not yet reached the press.

The Knootians had been standing there to welcome the delegates and there had been coffee for those arriving in the lobby first. The same black cars that had brought them into the capital were now waiting for them in front of the hotel. The outside temperature was reasonably cool, as the sun had not yet reached its full zenith. There was a police escort of motorcycles and armoured cars to accompany the imposing procession.

After clearing the nations capital Bogotá, the convoy of diplomatic vehicles rode along a highway that was similar in appearance to the one they had encountered yesterday. This time though, the sight of slums quickly made way for pristine nature on both sides of the road. The drivers (the same ones as yesterday) explained that the parliament stood in a provincial capital that functioned as the ‘main’ city for the Knootian part of Colombia and that they would be driving for a few hours to get there and back.

As traffic was cleared for the IMC, the journey progressed quickly along the network of highways. The drivers had been instructed to open the windows and point out the beauty of the jungle to the esteemed IMC visitors. They also took care to mention how parts of this rainforest would now be used for fair trade and export to foreign markets, and how this had helped to create jobs. As if it was on cue, the cars with the open windows passed a group of men standing next to the road sawing down a tree. All were Colombian apart from one Knootian who was wearing a suit fairly similar to the ones the personnel of the Knootian mission wore. The men by the roadside paused their work to wave to the passing convoy.

“Don’t worry”, the driver added, “for every tree that is cut down here, two are replanted.”

About half an hour later, the quiet morning air was disturbed by the roar of helicopters overhead. Two black monsters with missiles mounted passed low over the highway. None of the drivers commented though some did look out of the front window to check it out…

Finally, the convoy pulled into a medium-sized city that had a decidedly provincial taste. The colonial-style Catholic church was less imposing then its Bogotá counterparts despite having an equal amount of ornamental accessories. The town still breathed the times of old when Spanish and native culture had mixed, giving it the uniquely Latino feel. 15 years of foreign influence had left this place reasonably unaltered.

The convoy pulled up at the ‘Parliament’ building. Colombian and Knootian flags were waving above the structure that was held up by graceful ionic pillars with stone lions holding guard. Uniformed white men where walking in and out along with Colombians in civilian clothing. A military jeep was parked to the side of the building. The building was probably the most pretentious in town, but it paled in comparison to the capitols that one could find in the imperial capitals of NS.

The inside of the structure brought the delegates reprieve from the infernal heat that had fallen over the country as the sun had made its way to the top. Colombians in imported western suits dominated the public in the structure. Metusen was waiting for them at the reception. “Welcome, welcome”, he said with a friendly smile. I hope you slept well and had a good journey?

((If the Nachxa is present in this trip depends, of course, on if he returned to the hotel for the night.))

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The North Sea – outgoing from Den Helder with the morning light
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The battleship KDF Sirithil Nos Feanör basked in the morning sun, lying elegantly as a display of raw power, she was the Queen of the navy. She lay next to the older battleships, the KDF Zhakarov and the KDF Vogels, both Angstian imports which featured less powerful guns but were still formidable in their own right.

“Sail ho!”, exclaimed a sailor on the jokingly as a tanker from El Hefe steamed by into the port on its morning trip to refuel in the Knootian naval base. Traffic from Rotterdam had reached a lull at this hour but the radar display of the North Sea was still crowed with green dots moving in every possible direction. Some of the bigger vessels steamed across the Atlantic to Thelas, NYNJ and Menelmacari America. Others went on more distant trips to Tareldanore itself, or even came from around the world in the pacific continent of Haven. Rotterdam was the front doorstep of western Europe, the gateway as the Knootians had proudly named it.

“Hello sailor!” One of the pretty boys in the Knootian navy blue grinned and winked to a Ruhrian counterpart of his who was on shore to arrange refuelling. It wasn’t taken up well, and the Knootian cleverly dodged the incoming blow with a jolly laugh.

But one part of the harbour was different from normal – the docks that held the Knootian detachment of submarines were all empty, deserted, vacant like an unneeded hotel bed. Under the North Sea, these subs were already making their way for warmer waters. In stealth mode, they had passed the Ruhrian embassy battleship before The Hague that very morning.

The Nachxa did not go back to the hotel for the evening, or in fact stop anywhere. The Nachxa seeing the green expanses past suburbia stepped up his pace and headed directly for jungle.

He was in a much better mood now and smiled and chanted as he walked "Ha Chi-Chi Ha! ,Ha Chi-chi Ha!, Ha Chi-chi Ha! ..............."

He thought wistfully back to the days when he used to make the two week walk between Costa-Tula and Tollan. He rested his walking stick on his shoulder and kept his head moving from side to side, his sharp eyes taking everything in. This was much more pleasent than some tour in stuffy automobiles.

He seemed indifferent to the heat and to fatigue, continuing his walk through the night, guided by the stars.


*****

The Nachxa's assistants (neither had voluntarily offered their names) obligingly went with the rest of the Mediation Council delegates. They both seemed sullen and had absolutely no interest in taking notes.

At several points, notably when passing the lumberjacks and upon seeing the black helicopters, they muttered to each other (in ancient Tolteca) in an unintelligible manner and seemed even more put out by the lumberjacks and the comments on re-planting. They did not appear to enjoy the company they were keeping in the least and with The Nachxa gone, they made no attempt to hide it.

********!

Gia Grassfun had spent a quiet and relaxing night at the hotel. She only slept 4 hours, and she used the rest of her free time to instruct herself on colombian history (from history books she had brought from home; not the ones sold on the lobby). She read about the indians, the colonial times, Bolivar and San Martin, the republic of Gran Colombia, the breakup with Venezuela and Ecuador, the appearance of the guerillas and of the US-implanted military governments, finishing with the Knootian-Chimaeran takeover. After finishing the book, she felt even more united with the land she was visiting. It had a history so similar to her country - both lands opressed by spanish-speaking colonialists and then prey to corporate economic interests and neo-colonialism. Her country was now free and she hoped Colombia could also find its freedom.
She also took advantage of her ability to speak Spanish and listened to the local radio, from a pocket AM/FM she had brought from home.
Except from some comments about Colombian celebrities and a reporter critisizing fashion shows, she didn't managed to hear any significant political opinion - Neither in favour of colonialism or against it -, much to her dissapointment.

The following morning, she had a quick breakfast (a fresh country salad with corn and a typical colombian coffee) and jumped right into the black car, not before grabbing a local newspaper first. She was curious about it, but decided to read it later.
As the knootian supervisor - colonialist exploiter - waved at her, she realised with disgust how faked and planned was the whole scene. She did saw the black helicopters and assumed the drivers' silence to be a sign that she had seen something "out of the plans".

She reached the small provincial city and saw the parliament building with interest - A beautiful XIX century building, built surely by one of the liberal-conservative regimes present at those times in latin america.
She looked with disgust at the uniformed white men as she entered the parliament. Once inside, she gave a dry and cold "Good morning" to Metusen and remained stood up, waiting for the tour to start with a taciturnal mood.

Brigadier Worset looked curiously at the glass map on the wall. A small red blip was blinking on and off, a small way inside an expanse of green.

"Is he... lost?" he asked curiously.

One of the special forces operatives on the screen, her face painted in camo colours and a visor around her eyes, shrugged. "We don't think so. Before entering the forest he tried to give us the slip, so we expect he wants to go there. He doesn't appear to know about the sattelite scanning or the stealth craft--or he does and he's just going through the motions."

"Does he know you're there?"

The operative's eyes were covered but Worset could almost see her rolling them. "No, sir, he doesn't."

Worset smiled. "Sorry. Just track and protect him for now."

"Are you sure you don't want us to extract him?"

Worset tapped his chin with a pen, looking thoughtfully at the red dot blinking on the map. "No... Not quite yet. Find out what he's doing."

"Yes, sir. Raptor out."

-------------------

OOC: I got a post in! Knoot, feel free to control my characters and forces 'till I get some real time to return. I'm sure you can pull it off.

Baroness Bennigsen breezed into the parliament buildings with an air of benign grandeur, as her aides fussed quietly nearby. She nodded to the Hell Bovines creature--unlike many Lavenrunzians, her experience with the UN and as an envoy made her more used to the sight of them and to speaking to them as if they were actually people. "Why, hello there--are you the Hell Bovines' envoy? Isn't this a lovely country? And hello Mynheer Metusen," she flashed him a brilliant smile. "Do you know what: I found out that you actually can't export those pretty little white faced monkeys or those lovely parrots without a permit, darling! And yet they aren't really on an endangered species list. Well, the laws hereabout are rather confusing. But I expect that things will be clearer once we've seen the parliament in session."

Colombia

Dominic de Groot had spent most of the night in prayer. With the Nachxa gone, God only knew where, his plans to stick close to the Vaadian delegates seemed unwise: those remaining didn't lok like they were filled with love of their fellow man. Still, the others along all seemed honest people committed to a fair investigation. Parliament, he was certain, would be interesting indeed. He'd never actually seen a parliament in action, so the way these representative bodies carried out their buisiness would be interesting indeed.

Ukun Rasikan

Control the story. It was rule number one of media relations, and Mari Alkatiri had not got where he was by ignoring the basic rules. So, bad though the news was, he had decided to make it public and try to control the spin. And so he found himself giving his first news conference since being elected as people's representative for foreign affairs & human rights.

Taking a deep breath and smoothing the collar of his trademark black Nehru jacket, Alkatiri stepped up to the podium that had been set up outside the foreign ministry building. Trying to strike a careful balance between the need to distance the government from an embarassing freelance action by its citizens, with the need to keep blowing the popular anti-colonial trumpet. Come down too hard against what had happened, and risk losing votes. Come down too softly, and risk the country's international reputation for peaceful diplomacy.

"I have a short statement to make," he began solemnly. "Reports from illegally-occupied Colombia have come to my attention and they reveal that citizens of this country are engaged in armed military operations in the Colombian jungle. Investigations here have confirmed that these citizens are members of an organization calling itself the Markus Rumbiak Brigade that is dedicated to fightign colonialism.

"This goal is one that the govenrment of Tanah Burung endorses. As a country that won its indepedence from a brutal colonial occupation, we know well the horrors of rule by foreign military forces. The fact that the Colombian people are fighting for liberation from the same colonial ruler we fought to gain our own independence, the Dutch Democratic Republic of Knootoss, only increases our sympathy for their struggle. The government has been taking steps through all available non-violent channels of international law to address this issue.

"At the same time, i would like to make it very clear that the actions of the Markus Rumbiak Brigade have bene taken without the knowledge or support of the government of Tanah Burung. The citizens of this country engaged in armed combat in Colombia are acting entirely on their own.

"I have asked the Knootian Ambassador to meet with me at my office this afternoon, and our ambassador in Knootoss has been instructed to inform the Knootian authorities that the government of Tanah Burung is committed to a non-violent resolution of this conflict. The Markus Rumbiak Brigade does not represent the policy of this government, and i intend to assure the Knootians of this.

"Finally, there are citizens of this country in custody in Colombia, being detained by the administering power. These citizens have the right to meet with diplomatic representatives fo their country, and i am requesting access to them be granted without delay. Knootian authority to carry out trials in an occupied country is questionable, and i am therefore requesting htat they be handed over to an international tribunal in the territory of a neutral power. I hope that the land of Grotius and others who built the principles of internaitonal law will now abide by that and grant a fair, transparent and internationally-run trial. That is all."

Reporters began shouting questions. Others were already jabbering on their mobile phones. Eventually, order was restored and questions began.

"Doris El Corus, Matebian Times. How does this affect the mediation council process?"

Alkatiri's face showed no expression, but his fingers clenched into a fist. "We continue to request a mediation committee be established to attempt a peaceful resolution between the Colombian independence movement and the Knootian government. Anything less will show the IMC to be a toothless creation, a passing fancy perfumed with jasmine but unable to act."

"Zach de la Batu, Rolling Screaming Metal Magazine. So, like, are there any famous people over there in Colombia?"

"We do not yet know the names of the prisoners," Alkatiri replied.

"Karena Belanda Salah, PTBI. Anyone from other countries involved with this Rumbiak Brigade?"

"I have no knowledge of that."

"Avril Poisson, Le Monde Diplomatique. Mr Alkatiri, are you saying you condemn the illegal resort to force and intervention in the internal affairs of Knootoss?"

Alkatiri's countenance clouded. "Look. The illegality here is that Colombia is being denied its right to self-determination, which is well established under international law. I have said very clearly that the Markus Rumbiak Brigade acted on its own without government support. They have acted foolishly. Buut they followed their heart, and i will not comdemn them for that. And that, dear colleagues of the press, really is all." He turned on his heel and strode inside.

Direct televised address to the Nation and the international community by Prime Minister Lady Galadriël Táralóm nos Círdan – about an hour after Mari Alkatiri ‘s adress

Good day, ladies and gentlemen.

Last night Knootian forces successfully intercepted a shipment of weapons to Colombian rifles by Tanah Burung citizens. (http://www.nationstates.net/forum/viewtopic.php?p=3198840#3198840). This is proof that a group we already suspected of being active in Colombia – the Rumbiak Brigade – is responsible for smuggling arms into the Chimaean-Knootian protectorate.

The Rumbiak Brigade is planning a revolution and Colombians would be used but as cannon-fodder for their anticapitalist imperialism. First it was FARC rebels and now new groups, tacitly supported by Tanah Burung, threaten to turn flourishing Colombian countrysides into sinister wastes of ruins while Knootian and Chimaean forces are working to transform a Colombia of destruction and misery into a healthy state with a flourishing economic life....

We free peoples do not use our military resources to impose by force on other peoples what those peoples themselves do not want. Our army does not swear on oath that it will with bloodshed extend liberty to other peoples, but that it will defend the Dutch Democratic Republic and the entire Knootian Federation from the aggression of other peoples.... If this shipment had passed it would have been used by a 'Fight to the Death Brigade' for the bloody purposes of these international disseminators of strife. Our brave military forces have removed this danger, from our own people and from other peoples.... but this danger is not yet over as long as the Rumbiak Brigade continues to exist in Tanah Burung and as long as the Colombian criminals are not eliminated.

If the terrorist elements in Tanah Burung would be content to promote their doctrine only at home then other countries might remain unconcerned, but its supreme principle is its internationalism and that means that these views must be carried to triumph throughout the whole world. Their representative Alkatiri refuses to condemn this affront to sovereignty, and Alkatiri chooses instead to support the aims of this group. I can come to no terms with a group who protests not for the working people it claims to represent but gives weapons to terrorists, drug lords and rebels, the scum of humanity, and then lets loose these wild beasts upon the terrified and helpless world about them....

My government never wanted to use military means to accomplish our objectives. Knootians are a peaceful people.... but those people who, as we have suspected for a few months, intend to equip its forces so that they may with violence, open the gate to revolution amongst other peoples – they should know that before the gate of the free world stands the new Knootian army.

Remember the brutal mass-slaughters of peoples living under the rule of the drug-lords, the impaling of Chimaean officers, the burning of one of our own sergeants after petrol had been poured over him, the death squads of the past that terrorised Colombia. They are a warning to forces in other lands: if this cancer is allowed continued existence then they will not rest until all of the free world will sink into a sea of blood and mourning....

I call on the International Mediation Court to see the claims by Tanah Burung of our imperialism for what they really are: lies to discredit the good intentions of Knootoss and its friends and allies. Whether the Tanah Burung government has been working in active cooperation remains to be seen – but their shared goals of driving the Colombian people away from their Knootian and Chimaean benefactors is worrying to say the least.

In the coming days, the Knootian government will consult with its allies on what course of action to take. The Knootian government will act with moderation and diplomacy, but it will be firm in the face of evil. Do not be afraid; I will not allow the sovereignty of Knootoss or Colombia to be tainted by terror.

I also call on all nations to recognise the Rumbiak Brigade as a terrorist group, and to support measures leading to its complete and utter elimination, in compliance with UN resolution #1.
I call on Mari Alkatiri personally to condemn with the strongest possible words the resort to force and intervention in the internal affairs of Colombia and the Knootian Federation.
I call on him and the Tanah Burung government as a whole to either respect the sovereignty of all of the Knootian Federation, or choose to withdraw from the treaty that guaranteed this mutual acknowledgement of sovereignty and established Tanah Burung independence.
I call on the Colombian and Knootian peoples to trust us and to support the soldiers defending freedom.

Good afternoon, and may Eru’s blessings go out to you.
-- transmission ends --

NEW EDIT: For those linked here in the boycott thread, the above was the part of the post I wanted you to read. The stuff below is just part of the RP which is not very important for those only sidely involved to read nor is it IC knowledge for most nations who are not directly involved. Thank you.

Knootian Colombia, Parliament
Metusen nodded kindly to the Baroness and invited the delegates to come along with him.

“There are four major parties in this, uh, parliament.”, he explained as they were guided into the building. ”The Colombian National Party, the Peoples Party of Colombia, the Colombian Peoples Progress Party and the United Party of Colombian People. Before we attend a session I have arranged for you to meet two parliamentarians from the CNP and the CPPP who have agreed to meet with you… they.”

He was interrupted by a small, angry looking man who came storming into the corridor with his finger raised accusingly and shouted in Spanish. “Mr. Metussen! You promised me to tell me when the IMC arrived. Clearly they have arrived now. Were you planning to let them slip away?!”… Metusen paled a bit, but formed a congenial smile of sorts. He replied in English. “But of course not Mr. Guevarra. Please… the members of the IMC delegation. I was about to send for you.”

This answer seemed to appease the angry Colombian for now, and Metusen turned to present the IMC members one by one, after introducing the man. “Please meet Mr. Guevarra from the Peoples Party of Colombia. He will be joining us for our conversations. The dark man nodded. ”Welcome to Colombia, comrades.”

Metusen quickly lead the party into a smallish room where a man and a woman were already waiting. The man, a middle-aged Colombian with coloured hair, was wearing a western suit and carried a monocle with him. “Sanchez, Colombian National Party", he greeted with a thick American accent as he extended his hand jovially to the IMX members.

The woman stood behind the man, carefully awaiting her turn. She politely bowed to Baroness Bennigsen and welcomed the others with her soft voice: “Maria de los Santos, Colombian Peoples Progress Party”

Everyone was seated, and the three politicians were ready for questions.


((OOC: Ilek-Vaad, you have a TG))

Lady Bryce watched Mari Alkatiri's press conference on CCBC and her fairly finely-tuned bullshit detector went off in her mind. Frowning, she selected rewind on her digital recording TV and played the speech again.

Then for a while she sat there thinking, then reached for a pen...

To: The International Community, and to the Government of Tanah Burung

Fellow nations,

It seems that a double-faced foreign policy is the only thing Tanah Burung can promise. It's citizens were caught smuggling weapons into Colombia, a protectorate of Chimaea and Knootoss, and their government, in the voice of Mari Alkatiri, didn't seem at all concerned with this violation of international law. He simply disowned the terrorist organisation called the Markus Rumbiak Brigade and instead of condemning such a threat to world stability and Colombian security he seemed to encourage it in a fairly oblique fashion.

Perhaps it is necessary to see what is occurring in words: Tanah Burung citizens are breaking international law by engaging in terrorist activities in another nation.

After accepting this, Mr. Alkatiri resorts to using international law to condemn Knootoss and Chimaea? Mr. Alkatiri is reassured by the fact that these terrorists 'followed their heart'. It warms me to know that the servicemen and women that I have sworn to protect are dying because of people following their heart. It warms me to know that our best efforts to bring peace and prosperity to Colombia, at an economical and military loss to Chimaea, are being sabotaged by people following their hearts.

With one face the government of Tanah Burung assures the international community that they do not support terrorism, yet they tolerate a terrorist organisation from Tanah Burung operating in another nation. I do not know whether they are supplying or supporting these terrorists, but they do not seem to be condemning or taking action against them. I'm sure their security forces can start operations against the Markus Rumbiak Brigade at any time and dismantle that organisation from the inside out. Yet they do not. If these people come from Tanah Burung there will be connections to Tanah Burung; perhaps they even operate within that nation. If they do, Tanah Burung is harbouring wanted terrorists.

At no point will Chimaea consider trying crimes committed against Chimaeans and the citizens of a Chimaean protectorate in an international court. If these terrorists are of a foreign origin then they knew the consequences of entering another nation illegally and committing a violent crime. We do not violate human rights and the Red Cross can vouch for that. All due legal process is maintained.

I call upon the government of Tanah Burung to crack down hard on all terrorist organisations within its jurisdiction, if they truly respect international law and non-violent means. I invite Tanah Burung to send a representative to talk this matter over and offer any help they need in taking down this organisation.

I assure the international community and my fellow Chimaeans this: Chimaea is committed to finding and bringing to justice these terrorists once and for all. Colombia is no longer a nation for the cartels, the smugglers, the militias or the terrorists and it'd do well for this Rumbiak Brigade to remember that.

Thank you for your time,
Lady Tanya Bryce,
Governor of Chimaea

[OOC--I have asked Knootoss if I can get involved, though I didn't mention posting here. If this needs to be deleted, or at least edited, tell me right away and your command shall be followed.]

Kasparov had been watching the issues unfold for the past month. He had grown increasingly worried, and had already changed the course of his nation's history. He was fully supporting Galadriël, and he was comfortable with her reactions. He had not met the elf personally, but after the statement he was planning to give, he would make sure to schedule a meeting sometime soon.

Boris, for once in his life, did not walk down any hall of the Blått Hus. Instead, he stayed in his office, where he would be delivering a statement. He sat eagerly in his comfortable executive chair behind his mahogany desk. It was cleaned for the occassion, to the point of absurdity, Boris believed. He looked down to see his reflection, and rolled his eyes. "Your Excellency, we go on in 5, 4, 3.." Kasparov looked up immediately, cleared his throat, and waited for the signal.

"My fellow Lietuvs and those of the international community, it is a pleasure to see you tonight. There have been great upsets in the harmony of our planet in the past month, which you have undoubtedly seen in the news. Within this path of time, we have traveled much, for strife is coming hard upon our allies. It appears that there has only been brief calm in the storm of politics and diplomacy, and I fear that our great State will be forced to venture into the storm yet again.

"Knootian, and Chimaean, Columbia has been under great reconstruction for the past decade or so. The former government there did little to help the populace, and since Knootian and Chimaean occupation, the state has thrived. It has come a long way since the beginning of occupation, and it can now boast a new standing in the world. However, terrorist groups, especially one by the name of the 'Markus Rumbiak Brigade', one that claims to be a freedom-fighting force, have been creating turmoil in a relatively peaceful country. Chimaean forces have been fighting drug cartels since their arrival, and it seems that the Rumbiak Brigade is only adding to that trouble.

"It is truly appalling to me that the government in Tanah Burung has refused to take responsibility for the actions of its citizens, not even offer any sort of apology to the Knootian or Chimaean government. And the government of Tanah Burung has called our fair ally, Knootoss, a nation of greed and imperialism. These accusations are disgusting, and they are lies. Knootoss has only done what it deems for the good of all, and Prime Minister Lady Galadriël Táralóm nos Círdan has my full, unwavering support in the face of lies and baseless accusations.

"Our ship of State has approached tough waters, my fellow Lietuvs and those watching from the international community. However, I have full confidence that we shall rise as the victors of peace, prosperity, and stability. It saddens me to see our nation go through strife yet again, but as we have shown before, Lietuvs are not easy to defeat. We will fight hard with our spirit, and God will grant us the power to move onward as we have in the past. Difficult times are ahead, but as our faithful motto proclaims: 'Home and country, liberated will we stay.' Though we are not in grave peril, the United Republics and its allies shall stay liberated from the pain that this world may give us. Let us carry, and may the winds blow behind our backs, for the disgusting attempts of terrorism and treachery will not prevail."

Hotel Excelsior, Caenavren, The Commonweath of Galdago.

Peter Bryce wandered in through the sliding doors of the Excelsior and made his way through the reception. He liked Galdago; a very advanced, civilised nation with excellent transportation. If he was ever here on anything else other than business, he'd surely be very happy. But that was not the point. He was here on business, and so he made his way toward the small but busy café just to the left of the reception. Apparently Lé Café Parisien had a very good reputation for its' coffee, which was good. He needed some waking up; the flight from Buchanan had left him slightly jet-lagged.

He made his way through the various customers to the only person who was sitting alone, reading a newspaper whilst drinking her coffee. He took the other seat, although he had to stop another person from taking it to sit at another, more crowded table.

"Ms. Véronneau?"

She put down her paper and looked up at him.

"You must be Mr. Bryce, then. Tell me, what exactly is this "favour" that your intelligence services need? Contacts between our services before have been more than a little vague."

Peter flagged down a waiter, and ordered some coffee. "Well, you see, it's to do with Colombia..."

Bogota.

James Johnstone had slept well, and was pleased that they were going to see the Parliament, although not too pleased. They were still politicians, after all. Duplicitous, guarded, and secretive by their very nature. He'd taken some time to read the various papers; although he had to end up buying one or two, with the shopkeeper jabbering on at him that his shop was not a library. Honestly, so rude when your eyes are on the profit margin. But the main stories about corruption had interested him; who was the person corrupting here? After all, if you're talking about bribery, then wealth is needed, and the Knootians were the most wealthy in Colombia, after all... Mind you, these were only suspicions, and he had no proof. But he wouldn't put it past many of them.

He had to withstand another barrage of Knootian propaganda, which annoyed him. Oh, what a marvellous photo-op. I wonder how much they had to pay them to get them to do that., he thought, as the Colombian woodcutters waved at his car. But the jungle was lovely, he thought. The noises reminded him of home, back to Lylia; such a heavenly place, full of relaxed people and friendly manner, not as rushed as the cities of the Weegia coast... he was homesick, just a little.

The building also reminded him of home... but he had no idea why, since the architecture was undoubtedly different. Just one of those things, probably.

He saw the two parliamentarians come towards them, but from the names of the parties, he wasn't expecting much... Why no "People's Party"? He saw the angry man chide Metusen, and James smiled again. Comrades? Excellent. Good to see at least one man rattle Metusen... although... He coughed as he passed Metusen to take a seat, and the cough sounded oddly like "VA". Metusen's hand twitched almost involuntarily. He smiled innocently, holding back the laughter for another time.

----------------------------------------
09.16, Le Café Parisien, Hotel Excelsior
Caernavren, Galdago
----------------------------------------

Margerite stared at Bryce for a moment, leaning against her slim elbow which rested on the table. "Colombia?" The Minister of Intelligence let the word drop like a ton of bricks. She pushed her dark, medium length hair behind her right ear while adjusting the thin glass frames on her slender, defined nose. The scowl that eternally displayed itself on Véronneau's brow furrowed a bit more; it was the only sign of the fair-framed woman's hidden intellectual prowess. She picked up the paper again, returning to reading the international section's article on the Colombia question. "We have been hearing... things of Colombia. At any rate, what do you want of us."

"Well, the Knootians—" Bryce trailed off.

"The Knootians," Véronneau spit out hastily like a strike of venom while forcefully placing the paper on the table, "are hardly to be trusted." She regained her composure. "I'm sure they've been showing the IMC the best of what their newest colonial toy has to offer. In the mean time the latest remarks by that pointy-headed, pointy-eared Galadriël and Lady Bryce have confirmed the few whisperings we've heard through the network. Nothing good is up. The Hell Bovinians know it; the Burungis know it; the Commonwealth knows it. As far as I'm concerned, the Knootians are up to something very, very devious in Colombia, and it's more than their sheer exploitation of the place. It's a tool to some end to put international Knootian posturing right where the DDR wants it, and we haven't been able to surmise what that is just yet. We've been keeping a watchful eye, but hardly a close one on the Knootians. I doubt our cursory intelligence would have much to offer you." Véronneau sipped on her latte and glanced at her paper rather casually for the gravity of matters being discussed at this table.

"Well you see," Bryce replied, "it's not so much that."

"Oh?" Véronneau glanced up from the paper, the scowl deepening once more.

Ukun Rasikan

The international reaction had thrown Mari Alkatiri for a loop. He had expected condemnation, of course, but he had not expected what seemed like veiled threats. Once again, he cursed the Rumbiak Brigade for its lack of discipline. And strode out to face a much larger crowd of reporters.

“This afternoon, I met with Ambassador Vogels of Knootoss. I have repeated that the so-called Markus Rumbiak Brigade is not connected in any way with the government of this country. I am also announcing the following steps and have so informed the Ambassador:

“First, the Rifle Manufacturing Co-operative has agreed to a freeze on all sales of guns and ammunition. Tanah Burung maintains strict end-use controls on all weapons, and it has been established definitively that no rifles made in this country have found their way to Colombia.

“Second, the Governor of Loro Sae Province has agreed to a full investigation to discover the location of the Rumbiak Brigades. The port of Loro Sae is closed and we are confident that the Brigade can be located.

“Third, the collective presidency has authorized a national referendum on whether the Rumbiak Brigade should be declared an illegal organization. As is well known, we have no power to pass such a law without consent in a referendum. This will take place in one month to allow full time for debate on this very serious question.

“Fourth, I must categorically reject the accusation of terrorism by this country. The international legal status of Colombia, as has been stated many times by the representatives of many countries, is in dispute. My government recognizes the sovereignty of Knootoss, but the matter of its claim to sovereignty over Colombia is in dispute. We are prepared to submit to international mediation on this question, and invite the government of Knootoss to do the same.

“And finally, I have heard the call of Lady Bryce of Chimaea to send a representative. I welcome this call, and am dispatching special envoy Abdul Hakim Gunung, people’s representative for justice & civil rights, to meet with Lady Bryce at the earliest convenience of the Chimean government. The cleective presidency will be meeting in Burung-yang-membuat-dunia beginnign tomorrow to discuss this and other issues. That is all.”

Ukun Rasikan

The international reaction had thrown Mari Alkatiri for a loop. He had expected condemnation, of course, but he had not expected what seemed like veiled threats. Once again, he cursed the Rumbiak Brigade for its lack of discipline. And strode out to face a much larger crowd of reporters.

“This afternoon, I met with Ambassador Vogels of Knootoss. I have repeated that the so-called Markus Rumbiak Brigade is not connected in any way with the government of this country. I am also announcing the following steps and have so informed the Ambassador:

“First, the Rifle Manufacturing Co-operative has agreed to a freeze on all sales of guns and ammunition. Tanah Burung maintains strict end-use controls on all weapons, and it has been established definitively that no rifles made in this country have found their way to Colombia.

“Second, the Governor of Loro Sae Province has agreed to a full investigation to discover the location of the Rumbiak Brigades. The port of Loro Sae is closed and we are confident that the Brigade can be located.

“Third, the collective presidency has authorized a national referendum on whether the Rumbiak Brigade should be declared an illegal organization. As is well known, we have no power to pass such a law without consent in a referendum. This will take place in one month to allow full time for debate on this very serious question.

“Fourth, I must categorically reject the accusation of terrorism by this country. The international legal status of Colombia, as has been stated many times by the representatives of many countries, is in dispute. My government recognizes the sovereignty of Knootoss, but the matter of its claim to sovereignty over Colombia is in dispute. We are prepared to submit to international mediation on this question, and invite the government of Knootoss to do the same.

“And finally, I have heard the call of Lady Bryce of Chimaea to send a representative. I welcome this call, and am dispatching special envoy Abdul Hakim Gunung, people’s representative for justice & civil rights, to meet with Lady Bryce at the earliest convenience of the Chimean government. The cleective presidency will be meeting in Burung-yang-membuat-dunia beginnign tomorrow to discuss this and other issues. That is all.”

Ukun Rasikan – Knootian embassy
Magda Vogels was mad, angry and confused. She did not know what she despised more: the orders coming from The Hague or the reaction by Mari Alkatiri. The entire situation would be sure to spoil her stay in the United Provinces; a stay hat had already been tainted by protests. It also pained her to see the embassy she loved so much surrounded again by soldiers. Native Knootians, those that had re-migrated for retirement in the former colony, had been anxiously running out of the embassy all day and there was little she could do to reassure them. People were afraid.

To serve ones country loyally, she repeated to herself. That was the role she had to play.

Office of Mari Alkatiri.
Magda Vogels strided in wearing a long purple dress, which was elegant but far too thick for the climate. Her facial expression was serious, but not overly hostile. She did not hate anyone – she merely conveyed a message. As they had met before that day, introductions were brief.

“The government appreciates your small gestures but feels you are currently doing unacceptably little”, she informed the peoples representative, ”Gala… the government demands that the Rumbiak Brigade is declared illegal immediately and that it is subsequently destroyed. It will settle for nothing less. The government believes that the organisation has de facto declared itself an illegal organisation by committing criminal acts.” – Alkatiri would protest but she did not allow herself to be interrupted. “The Hague also demands to know where the weapons smuggled in by the Rumbiak Brigade came from down to the factory where it was produced.

The Knootian ambassadress to Tanah Burung got out a document that looked official and bore the seal of the diplomatic corps. She put it down on the desk before Alkatiri. ”This”, she explained, ”is a copy of the official treaty signed a few years between Knootoss and Tanah Burung. It bears the signature of your predecessor and it recognises Tanah Burung as an independent state. As you see, it also recognises the Knootian Federation in its entirety and this includes Knootian Colombia. My government wishes to know if the United Provinces still feel bound by this treaty now that a new peoples representative has been elected.”

---

Jungle northwest of Bogotá

The Nachxa penetrated the jungle deeper and deeper as the night grew darker. Colombia seemed abandoned, a pristine land just near the capital. The animals of the night had come out and were chirping and growling and hissing everywhere.

But he encountered nobody.

((Well… Weegies offered to have the Nachxa run into someone. I think it would be stretching the limits of plausibility severely, but heck, if you want to you can go ahead and do it. :P))

Great Lassic, Ilek-Vaad

The First Republican watched the address by Mr. Altikari and the Prime Minister of the DDR, watching it with him was the Minister of Defence and the Minister of Foreign Affairs.. He sat stone faced for several minutes afterwards, until the Minister of Foreign Affairs spoke

"The Nachxa is still in Columbia, althought his assistants have informed me that he has disappeared........"

The First Republican looked shocked and was about to say something until he was interrupted by the veteran Minister of Defence

"No need to worry about that" she laughed "The Nachxa has been disappearing for years. I think that's what makes him a better negotiator. Foreign representatives are so relieved when he turns up, they give him whatever he wants!"

The First Republican shrugged "Still, I would like to know what he thinks right now? Should we be punishing Tanah Burung, or insisting Knootoss and Chimea leave Columbia? If we back either side we look pretty bad."

"It doesen't help that Prime Minister Nos Cirdan ended her speech with a reference to divinity, the papers have already begun skewering her as a messianic inmperialist." stated the Minister of Foreign Affairs

The First Republican furrowed his brow "Then we sit tight, do nothing, say nothing until The Nachxa gives us a recommendation, let it fall to him. He has far more prestige and influence than our entire party."

**************

The Nachxa's assistants seemed appalled by Mr. Guevarra's rather rude shouting, so much so that they stood with arms folded when introduced, there were no hands for Mr. Guevarra to shake. The stony countenances of the two gentlemen looked like they had posed for Aztec statuary.

Thety did shake hands with the others, but once again did not offer their names or even a word of greeting, their dark eyes seemed to be judging every move of those around them, and rather unfavourably at that..............


OOC: We'll hold off on the Nachxa for now? Until we decide what to do with him ;)

OOC: Like Knootoss said, Ilek-Vaad, I'm perfectly open to him running into someone. After all, million-to-one chances do happen nine times out of ten.

Le Café Parisien

Bryce sipped at his espresso, rubbing his eyes.

"It's rather complex...", he started.

"Try me."

"I'll level with you. We've got someone on the inside in Knootoss."

Véronneau frowned further, her brow etched deeply. "Government?"

"Better. Heard of the Order of the Invisible Hand?"

Véronneau snorted. "You really are insulting my intelligence, Bryce. Of course I've heard of that disturbing cult of market-worshippers. There is something going on with them, definitely."

"Yes, our government took the same view, sent a fair few experienced operatives to infiltrate."

"What did you find out?"

"Nothing much at first, except that the Order stretches throughout the wealthy in Knootian society. It's got a hold on a lot of the powerful figures in Knootcap, and those who aren't tend to sympathise with it."

"Well, I could have guessed that. Why wouldn't they root for something that would probably increase their already bloated incomes?"

"Yes, yes, I know. But let me explain why you are needed. You see, we think the Order is even stronger out in South America, like in..."

"Knootian Columbia."

"Exactly. But we do need your help in trying to find out about the Order in Columbia. And Knootian influences throughout the entire nation, because we want to find out about the country for the IMC."

"Hold on. We're not going to be your stooges in Columbia."

"I said nothing of the sort. We need a lot of help in infiltrating Colombia - let's face it, if we go in alone, we're going to be understaffed, underfunded, underequipped. Co-operating together, in the greatest solidarity... we could uncover quite a few things about Colombia, specifically Order influence."

"I see... and is this just your suspicions?"

"That, and our man in Knootoss. He's in with an Order man, and he's heard some interesting things concerning Tanah Burung. Tanah Burung has good reason to be scared, or suspicious that something is up; our man has told us that the Order plan to force open the market of Tanah Burung, make it a colonial aquisition again, remove the free democratic government that exists now... by force. We think that these rounds of condemnations by Galadriël are just the start. My personal suspicions are, that under the guise of protecting Knootoss from terrorism by these Rumbiak Brigades - good for these plans in that they create a good bone of contention between Tanah Burung and Knootoss - Galadriël will declare Tanah Burung a rogue state and invade it that way. That's only my opinions, though. What we do know is that Tanah Burung will be subject to the wills of the market soon enough, by force, and who knows who's next after that."

Weegie Parliament.
Lyle Square, Mackintosh

Council Leader Alan Sharkey stood up. "Let it be known that the Council Leader's Question Time is now in session." He sighed slightly. Still so many of the colonial ettiquettes were left in the Parliament. It annoyed him. Politeness got in the way of real debate. To really trash an opposition member, you had to be rude.

Jonathan Persson, the SLP Deputy Leader, stood up. "What is Mr. Sharkey's position on the recent uncovering of Tanah Burungian terrorist brigades?"

"One man's terrorist is another man's freedom fighter, Mr. Persson. These brigades do not meet my criteria for what I define as a terrorist organisation, as they do not target civilian populations, merely military ones, to further their cause. And as for your skilful implication that the Tanah Burung government was somehow involved in supplying these brigades, I disagree. A government cannot be held responsible for a few wayward citizens." Look at you, Sharkey thought. You were once side by side with me, charging our oppressors whilst our friends lay dying on either side, waving your placards in protest... when did you go over to the side of the status quo, to the "suits" as we used to call them?

Lawrence Merks, the second of two Conservative members of the Parliament, stood up. "Surely Mr. Sharkey cannot be serious in congratulating Alkatiri in his lacklustre distancing from these hooligans? After all, Knootoss and Chimaea have done such a good job of stabilising the country."

Kerrie McCann stood up. "Colombia is a country in its' own right, Mr. Merks. Forgive us for believing in a country's right to it's own self-determination. (claps and cheers from the left) And forgive us for thinking you could possibly think the same." (laughs from the left)

Persson continued. "And what of this rumoured Nialachan Fladh? Has Mr. Sharkey been deceiving the people by saying no secret service would be created? (Cheers from the centre, jeers from the left)"

"I stand by what I have always said. These are just rumours. The Nialachan Fladh does not exist." (jeers from the centre and the right)

"I say, Mr. Sharkey, that your terms in office have been nothing but lies and deceit. You said nothing about the restrictive CACE (calls from the left "The people did! The vote, the vote!", this IFTA, or your economic and political "reforms", which are nothing but shams and extremism. Your economic policies have been a disaster. (Voice from the left calls out; "Aye, for the rich leeches!"; left laughs) I say again, your economic policies are completely unfounded with reality (Voice calls out again "The reality that there are no people starving on the streets nowadays is quite obvious!"; left laughs) I am tired of your blind headed ignorance (voice: "And we of yours!"), and your support of... terrorists, for want of a better word! I call a vote of no confidence in Mr. Sharkey's abilities as a Council Leader (grumbles from the left), and I call on the more level headed Environmental Socialist Party to leave the discredited administration!" (more grumbles from the left)

Persson puts down his papers and walks out. Ten other SLP members follow him.

----------------------------------------
09.19, Le Café Parisien, Hotel Excelsior
Caernavren, Galdago
----------------------------------------

She leaned in towards Bryce again. “So you’re telling me that it’s beyond doubt and Tanah Burung’s looking at an imminent invasion by the DDR?” Her eyes squinted at the possibility.

“Aye, we haven’t got a reason to suspect otherwise, what with multiple different sources all muttering the same words that their elements needn’t worry about Tanah Burung being a thorn in their side for long,” Bryce replied gravely.

Véronneau cast down her eyes to the floor beside her, deep in thought. Her brow was now burdened with a new and clear amount of concern. After a moment, she spoke softly, slowly, and at a measured pace. “We knew the Order wasn’t up to anything that would please us; but this? This is utter madness. For a long time now, Tanah Burung has been one of the shining jewels of the IFTA after rising from the DDR’s colonial capitalist oppression into one of the bloc’s strongest guided-economy trading partners. Now you mean to tell me that Galadriël plans to revisit that oppression upon the Burungis after sixty years, and all at the prodding of some psychotic cult that’s codified a contorted economic theory into some form of devil-worship?” By the time she finished speaking she was nearly hissing the words as she grew more disgusted, or possibly frightened with the thought.

Bryce simply sat there solemnly and nodded his head. Just then, the waiter interposed with a refresher for his espresso. “Ah, thank you,” he said in a hushed tone.

The waiter turned to the now blanching Minister of Intelligence. “Mademoiselle est malade?” he queried.

“No. No, merci,” she managed to croak, still looking blankly at nothing in particular. It was a rare moment to see Véronneau this overwhelmed by anything. War clouds on the horizon were hardly something to be taken lightly.

"Dans ce cas, vous m'excuserez,” he replied and turned to look to his duties, once more leaving the two to themselves and their harsh realizations. The next few moments held naught but the sounds of the café’s murmur and the city life beyond. Then she spoke very carefully.

“This does not bode well for the international community, most especially not for the Burungis.” Margerite looked sullen. “What’s more, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs seems to have picked one of the worst if not the worst of possible times to dispatch diplomats to Tanah Burung in order to open broad-based dialogue with them. The Prime Minister will want to know this.”

“I would expect so,” Bryce agreed.

“Do you have any documentation of the DDR’s intentions, perhaps something from your agents inside the Order? I don’t suspect Prime Minister will do anything unless he has some kind of solid proof of this sort of threat.” Margerite looked hopeful that Bryce would not disappoint her. He had, after all, come this far to request their help, and he certainly wouldn’t do it without some way of reassuring them that this wasn’t just Weegie intelligence dreaming up nightmare scenarios.

In the next couple of days, Benignus made himself useful around the village. He was quite amazed at how busy Padre Pacal was. From morning to night, the little priest was busy among his people—visiting the school to teach catechism, visiting some of the elderly, and workers who were sick, hearing confessions in the tiny church (mostly old men and women,) and, on the third day, a funeral.

Diego de los Santos had been sick for some time. But he’d kept working, deeply conscious of the debt he’d incurred to the mining company. A streak of bad luck had cost him a set of tools, which had to be replaced on credit, and then as his illness progressed, he’d been working fewer days and his pay barely stretched to cover the dormitory and meal fees and the payments on the tools. He’d had to get a loan to pay for the medicines at the Clinica, and he worried constantly that if he died without paying off the debt, the company factors would try to claim it from his wife and two daughters. He didn’t want the eldest girl to go to work at the Cantina—he knew what happened to girls who worked there.

He’d expressed these worries to the priest, who had soothed him as best he could. But on the day that Pacal and Benignus had returned from their trip up the mountain, his wife had been waiting at the priest’s house. Last rites were required. He died that night.

The funeral was sparsely attended—it was a work day, after all, and only a couple of men had made the sacrifice of a day’s wages to attend. One had tried to bring Diego’s tools, hoping that the widow could sell them to help pay off the debt, but they’d been claimed by one of the factors, who said that he’d lent money privately to Diego with the tools as security. There was no point in asking for trouble by expressing doubt of his word, he was one of the meanest and most brutal of the factors, a man everyone hated.

So Benignus was pressed into service as a pallbearer, and after the Mass, the pathetic little procession wound itself through the village to the only substantial flat space where a cemetery had been sited, more than a hundred years ago.

It was as the graveside ceremony was finishing that he noticed the new arrivals, two men and a woman, all dressed in peasant clothing. But there was something about them that was different than the typical peasant. They stood at the edge of the cemetery, waiting respectfully and bowing their heads to pray at the appropriate time.

After the funeral was over, Padre Pacal had escorted the widow home and prayed with her and the daughters, offering such comfort as he could. The three strangers, however, proceeded to the priest’s house, and sat waiting on the verandah.

When he finally returned, the priest summoned Benignus, and introduced him.

“This is Esperanza Marcal,” he indicated the woman.

She was in her late twenties, and her features indicated a substantial heritage of Indian blood. The sculpting of her face conveyed a great dignity, and a beauty that seemed deliberately underplayed by her simple peasant garb and braid. Her eyes were her most extraordinary feature—they were wonderful eyes, passionate and intense, vividly reflecting her mood when she wanted, but able to shutter in an instant to bland impersonality.

“Padre,” she greeted the priest with deep respect, kneeling for his blessing, then stood, and introduced the older man and the boy with her. Pablo Ortez, and Vestuto Sengalego. Ortez was the one who really didn’t look like a peasant, in spite of his clothing. His hands were not rough, and although his face was weathered and lined, his hair was cut by a professional—probably a city barber. Vestuto was not much older than Benignus. He was carrying a rather bulky pack, and nodded shyly to the priest.

“Benignus, perhaps you can bring our guests some juice, yes?”

When the drinks had been poured and handed around, Esperanza asked the priest, “Was that one of them, Padre?” She nodded over her shoulder in the direction of the cemetery.

“Yes, that was Diego. That makes five, since Christmas. And it is hard to tell how many have sickened. Two were older, we also lost a baby. But many who are sick simply remain at the dormitories. I suspect that some of the “accidental” deaths were actually men or women who were so exhausted and sick that they simply died on the job. And few have the resources to go to the clinica”

He sighed. “Mining is a dangerous business, of course. But as far as I can tell, at least nine “accidents” this year have been fatal. Surely that is too many.”

She nodded. “On the way here, I took samples from the river water, at intervals. I suspect we will find high levels of cyanide leaching and other effluvia to contribute to the health problems.” She drew her finger through the dust that had again collected along the verandah rail. “This is certainly one of the worst. Excellent for our purposes, of course.” Her voice held a suppressed anger that robbed the words of cynicism.

“Can you get Pablo into position to take the photographs?” she asked, glancing at the older man.

“Benignus knows the way to the mine. I am not welcome there, as you can imagine. But they do not know him. It will be easy for them to get close enough, I think.”

“Good. Then we will do that tomorrow, and the other on Saturday.”

The priest nodded. “Yes. Do we have the contact we need?”

She glanced at Benignus, then back at the priest. “I think so,” was all she said.

That afternoon, after midday dinner, she and Vestuto sat on the verandah, talking to Benignus.

“What brings you here?” she asked.

Le Café Parisien

Bryce looked pained. "Order documentation is extremely hard to come by. In that respect, SO Leah could take lessons in paranoia off of them."

He motioned to the briefcase at his feet.

"But we do have the reports our man in the Order made. Transcripts of various meetings from memory, a few recordings, even, when he was lucky enough to get his electronic devices to work..." Bryce looked pained again. "...like I said, we're underfunded. In the things that these people say, according to our man, you couldn't get any other impression than the Order consider the invasion of Tanah Burung close, and are speeding it up as fast as possible. If your Prime Minister needs more... I'm not sure what you, or we, can do. It all depends on our agent, and so far he's found actual documentation hard to come by. But like I said, listen to and read these transcripts and recordings, and it's hard to think anything other than Tanah Burung is under a quite serious threat from Knootoss, along with anyone else on Tanah Burung."

Véronneau said nothing, whilst she glanced down at the nondescript briefcase.

"I know what you're thinking. It sounds implausible. Not impossible, but definitely a stretch of the imagination."

"You've got that right. It's madness."

Bryce proceeded to take a sheaf of papers out of the briefcase, and handed them to Véronneau.

"These are the reports of the other men we used to have in Knootoss."

Véronneau took the papers. "The agents who were trying to find out about how far the Order went through Knootian society?"

"Yes. The Order are fanatics. I know that, you know that. And fanatics are more predisposed to the grand gesture, the major apocalyptic showing of their doctrine's power. What better than to "rescue" the Tanah Burungi from their non-market ways and "deliver" them into the hands of the "Market"?"

"Yes, but..."

Bryce drank the last remnants of his coffee. " I know what you're going to say. This is all assuming that the Order have enough influence in the Knootian Government. Which is what those reports show. The Order goes all the way through the Knootian government, probably enough to influence the government's decisions in no small way; it's got the Knootians in a stranglehold. There were even rumours that Galadriël herself was part of it... although we found nothing conclusive, we thought she may at least lean towards the Order. Which, of course, makes a Tanah Burung invasion all the more likely seeming. This isn't just conjecture, Margerite, this is cold hard fact. Get your diplomats out. Tanah Burung won't be expecting a thing, it'll fall easily. After that..."

Bryce let his words hang, seeing Véronneau make all sorts of conjectures in her brain.

"So, what do you say?"

----------------------------------------
09.26, Le Café Parisien, Hotel Excelsior
Caernavren, Galdago
----------------------------------------

"What I say Mr. Bryce, is that I don't think the Commonwealth can afford to be caught with its pants down like this again." She grimaced and continued, "I'll assemble a team for you by some time this afternoon. They'll be dispatched to Mackintosh within the next twenty-four hours. We will provide them with compilations of whatever we have on file about the Invisible Hand as much for their perusal en route as for sharing it with Weegie intelligence. I'm certain you will brief them on all that your service presently knows about the Order. We've got several Spanish speakers in the MoI; thirty percent of this nation is registered as bilingual in Spanish and English at any rate, so that shouldn't be any surprise. They'll be useful to you in Colombia. Right now—" She held up a hand to stop Bryce from speaking before she pulled out her cell phone and dialed a number.

"This is Véronneau. Get me the Prime Minister." She covered the phone's mouthpiece and looked earnestly at Bryce. "We've got a few diplomats to extract."


----------------------------------------
12.48, The Gabinete Room
Ministerial Cabinet Conference Room
Coronada, Galdago
----------------------------------------

By the time she reached the Cabinet meeting, Véronneau had time to look over most of the data compiled by the Weegies. Some parts of it were sketchy, but if what she had in her hands was to be believed, Tanah Burung was in grave danger and there was little doubt of it. Moreover, the forces of the Order had obviously proliferated throughout Colombia deep into the ranks of the local Colombian administration. From the looks of it, it no longer mattered whether or not the International Mediation Council managed to root the DDR and the Chimeans from Colombia; the ones really running Colombia didn't pledge allegiance to any flag, only the Market. The DDR’s link to Colombia looked irreparable as it didn’t operate on any official sovereign level; the subterfuge occurred on a much deeper and more frightening plane: the will of the Order. Unless existing Market sympathies and the danger that posed to the Colombian populous could be somehow exposed, the Colombians and anti-capitalist elements worldwide were in serious jeopardy. If the Order started manipulating governments with more of a hard power edge than the DDR— Margerite stopped herself. The Order had gotten careless enough to tip their hand just far enough for the Weegies to see that something wasn’t quite kosher about them, and hopefully if the MoI agents to be dispatched to Colombia discovered something, it would be enough to convince the world that the Order wasn’t to be trusted.

She recapped everything mentally as she composed her report to the Prime Minister in her head. As she walked into the Gabinete Room, she was greeted by faces that looked very austere. The gravity of the situation seemed to demand it.

“Margerite,” Thibodeaux addressed her, pausing briefly after her name, “please tell me this isn’t really happening.” The Prime Minister had a pleading look in his eyes.

Green Palace, Ukun Rasikan

The last Knootian visitor here had been opposition politician Femke Halsema, and the meeting had mended a looming breach between the two governments. Tanah Burung's foreign minister at the time had greeted the Green leader with smiles and open doors and explained to her the history of this building: a former pleasure palace by the sea of the old Sultan of Burung Paradis, back in the days before colonial rule had come. As a Muslim, Mari Alkatiri could have added stories about the solemn religious observances, the simple grace of a whirling dervish performign the dance of faith, but there was no time for such things. And anyway, he was sure that his current visitor knew all about such things. It was, after all, part of her job.

Alkatiri's office was getting quite used to the presence of Magda Vogels. The Knootian diplomat was clearly uncomfortable: no ambassador likes to deliver an ultimatum to the government to which they are accredited. And there was very little doubt that, sweeping aside the charm and manners with which it was delivered, this was an ultimatum.

“The government appreciates your small gestures but feels you are currently doing unacceptably little”, Vogels was saying, "Gala… the government demands that the Rumbiak Brigade is declared illegal immediately and that it is subsequently destroyed. It will settle for nothing less. The government believes that the organisation has de facto declared itself an illegal organisation by committing criminal acts. The Hague also demands to know where the weapons smuggled in by the Rumbiak Brigade came from down to the factory where it was produced."

He had tried to get a word in, but Vogels had pressed in. As she paused for breath, Alkatiri replied in as even a tone as he could manage. "Madame, you are asking me to violate national law. I have no power to outlaw an organization. Under the laws of this sovereign country, only a referendum can declare an organization illegal, and i have already called such a referendum. Tell me, will you be outlawing the Order of the Invisible Hand? The days when Knootoss could dictate illegal actions in Tanah Burung are behind us." He could nto resist a personal dig: "And i would have thought your family would be well aware of that fact."

Turning to the weapons question was easier. "The Hague demands only what i demand myself. We are doing all we can to discover the source of these weapons. I can assure you it was not Tanah Burung, as i am sure your operatives in Colombia have already ascertained."

As Vogels removed a copy of the Round Table Agreements with a flourish, Alkatiri's jaw fell open. Here was a nod to history indeed. But the ambassador's phrasing was terribly, terribly ominous. If he said Tanah Burung no longer felt bound by the treaty under which Knootoss had recognized its independence, then the threat was very clear indeed. It so lacked in subtlety, he was shocked to see somone as polished as Magda Vogels make such a threat. She must be acting under instructions.

"That treaty was a mutual recogition of each other's sovereignty," he said. "It was signed decades ago. My government has never departed by one iota from a single international treaty it has signed, so of course we consider ourselves bound by it. There is no question that we recognize the sovereignty of Knootoss just as the DDR recognizes the sovereignty of Tanah Burung. But that treaty was signed decades ago. Knootian rule over Colombia was established some 15 years ago, so it does not apply. I fear your superiors are reading words into the treaty that are simply not there."

He cleared his throat. "I must also inform you that there are troubling signs of protests being planned for your embassy. While the right to protest is protected, i am informing you that we are increasing security around the embassy so that there will be no threat of protesters entering the grounds. I know you treasure your flowers. Rest assured they will not be allowed to come to harm. I only hope that our citizens in Colombia will be as carefully guarded as the flowers on the embassy ground."

As the ambassador departed, an aide entered with an urgent coded transmission from Tanah Burung's mission to the Vatican. Alkatiri read it and the blood drained from his face.

*Knootian Columbia, Parliament

"Mucho gusto. compañero"*, replied Gia to the Colombian Mr. Guevarra from the Peoples Party of Colombia, in Spanish, so that he realised the bovine could speak his tongue.
She understood the situation entirely and was glad the member of the PPC had made his way to the debate. She realised that, otherwise, the PPC would have been excluded from the talk.
She greeted the other two politicians and sat down,as the rest of the delegates did.
As the huge talking cow waited for someone to make the first question, she gave an inquisitive look to each politician, one by one.

*Offices of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Moo Moo Farm City, Hell Bovines

Dr. Saturnino Vacuno read the report with much worry. The speech given by Prime Minister Lady Galadriël Táralóm nos Círdan was extremely agressive and certainly worried him a lot.
He had heard about the Rumbiak Brigade thanks to Gia Grassfun, who contacted him by cell phone and told him about the discovery, but the bovine officer never suspect that Tanah Burung could be behind it. Mari Alkatiri was a good politician, wasn't him?
Anyway, such agressiveness in Chimaeran and Knootian speechs were worrying, specially now that the duque had just left to a dinner in the Ianislean embassy in TB.
He had certainly heard rumours from the State Secretariat of Intelligence (SIDE) [HB's inefficient intelligence service :P ] that said Knootoss could be planning an attack on the United Provinces, but he doubted these rumours could be true. Although loathable, Knootoss was now trying to give the impression of a serious and civilized country and he didn't thought they could be actually capable of such atrocity. Still, he was very worried for the duque. That third world dinner was certainly a very bad idea.

He quickly wrote down a small diplomatic communique. It was a small reaction, a modest reply to these events, as he wanted to discuss the issue well with other government members first.....


To all governments and world leaders concerned with the subject,

We would like, as a country, to reject the accusations made by the Knootian, Chimaeran and Lietuveskan governments regarding Tanah Burung as a supporter of terrorism.
We, as close allies and historical friends of the Burungi government, are in the right position to assure that Tanah Burung is not a supporter of terrorism or fundamentalism. A country that, like us, values freedom, we are certain that they would never support a terrorist organization of any kind.
It is the Knootians and the Chimaerans who are holding a brutal occupation in Colombia, against the will of the local peoples, and not the Burungis.
If terrorist organizations exist in Knootian Colombia, they are product of the local dissent and discontent with foreign opression and not a product of Burungi intervention.
Hell Bovines, as a free country, would like to assert its full support to Tanah Burung in this conflict.
We would also like to discourage any attempt of military intervention, as we realise was will only bring more pointless deaths to this conflict.
I personally hope this conflict can be solved by use of reason and not of force so that all our countries can go back to the nice state of friendship we once shared. May the trumphets of war be replaced by the white doves of peace.
Yours faithfully,

Saturnino Vacuno, Minister of Foreign Affairs, Hell Bovines



*"It's a pleasure, comrade"

of possible interest

The Zhairette
Knootian Temple Opens
Today delegates and leading figures of the BioKnootian community attended the opening of a new temple in the Old Knootian Quarter in Zhaireland City situated at the edge of the city’s heart, Zhaire Island. The generally calm canals were congested around the temple as prominent business people, leaders of the Knootian community and conservative politicians arrived.
Several leading names from the commercial and industrial districts such as Phell, Mazgda, Sverr-I-T-P and Oseak were listed as being financial contributors to the construction of the modest temple and worship grounds although senior management weren’t spotted in the opening crowd. Deputy leader of the TheroViem Party Miko Ghastt and well known socialite member Vesa Wherim were present.
The temple itself belongs to a previously unheard of sect known simply by its official emblem of a golden hand. The press were admitted inside the temple, although they were forbidden from photographing the interior and several rooms, including the worship chamber were off bounds. The heritage design off the exterior is maintained by the interior design, featuring some high-technology adaptations including an elaborate security network and internet access from every room.
Although it’s not uncommon for big industry to support such community institutions, especially those catering for minority communities, spokespersons for industry and the sect remained vague on questions about the spiritual nature of the sect and its founding.

This is the trouble with independant media (http://chimaea.crforums.net/report.doc)

Read it, it's important to the plot. :) This is where the Knootians get embarassed and the Chimaean go into damage control.

In his luxurious lair, Juan the Bellmaker sat under a well-camouflaged arbor, having breakfast in the cool of the mountain morning. He’d already been to Mass in his own chapel, run five miles and swum three in his gym, showered and changed. Now, eating the spicy egg casserole and sipping fresh-squeezed juice, he spread open the copy of the New Sydney Times and began to read.*

“Jesu é Maria!” he muttered, a grin spreading slowly across his face as he read.

“Hey! Chacho! Come here!” He hollered over his shoulder.

One of his principal lieutenants, never out of earshot, strolled over. “Si?”

“Listen to this, listen… this is great…” Juan’s finger found the spot, and he began to read:

This is the reality of the seemingly idyllic life of these poor people. Once oppressed by governments and gunmen, now they are slaves to the almighty dollar, imprisoned and kept in place by the greedy corporations that proliferate this war-torn nation and exploit its people. The same corporation that boasts its adherence to law and order and human rights on one hand while intimidating its workers with the other. The same corporations that the Dutch Democratic Republic of Knootoss, directly supported by the Chimaean government, allowed into Colombia upon the innocent and encouraging pretence of providing valuable industry to the nation—at the expense of Colombian workers.

“Is that good, yes? Just a minute, here…”


The ones who have the duty to make sure that this does not happen are nowhere to be seen. The Knootian mission in Colombia seem to be turning a blind eye on the criminal activities perpetrated by this corporation and mark this off as a valuable industry, giving jobs to the workless. The Chimaean authorities are busy combating the remnants of the drug cartels and terrorist militia in Colombia’s jungles. Meanwhile, the most vulnerable of the people they’re trying to protect are being exploited and killed by a faceless corporation.


“Oh, is that perfect, yes? Cago on the tuxedos of those Ka-noot hijos de putas And right while they are trying to make like everything is roses here for all the international diplomats. Hah! Listen, get word to Diego—make sure every single diplomat gets a copy of this newspaper with their breakfast at the hotels. And send this…” he looked down at the article. “This ‘Baron Aid’ a donation. Twenty thousand, yes? From an anonymous source who supports their work for justice in Colombia.”

He tossed the newspaper to Chacho and sat back in his chair and laughed, enjoying himself thoroughly for the first time in a long while.

*see link in previous post

--------------------------------------------------------
Parliament building, Knootian Colombia
--------------------------------------------------------
There was an awkward silence as none of the IMC members asked a question; all seemed to be waiting for somebody else to ask something.

“Do you have no questions at all?” wondered Maria de los Santos from the Colombian Peoples Progress Party. “I would have thought that many things about the situation here were unclear.”, she added with a smile.

“I do say,” added Sanchez from the Colombian National Party. ”Unless you already figured out the place in one day. Its not as if it is that big.” he said, more or less addressing Baroness Bennigsen. His jovial smile was rewarded with an angry glare from Guevarra.

---


http://www.nationstates.net/images/flags/uploads/knootoss.jpgThe office of the prime minister
________________Libertate unanimus

To: Saturnino Vacuno, Minister of Foreign Affairs, Hell Bovines

We have received your recent address to the relevant government actors concerning the arrests of Tanah Burung citizens caught smuggling arms into Knootian Colombia. On behalf of the Prime Minister I would have you know that the government of the Dutch Democratic Republic shares your commitment to peace, and that it desires to resolve this unpleasant situation as much as the Bovine people. The Prime Minister Lady nos Círdan has a personal commitment both to peace and to maintaining good non-human relations. We feel this situation has been forced upon us as much as everyone involved.

However, the Prime Minister does respectfully disagree with some statements made in the address; specifically those comments that deny the involvement of Tanah Burung in terrorist acts. Fact remains, that Tanah Burung citizens were involved in smuggling weapons and that the organisation that they are a member of is legal in the United Provinces. Even more so, the Peoples Representative for Foreign Affairs has given full and open support for the organisations aims.

Also, the Prime Minister feels that the Bovine government has a somewhat romanticised image of the activities of criminal and terrorist elements in Colombia. To correct this image, several photographs have been enclosed with this letter. As they say, a picture can say more then a thousand words. Included have been examples of the use of the weapons smuggled in by the Tanah Burung citizens, and examples of what the uprising has brought to Colombia. We must warn you that these pictures are of a nature that might not be suitable for young children

Yours sincerely on behalf of Prime Minister Lady Galadriël Táralóm nos Círdan,

*signatures of irrelevant secretaries*


Enclosed with this letter are twenty-four rather gruesome pictures with dry, descriptive subtitles:
-A house with smashed furniture, on the floor lies a Colombian woman with her traditional dress pulled up. Raped. Next to her lies the chopped off head of a two year old baby gazing mindlessly at the body of the woman; a small plash of blood next to the bloody stump.
‘Village house after a visit by cartel/rebel forces’

-A large pile of dust on brown jungle ground. It looks like a burned log of wood, as if there has been a campfire. On closer examination it appears to be a human body that has been blackened by fire.
‘Sergeant de Baradez from the civil guard, after petrol has been poured over him by former FARC rebels’

-A pile of about 20 bodies lying in the aquare of a village with surrounding jungle, with small holes here and there going through their clothing. The bloodstains on their clothing have already dried.
‘Farmers executed by drug cartels working together with insurgents, reportedly after they refused to pay protection money. Civilians were killed with the same type of rifle as seized from the Burungians.’

((Just putting this bit up already while I struggle with my writers block for the rest. It will be up later tonight, hopefully.))

OOC:
Magda Vogels / Alkatiri discussions (http://www.nationstates.net/forum/viewtopic.php?p=3293928#3293928) continue in the "The Unlikely Deliverance" thread. Tanah Burung stuff goes there. Colombia stuff goes here.

EDIT:
My deep, humble and sincere thanks go out to the Galdago player. I have shamelessly and unilaterally ripped off his idea for my letter. I should be both ashamed and infinitly grateful. His creative talent is unmatched, but I will try to make my own lay-out in the future.

EDIT:
My deep, humble and sincere thanks go out to the Galdago player. I have shamelessly and unilaterally ripped off his idea for my letter. I should be both ashamed and infinitly grateful. His creative talent is unmatched, but I will try to make my own lay-out in the future.

OOC: Oh that's QUITE all right. We all know who does diplomatic memoranda better, mister. :P

The moment when the Opposition Leader beat the Shadow Foreign Minister up was when Lady Bryce started to fully realise just how much of the political blowback had hit the fan. She glared from her place as the other man smiled at her and started speaking.

"Mr. Speaker, I have here with me a copy of the latest New Sydney Times. The cover of the Times shows the face of a Colombian widow crying and the title, in bold red lettering, which reads: 'Shocking Expose in Knootian Colombia!'. An electronic copy of the front-page article has been transmitted to your screens. Also a copy of the report published at the Baron General Assembly has been forwarded to you. A study of both leads to some interesting observations.

"Let me sum up the article, Mr. Speaker. There is a small mining town in rural Colombia, attached of course to a fairly sizeable mining operation run by a Knootian corporation. Apparently this corporation has been cutting back costs by killing, Mr. Speaker, it's workers--"

The shouts from the opposition backbenchers and the answering shouts from the Liberal Democrats took a small while to quell.

"The Leader of the Opposition will not use inflamatory terms." said the Speaker.

"I apologise, Mr. Speaker. The corporation is guilty of manslaughter, by cutting back on costs by not maintaining and purchasing much needed safety equipment and filters. Much of the dust from this operation is free floating and a fair amount of it is from the machinery, making it even more toxic and harmful than dust from the earth. The liquid poisons they use to separate the metal from this dust is deposited in the nearby river system and Baron Aid's own investigation has confirmed that the water in these rivers, the very water the townspeople drink from, is in fact very severely contaminated.

"A look at the records in Colombia have revealed that this corporation was part of the Knootian program to bring more industry to Colombia, thereby creating more prosperity and employment. What they have done in practice, however, is to allow this corporation to function unrestrained and unregulated to the point where intimidation is used directly by their staff against their Colombian workers, Mr. Speaker...!"

The outraged tones were really perfect and even Lady Bryce had to pause to admire it.

"This is the result's of the Government's famous humanitarian policies! This is what happens when we're allied to the likes of Prime Minister nos Cirdan, who's colonialist policies and indifference to human rights ground the heel of democratic despotism into the very ones Chimaea has sworn to protect, right in our Constitution! Can the Governor answer as to why such a travesty was allowed to go for so long right under our very noses and the noses of those who are very dearly allied to us?"

Lady Bryce rolled her eyes and stood up to shouts of 'shame!'. She eyed the Opposition Leader beadily as the Speaker quietened the House.

"The Chair recognises the Governor."

"Thank you, Mr. Speaker. The Opposition Leader's rather sad views are born from an ignorance of the facts in question--"

This time the Opposition's shouts threatened to drown out her reply and she had to wait patiently for the din to die out.

"An ignorance of the situation in Colombia. I'm not going to lie to you or the Chimaean public or even the Colombians. This is, indeed, a 'travesty' of human rights and you can rest assured that the perpetrators will be brought to justice. Our medical teams are even now assisting Knootoss and Baron Aid in detoxifying the lands and rivers surrounding the mine and the people and their families who've lived and worked there. They have been evacuated and the mining operation has been closed down for review and thorough investigation by the relevant authorities.

"When I heard the news I was as shocked and appalled as the rest of Chimaea. That such an abuse can happen in this day and age and escape detection is a sad reflection on us. I admit that. But I do ask that Chimaea gives me the chance to work these issues through. You have to understand that we are re-creating a nation in Colombia. It's a difficult, arduous and exacting task as we balance out the will of the Colombian people with security and the practicalities and logistics of rebuilding the infrastructure of an entire nation.

"Right at this moment we also have to contend with certain terrorist factions trying to derail what advances we have made. There are those who would delight in a return to the Colombia of before; a land ruled by fear and guns, where bloody killings were the norm and the practices of this corporation would not have raised an eyebrow. The very fact that this incident has created such outrage and hostility is a sure sign that things in Colombia are improving--"

Again she waited until the shouts died down.

"Improving, Mr. Speaker, as the Opposition would have to admit if they applied some thought into this matter. For decades worse human rights abuse was being perpetrated in Colombia without the international community batting an eyelid! And then when Chimaea and Knootoss, our historical allies, cared enough to make Colombia that much of a better place, the same international community is busy condemning us. For some reason they view the rule of a corrupt, ineffectual and decidedly undemocratic government as somehow 'the will of the people'. They view anarchy and chaos as a preferrably alternative to democracy and order..."

At the parliament, Dominic de Groot had been hanging back, hoping others would take the lead. Somehow, he thought it best to keep quiet. Yet at the rather plaintive request for questions, he thought he had better try to get the ball rolling. Hopefully, others would follow.

"I see a clash of rhetorics happening here," he said carefully. "There are some who say Colombia is unfiarly colonized, and others who say that all Colombians are happy, and that the presence of the colonizer is all that is protecting the people from a drug lord reign of terror. I suspect the truth lies somewhere in between, and i welcome you all to give your thoughts on the question of independence versus tetelage. Is it really a question of rule by colonial powers or rule by drug lords? Or is there another path?"

The Nachxa's assistants appeared suprisd by the request that they ask questions of the members of the Columbian Parliment members. The Nachxa's lead assistant waited politely for Padre de Groot to ask his question and to receive an answer. He then asked a question of his own

"I thought we were going to get a chance to see the Colombian Parliament in action? How much autonomy does your body have, what role do the Knootians and Chimeans play in the Parliaments deliberations and it's selection? What sort of access do the People of Columbia to this body?"

Even The Nachxa's other assistant looked suprised........


*****

Meanwhile, The Nachxa himself carried on through the jungle. He did not pause at nightfall and seemed to have no need for rest or sleep. His swift pace was unencumbered by the tangle of greenery that slowed others down, he seemed perfectly at home and cheerful in the confines of the jungle.

His shadows were certain that he had not noticed them, but several times he appeared to pause, just when they were having difficulty and might fall behind. Coincidence most likely.

*Colombian Parliament, Knootian Colombia

As the Nachxa asistant asked his questions in a rush, Gia Grassfun seemed to woke up from a long day-dream. She wasn't day-dreaming, in fact, but concentrating on the discussion going on in the parliament room. She wanted to be sure she didn't missed one single conversation.
But now that she was in our world again, she also decided to join the rush of questions:

"Indeed, I would really like to know how the members of this parliament are elected and if the average colombian has access to this body or don't?"

(OOC: I'll write a reply to the letter tomorrow; I'm to tired and about to fall asleep. Better write a nice letter later, than an incomprehensible babbling now, I say.
BTW, yes, the Galdagan layout is a very original one :D )

OOC: I say with complete arrogance and a lot of ego that unless The Nachxa is a special forces operative, then he wouldn't know he was being followed through a flat field of grass ;) But yeah I say that 'cause they're special forces, and spec forces warfare is a kind of hobby-study of mine.

Anyway, I'll call of the dogs now.

------------------

This time the commander of the Special Forces squad was looking annoyed. "Sir, this man is taking a long stroll in the forest."

Worset shrugged, not bothering to hide the harried look on his face. "At the moment I've got more worried than the IMC delegate. Do what you can."

"Permission to terminate the mission? He seems to know his way around the forest."

Worset rolled his eyes in frustration. "Right. Fine. I'll arrange extract. If he wants to be alone he can. I hope he gets eaten or something! We aren't going to lean over backwards to protect these people."

"Yes sir. Raptor out."

Baroness Bennigsen smiled warmly. "Well, gentlemen, perhaps you could tell me your views on the troubles of this country, and how you'd like to see them solved? You see...there's another matter of course too...we are here to observe, darlings, but unless you actually do something, there's nothing to observe is there?"

--------------------------------------
The Hague, Knootoss
--------------------------------------
The journalists were having a field day, and ‘Tanah Burung’ dominated the press. The right-wing newspaper de Telegraaf made a front-page call for ‘Resolve and Strong Leadership’ that was to be expected from the Prime Minister. Pictures of Miss Colombia and Miss Tanah Burung enriched the infographic that was provided with the article. The more centrist Trouw and the left-wing De Volkskrant both called for level-headedness and diplomatic solutions. The peoples paper (volkskrant) however added a sneer at the ongoing Knootian presence in Colombia in general, reminding the viewers of the IMC visit. The editorial in the elitist NRC Handelsblad dryly concluded that the whole affair was being “blown up beyond proportion,” and provided an in-depth background article on the history of insurgency and conflict in Colombia.

The story from the New Sydney Times about abuse in the mine Colombia came second. On the websites of newspapers it was linked as a ‘related story.’ De Telegraaf ignored the entire affair completely, opting instead for criticising the controversial new Green Bunny Cola™ commercial as the second most important story. The other papers all ran it, however, and cried shame about it. “Femke Halsema calls emergency debate over worker abuse”, headed De Volkskrant.

That afternoon
Galadriël was stormed by a pack of journalists as she walked from the capitol across to parliament. Parasites, she cursed inwardly but she managed a smile. Just as if she was happy to see them. A rather corpulent soundman with a KNN hat on shoved a microphone under her nose and a young blonde lady asked: “What do you plan on doing with the current Tanah Burung crisis?” The elvish Prime Minsister put on a serious face, hiding her extremely low opinion of the blonde KNN girl. “I will take my responsibility. And I am also calling for resolve. We will need strong leadership to pull through this, and I am confident that we will succeed.” That answer seemed to satisfy the girl, as she was genuinely smiling.

A Latino man then asked in English: “What are you going to do about the abuses of workers in Colombia as reported by the New Sidney Times?” A smart parasite, she thought, but it wouldn’t be a problem. She replied in perfect English “I am as appalled as the viewers and I think something should be done immediately. No to exploitation; full disclosure. The government is going to get to the bottom of this.”

-----------------------------------
Santiago del Cristobal
-----------------------------------
Afternoon lunch
Benignus had spent most of his days in Santiago del Cristobal doing innocent but wearisome chores. And when the others were fast asleep at night he would be awake, lying on his mat, to get out the medallion he wore around his neck during the day. It was made to resemble a richly-decorated cross, coloured in a slightly copperish golden tint. Nobody had said anything of it – after all in Catholic Colombia it was not unusual for anyone to wear it. Inside the medallion, however, was technology that was definitely not native to Colombia. An advanced wireless communications device -directly from the high-technology manufacturing in the southern town Eindhoven- had been inserted. The Colombian would whisper the events of the day; the things that had been unusual, his progress in gaining the trust of the natives. He had said nothing of the mine. Instead, he only whispered accusations and suspicions. They would all pay.

Benignus had watched the new visitors with much curiosity. He quickly noted that they did not match the full picture of simple farmers, as their dress would imply, and their accents were different from those prevailing in the region.

He would report it in that night.

When Esperanza Marcal asked him what brught him here he hold the same story he had told the padre – the plight of the farmers and the miners – it was not difficult to be righteously indignant in Santiago del Cristobal.


After the Chimaean report
It was still early morning in Santiago del Cristobal when the khaki hordes came over the town.

A white woman with bright blue eyes, blonde hair and dressed mostly in khaki knocked on the door of Benignus’ shack. She was wearing shorts with an excessive amount of pockets, he noticed. “Please excuse me, Sir”, she said with the friendly-and-caring expression of a professional therapist, “I am Maartje van Doorn from the economic authority and we are currently doing an investigation. I would like to ask you a few questions. Do you work at the mine here?”

Benignus shook his head, surprised. ”No, not really.” The woman scribbled something on a piece of paper that was attached to a clipboard. “Any family members working there?”, she inquired with an accented Spanish. He shook his head again and the woman gave a polite nod. ”Thank you *very* much for your cooperation. Have a nice day.”

She darted off in the direction of the church. Benignus walked outside with a face that was still sleepy and peered down at the village below. At first glance he noticed at least ten khaki figures scurrying about in the village, going from door to door. A dozen or so jeeps were parked on the edge of the village.

The Knootians were everywhere. Taking water samples, checking out the air on the village square with a crazy contraption that featured a small windmill on top. At the mine itself the concentration of white men in khaki was even higher, and they were accompanied by a group of Colombian men from the civil guard (in green uniforms) and press agents from both Colombia and some foreign countries. The Knootians clearly wanted to set an example. The bosses at the mine loudly protested when their papers where taken away by government officials, providing a nice spectacle for the miners.

Benignus watched in confusion as a smartly dressed Colombian woman with heavy make.up stood before the church, addressing a cameraman in rapid Spanish.

Camera’s snapped as the lead official posed sealing off the entrance of the mine with a grand gesture. It all ended with a red ribbon being placed around the entry, together with warning signs. “CLOSED UNTILL FURTHER NOTICE.”

One of the miners protested. “But where will we get our wages?! How can I pay my loan now?”, he asked one of the men in Khaki. The Knootian shrugged. It wasn’t his job to think about that. “The mine isn’t closed. Its merely under investigation,” he assured the man in a formal tone.

Most miners however stood together, and agreed: "Let us form a Union and negotiate with the mine owners!"

The circus went on until the afternoon. The caravan of jeeps set off again, trailed by civil guard wagons and an SUV carrying KNN journalists. With both the journalists and the sounds of the mine gone, the town was quieter then ever.

((moving on to answer your questions…))

-----------------------------------------------------
’Parliament’ – Knootian Colombia
-----------------------------------------------------



"I see a clash of rhetorics happening here," he said carefully. "There are some who say Colombia is unfairly colonized, and others who say that all Colombians are happy, and that the presence of the colonizer is all that is protecting the people from a drug lord reign of terror. I suspect the truth lies somewhere in between, and I welcome you all to give your thoughts on the question of independence versus tutelage. Is it really a question of rule by colonial powers or rule by drug lords? Or is there another path?"

“Yes!” “No!”, both Guevarra and Sanchez exclaimed at the same time. They both turned to face. Guevarra glared at angrily his CNP colleague, who simply looked at him through his monocle with contempt. Neither was willing to let the other person go first.

Maria de los Santos took this opportunity to speak instead of the quarrelling men. “Well, the Colombian Peoples Progress Party has always favoured a different path. We do believe that Colombia should become independent because it deserves to be”, Guevarra snorted as if he didn’t believe a word of what she was saying. ”… but I do not think that the Knootians and Chimaeans should pull out now. There should be a gradual process that combines responsibility with capability. We are already in control of most things and that should be improved. My party also wants a stronger parliament that can do more to help the people and control military operations. We want a separate, independent part of the Knootian federation.”

“Lies!” shouted Guevarra. “The Peoples ‘progress’ party works with the colonial agenda! There is a third way, which is the way of the workers and the farmers; the people!”

”Tut tut tut.”, inserted Sanchez. “I don’t see election banners here so its not a campaign meeting.” He grinned, hoping the joke would be conveyed to the IMC members. ”Honestly, I largely agree with Maria. Independence is our goal. I don’t see why we should hurry though; we decide almost everything for ourselves, business is booming, crime is dropping and there haven’t been insurgents here and in Bogotá for a long time.”. He paused to reflect on the significance of this.

"I thought we were going to get a chance to see the Colombian Parliament in action? How much autonomy does your body have, what role do the Knootians and Chimeans play in the Parliaments deliberations and it's selection? What sort of access do the People of Columbia to this body?"

”Oh, yes, the Volksraad will be in session in about an hour.”, confirmed Metusen hastily. ”You will see it in action.

Maria took it on her to explain: “This parliament is actually called the Peoples Council, or ‘Volksraad’ in Dutch.” She nodded to the Knootian, who smiled in confirmation. “It has one House which is elected by direct vote. It has legislative authority over the area in Knootian Colombia only.” She tilted her head slightly. ”Basically, we decide over all matters here except those relating to security… deployment of Knootian military forces… some constitutional matters. Most material policy is ours to vote on, and this is done openly.”

"Indeed, I would really like to know how the members of this parliament are elected and if the average Colombian has access to this body or don't?"

Maria nodded again. “Yes, yes, we were just elected with votes. We had a fierce election campaign a few years ago.”[/I] She exchanged a look with Sanchez and the eyes of both Colombians glimmered. Clearly, both had a shared memory about those elections. ”It is hard though, to get full involvement”, she explained, “Since the smaller villages are so far-off and we cannot possibly visit them all. Sometimes it is as if there are different Colombia’s – if you travel North up the road for two hours here you are in a different world.”

The other two politicians and Metusen nodded in agreement at this.

Video Teleconference between the leaders of Knootoss and Lietuveska/URHP

Lady Galadriël Táralóm nos Círdan was sitting in her office, writing the typical letters to foreign leaders, plotting how to handle domestic and foreign situations, and the like. Suddenly the viewscreen mounted on the wall behind her desk popped up and the face of the Lietuv Premier, Boris Kasparov appeared. Galadriël turned to face him, smiling as she recognised the man. "Well... good morning. Or is it already afternoon in Haven?", she inquired.

He checked his watch quickly, forgetting the time. His sleep patterns had been interrupted quite often lately, and he was prone to forget whether he was during afternoon hours or morning. "Yes, why it is. Forgive me if interrupted your morning activities, I know I am about ten minutes early," he said smiling apologetically. "Oh, no matter", the elf replied, "After all, our nations are not exactly close geographically." She sat down on the back of her desk, with a certain slow grace. "I am glad that you have called. I still have to thank you for your supportive speech on the Colombian matter. Knowing that we stand by each other as friends is truly heart-warming." She gave an appreciative nod to add to the statement. He waved his hand slightly. "Don't mention it. I'm greatly annoyed with those opposing your decisions. I honestly have seen nothing wrong with your policy directions, and I know that you mean very well by them. I have been rattled by the latest protests in several communist countries, and it all seems too unfair. I wish I could help in a bigger way," he said, trying to cover the eagerness in his voice. A tiny smile formed on Galadriëls face. "Well...", she said with her hand moving slowly across her desk, "Your support is most important for now. Show the world that we do not stand alone against these... people. Even in the face of opposition and anti-capitalist propaganda," she said, strongly emphasising the last word.

He smiled slightly. "That is one thing you can definitely trust me on. I cannot stand these people that are trying to upset the general peace and stability that your nation has created over the past decade and a half. It truly bothers me that people would oppose a policy that has worked so well!" He then leaned back in his chair. "I plan to do more eventually, but right now, support is probably all I can offer. My people may decide to throw me out of office after admitting I was not the communist they believed me to be.." Galadriël chuckled at this last statement. "They should give you a statue for that." She then regained her posture and continued... "Anyway... how do you see your chances?"

He smiled at the remark but then he frowned. "I don't know really.. my advisers, though I may point out they have always been fierce optimists, are telling me that most consider my leadership strong, and that the people know that I meant well, even though I did lie. I suppose I'll just have to wait, but my secretary indicated that polls where showing my approval rating strong at 57%... not as high as it was before, but I suppose it's good considering the fact..." He sighed. "I certainly hope they do. The URHP is going to need someone that knows the friends and enemies of our nation." Galadriël nodded and remarked, knowingly. "Well, that’s as good as anything. I wish I could say 57% was the low point of my personal approval rating. Just know that we are rooting for you here." He smiled brightly at this statement. "I am very honoured, and I thank you very much. I do hope I will prevail, otherwise my actions will have just been a speck in time. I really intend to carry on for many years, and this latest incident has me wanting to stay more. What exactly do you intend to do about the situation in Colombia, by the way," he added as an afterthought.

"That depends...", she replied. Cautiously she continued… “If I may ask you something. How would Lietuveska feel about the DDR taking the fight to the Rumbiak Brigade… should Tanah Burung fail to comply in eliminating them, of course.”

He pondered this for a moment. "Hmmm. With the evidence at hand, I think it would be rather dangerous at this point, but perhaps you shouldn't wait much longer. I'm very worried about what they may plan to do next...Therefore, I suppose I would. It would take my advisers some convincing, but I'm sure I could get them to come around." Galadriël nodded, and used all her feminine charm to look vulnerable. She pouted. "Its not something I want to do. But their peoples representative is simply stalling for time. I don't see him arrest Burungi's because they oppose 'colonialism'."

Kasparov nodded slightly. "Yes, I feel the same way as you...But I'm very concerned by the latest New Sydney Times report. Surely it will be worked out? Though I intend to support you, I must have your assurances that this matter will be dealt with. For PR reasons, of course." Galadriël suppressed a grin so her behaviour would not contrast too much with her call for a knight in shining armour. "Of course", she said, "it will be dealt with. If we do the right thing, we might get out of it looking good." He smiled. "Thank you. I can of course send some teams to, er, monitor the present situation. You know, it would only help your image, and mine of course. Why not kill two birds with one stone? Perhaps a delegation to just run around Knootian Columbia, inspect, and report that things are looking positive?"

"An evaluation of our urban social programmes?", the elf suggested, "They are moving along swimmingly from what I have heard, but of course an independent investigation could do much to help confirm my impression." "Yes, that's exactly what I meant. Perhaps I could send them within the next few days?" Galadriël nodded. "That would be grand."

Kasparov decided it was time to end the conversation, and smiled. "It has been a pleasure talking with you, but I must tend to other business. I thank you for having this little chat with me. Perhaps we could meet sometime soon. I am planning a ball within the next few months."
The elf held her hands together, and said eagerly, "Oh please do send me an invitation. It was really nice talking to you." She reached over to the close-connection button. Kasparov did the same, and continued about his daily affairs, writing a letter to the LNA so that they could report that the Knootian Prime Minister was promising to alleviate the current situation.

((OOC: co-written and co-edited))

((Oops… forgot about this one.))

Baroness Bennigsen smiled warmly. "Well, gentlemen, perhaps you could tell me your views on the troubles of this country, and how you'd like to see them solved? You see...there's another matter of course too...we are here to observe, darlings, but unless you actually do something, there's nothing to observe is there?"

Maria de los Santos wondered: “do you mean social problems?”…

Sanchez interrupted. Yes. The economy is not adapted to serve the Market. It badly needs more pro-Market reform. Transactions do not affect other transactions enough, and people do not *think* competitive so they don’t act under Market principles.”

A stretch of road, somewhere in Knootian Colombia

Ten members of the 46th International Red Brigade (Weegie) had been waiting at the bend in the road for quite some time. Some of them were beginning to doubt their leader's reliability. After a long period, one of them spoke.

"He's full of mince."

They knew instantly who he meant. Another, younger, man, the fire of passionate zeal burning in his eyes shot back.

"No he's no."

"Aye he is."

A much older man sighed.

"Whatever we think of him, we have to stay here. After all, warfare isn't supposed to be nice. Or safe, or any of that. If you can't hack it, you shouldn't have decided to come here of your own free will."

A twitchy youth, seemingly in awe of some of the older men, piped up.

"So why are the rest of us here, then? Surely Gus can fire the thing all by himself?"

The only one who looked like a soldier fixed her gaze on the youth who spoke, and talked softly.

"It's in case we're ambushed."

The older man mused for a second.

"The ambushers becoming the ambushees... ironic, no?"

Gus, his eyes concentrated on the road, piped up. "Shh! They're coming!"

Knootian military jeeps were coming up the road, trundling across the recently-laid tarmac.

Another woman went up to Gus, and whispered "Not yet... not yet... now!"

Gus pressed the trigger, and was almost knocked back from the recoil, nearly taking the woman with him. The rocket smoked past the road and exploded in the trees, covering the oncoming Knootian forces with a shower of dirt, which was rather irritating, but not the lethal effect the Brigade had hoped. The Knootians recovered from the shock of the explosion quickly and had noticed the small band, and were beginning to shoot at them.

The older man put his hand on Gus' shoulder. "Well, we'll no dae that again." he said, dryly. "Get your guns oot, we've goat a stoater of a firefight tae get stuck intae now!" he shouted at the others, some of whom had already started returning the Knootian's fire.

Parliament

James frowned for a second. He could almost hear the capitals when Sanchez said the word "Market". He'd heard a little, like most Weegies... it was worth a shot.

He sat back in his chair for a second, and cracked his knuckles.

"Mr. Sanchez, have you ever heard of something called the Order of the Invisible Hand?"

A stretch of road, somewhere in Knootian Colombia

Three military jeeps were driving along in single column to the nearby provincial town. The afternoon was hot, and they were all looking forward to the cool alcoholic refreshments that were awaiting them at their destination.

Ad couldn’t wait – the weather was killing him. “Bloody country,” he muttered to the driver next to him as much as to himself. “Damn sun.” He shook his fist at the giant ball of gas 93 million miles away as he pondered his plans to destroy it. Plots to destroy the sun had been on his mind since he had arrived in Colombia…

“Pass me the water please” he languidly asked the driver next to him. He couldn’t be bothered to reach out himself.

“We’re out”, the corporal uncaringly replied. “I just emptied the last bottle”

Ad managed to control his sudden urge to strangle the man. Instead he muttered: “Oh great. That’s just f*cking great” and motioned to a rather merry figure sitting in the jeep that was driving before them. Slowly he mouthed “W-A-T-E-R”. The guy did not seem to understand and waved to him with a wide grin.

The Knootian aptly replied by giving him the middle finger. “Morons” , he thought to himself. “I’m surrounded by morons.”

Suddenly, a rocket smoked past the road and exploded in the trees, covering the first jeep with a shower of dirt. “F*cK!”

As the jeeps came to a standstill, Ad quickly jumped behind it for cover. He didn’t see the man that had sat next to him but he didn’t care… water drinking egoist… He saw some figures hiding next to the bend between the greenery… “bastards!” he shouted in pidgin English as he opened fire, shooting in the Weegies' general direction but not hitting much of anything.


Parliament
"Mr. Sanchez, have you ever heard of something called the Order of the Invisible Hand?"

Sanches raised an eyebrow, surprised. “Well, yes. I have. But I don’t see how that is really important.”

He turned with a smile. “Baroness… if I may inquire how are you holding out so far? It must have been quite a journey for a noble Lady such as yourself.

A stretch of road, somewhere in Knootian Colombia

The first hail caught the youngest man in the leg. He screamed in pain, and collapsed, writhing along the forest floor, clutching his gun as if it was his guts to his chest. They heard a call of "bastards!" from the jeeps.

"Aye, same tae you, ye bunch o' fannies!" the older man sprayed a fire of bullets at the Knootians. "Now, you bastards, get doon!"

They did as they were ordered. It would have been suicidal not to, as was plainly seen from Gus. He'd also been caught by the initial fire by the Knootians, but he'd been less lucky than the youngest man. He was peppered with holes at the front, tiny little holes that looked almost harmless. Then you looked round the back, and you saw the exit wounds. The back was unrecognisable, shards of flesh hanging from the bones. He hadn't lasted long.

Two more of the group fell, two who had not spoken, never to rise again. The youth, the most passionate, got caught in the shoulder, and spun towards the ground, hitting it gasping for breath.

"Let's go!" shouted the woman, seeing another young woman, barely out of her teens. "Leave them, or we'll all get caught!"

The older man whistled "Aye, Jean, yer right. Move the fuck out, everybody, go now! Ah'll cover for yez."

The three who could still walk dashed into the relative safety of the forest, followed by the leader of the group, still spraying bullets in an attempt to escape. Suddenly, the last bursts died away, and all that could be heard were the cries of the birds, and the cries of the injured.

*Colombian 'Parliament', Knootian Colombia

Gia listened with interest to the answers of the politicians. She didn't trusted much what De Los Santos and Sanchez said, but insted took great interest in Guevarra. The young man seemed to have pure idealism running through its veins, in contrast to the other two colombians, which Gia saw as two crooks and opportunists with no real interest in colombian people.
She turned to the CPP politician and said:
"Mr. Guevarra, you say The Peoples Progress Party works with the colonial agenda. This is a grave accusation. Do you happen to have any evidence to back it up?
Also, should your party achieve a majority in the parliament, what would your first decisions be regarding Colombia?
Would you say your country is truly ok? Why/why not?"

Meanwhile, a modest letter, written on elegant recicled paper, was sent to the Knootian Prime Minister:

To: Prime Minister Lady Galadriël Táralóm nos Círdan

There is no concrete proof that Tanah Burung has supported terrorist organizations in Colombia and, unless you are so kind to send my concrete evidence, Hell Bovines government won't change its mind about this matter.
If the Rumbiak Brigade Organization is legal in Tanah Burung, that is only due to a legal loophole and nothing more nad the fact that the organization is legal does not mean the government supports it.
We certainly know about Knootoss' strong commitment to non-human rights and world peace and really appreciate our two countries share this gesture.
As for the photos you sent me, I must say that, although I appreciate your gesture, the photos haven't shown me any revealing truth. I am fully aware of the disasters commited by the FARC guerrillas in Colombia and glad that they have been erradicated. But I still fail to see how the FARC relates to the Rumbiak Brigades, as the two organizations have no relation or similitude with each other. While I appreciate the photos you sent me, I fear they have nothing to do with the issues discussed here.
I hope that all our governments can finish this incident in a sensible way.
Yours,

Saturnino Vacuno, Minister of Foreign Affairs

Baroness Bennigsen's eyes lit up. "Oh, it was an enormous distance! It was hours, darling! Cooped up on a plane...and then we come here, to this...this tropical place, why the very air seems different from that at home...." she paused as the delegate from Hell Bovines began bawling out questions. Gracious. she thought primly. "Working with colonialism is a grave accusation? Well...that sounds very serious, but I can't imagine what it means."

"Mr. Sanchez, the administering authorites have jsut shut down a mine for what they call investigations," de Groot said. "Doesn't that, in your view, constitute an interference in Market principles?"

A stretch of road, somewhere in Knootian Colombia
Ad kept shooting for a while until he was convinced that the mysterious attackers had left. His eyes peered at the greenery, but there were no more moving people. Still, the screams of the wounded could still be heard. ”We nailed em good eh Matt?”, he said vengefully. When there was no response he turned to look at the man beside him. The driver of his own jeep lay motionless on the ground with some blood seeping from a hole in his chest as if it were a water tap.

As he became more aware of his immediate surroundings again, he heard that some of the screaming was coming from nearby. The soldier who had sat in the jeep front of him was screaming and holding his right leg. ”Ah – f*ck” Ad thought to himself. ”And this has to happen on my bloody day off."

He gave the corpse of the driver another look. Somehow the sight was rather fascinating – a mix of fear and fascination. Knootians all learned to deal with death at an early age and did not attach much special value to it. Ads mother had gone to a hospital to die when he was 19, but this was somehow closer. He looked up annoyed as the boy holding his leg cried out his name repeatedly. "Yes yes. Coming.", he muttered. He took a small sprint to the cover of the other jeep but nobody returned fire.

…

Precisely sixteen minutes and thirty seconds later the wounded Knootian had stopped crying for pain and the leg was no longer bleeding. A transport helicopter was just coming in from the nearest base to pick up the soldiers – and the wounded Weegies who had been unable to get away. A team of Emergency Support Unit troops jumped out of the green monster to capture or kill any remaining Weegies on the hillside.

Two of the familiar black helicopters had been dispatched to search the nearby area for those mysterious attackers who were attempting to get away – but despite infrared and all that modern technology had to offer, Knootian commanders believed that it would be a hard job finding anyone not wounded by the initial assault.

…

Gus had had difficulty to concentrate and keeping his eyes open, but when he opened them after a brief lapse he peered right in the face of a twenty-year old Knootian pointing a rifle at his gut….

((reminds me to ask… have you by any chance read Hemmingway, ‘for whom the bell tolls?’ The whole machine gun by the roadside and then getting wounded thing… if this inspired you… would that make me the fascists? :P))

Parliament
well-"Mr. Guevarra, you say The Peoples Progress Party works with the colonial agenda. This is a grave accusation. Do you happen to have any evidence to back it up?
Also, should your party achieve a majority in the parliament, what would your first decisions be regarding Colombia?
Would you say your country is truly ok? Why/why not?"
“They work with the Knootians”, stuttered Guevarra, ”Allow them in, in ever greater numbers. We’ll never be rid of them if it were up to Progress.”

Maria de los Santos interrupted, somewhat hurt… "Oh that is just not true.” She turned to the Bovine representative. ”The PPR tries to do what is best for the Colombian people. We have allowed aid groups in, for example, for urban development projects and for clearing the slums. We *do* want independence and a gradual decrease of the Knootian presence. Mr. Guevarra just wants to kick everyone who is not Colombian out and that would be a terribly irresponsible thing to do. Fighting would flare up to get the void of power...”

Guevarra said proudly… Knootians out. Self-rule now. That’s what we would do.

Sanches could not help but sneer. “Yes. Aid money out, mayhem now. It is a distinct *minority* view from your *small* party if I might add”, he said emphasising the Peoples Parties size. ”A majority of the Colombians that voted at the last election does not agree with you…”

"Mr. Sanchez, the administering authorities have just shut down a mine for what they call investigations," de Groot said. "Doesn't that, in your view, constitute an interference in Market principles?"
“Hmmm… nasty business”, the Colombian mused quietly. ”But it is being investigated. Full disclosure. But it shows that nobody can break the law here and get away with it. I think that is a good thing.”

---


To: Saturnino Vacuno, Minister of Foreign Affairs
From: Galadriël Táralóm nos Círdan, Prime Minister

Perhaps our previous communication deserves further clarification. We have established that the Rumbiak Brigade was operating together with other criminal groups already active in fighting using guerrilla war tactics in Colombia. The pictures we sent you were only in part atrocities committed by FARC. 12 of the pictures were not of atrocities committed by FARC but of atrocities committed by other rebel and cartel forces. Forces the we can prove Rumbiak Brigade is cooperating with. These atrocities are not just a thing of the past. They are happening now.

The government of the DDR has not yet obtained evidence that the Tanah Burung government is actively supporting the Rumbiak Brigade. However it is a fact that the organisation is allowed to exist in Tanah Burung and that the organisation forms an imminent threat to Knootoss. We hope to work with the Burungi government to work out this matter because to us it is unacceptable that people are trained specifically to murder our people in a supposedly ‘friendly’ nation. The Burungi government so far has refused to cooperate.

Please put yourself in our position for just a moment – if we were allowing the training of rebels to murder Bovine citizens in our nation, would you shrug your shoulders and move on? Waiting for these people to come overseas and kill? This is why we need your help. Make them see sense – tell them that killing will only elicit more killing.

Yours sincerely,

~Galadriël Táralóm nos Círdan
Prime Minister of the Dutch Democratic Republic

Local Colombian television
A female newsanchor sits before a rather shabby blue piece of cardboard that is ‘the set’ of the Northerly News Bulletin. There is no video for this item, just a picture of the mine in Santagio del Cristobal with the red ribbon in front.
… a joint committee of Knootians and Colombians has been set up to investigate the practices of the mine and the DSM corporation* (http://www.dsm.com/en_US/html/home/dsm_home.pl) running it – The chairman of the committee refused to set a timetable but suggested that it may take a few weeks to a few months for the committee to complete its work…

---

((*I usually loosely base my corps on Dutch IRL companies, and DSM replaced the state mines, somewhat, and has a range of activities from ‘food’ (colorants and antioxidants) to electronics, car materials and semi-finished roofs. If any Knootian company would need a mine somewhere it would be them. Anyway, you can just use the name and in NS they would have the same stuff on their website about People-Planet-Profit and how their 100 year history reflects that ‘respect for people’ is one of their core values while producing a new unidirectional bullet-resistant material or promoting the PeptoPro®Sports energy recovery drink.

On another note, I hope HVS, Free Outer Eugenia and I-V now have enough information to continue their separate parts in the RP here after the brief discussions we had. If not you can always TG me. ))

:TAG:

*I'm scared* :( :( :cry:

I talked to Knootoss about joining this thing, but I'm still petrified about actually doing it. The reason I'm joining is because in writing my own RP, I got inextricably tied up with this one... I hope you all don't come down too hard on me... will post tomorrow... :?

((OOC: If its not too much trouble, please TG me with your ideas on participation first, k? TB and me both have to review who is in.
~Knoot))

OOC: related , and informative: http://www.nationstates.net/forum/viewtopic.php?t=154086&highlight=

*******

Columbian Parliament

The Nachxa's assistants sat and listened intently to the questions of the council members and the answers. They seemed diasagreeable to the answers and those answering the questions. The Nachxa's first assistant spoke again ,mainly to Mr. Gueverra

"You want Knootoss and Chimea out now, if they left right now what would you be able to do to keep the drug cartels and rebel factions from tearing your nation apart, again? It sounds very good to deride the Knootians and Columbians for a bad situation, but the situation was bad , maybe worse, than before they arrived? Your former governments were powerless to stop rebellion, anarchy, crime and murder, how are you better eqipped to deal with them?"

He stared hard at Mr. Gueverra waiting for his answer.

*******

In the rainforest

The Nachxa continued his walk, at a brisk clip. He had enjoyed himself immensly and was hoping to spot a jaguar or two the further away he got from civilization. "I wonder if Columbian jaguars speak the same tongue Tolteca jaguars do?" he mused aloud to himself.

After some time he came upon a small river, he paused, looking with grave interest down at the bank. He then removed his coat, hung it neatly on a tree branch , and his shirt as well. He foraged in the forest for several hours returning with firewood, and a handful of curious plants.

He piled up the firewood and removed his right glove, his right palm showing the eye tatooed on it, thrusting his hand into the firewood, it soon smoked and then flared into a nice little fire. He then heaped his plants and herbs onto the fire, the smoke aromatic and thick swirled in a narrow column high into the sky, he chanted softly as the plants burned.

By morning the fire had done it's work, nothing but white ash remained, he heaped up with his hands, pounding it down with the steel ball on the end of his cane into a fine white powder.

He paused and stood, inspecting the river bank closely again, and then began drawing lines in the ground with his cane chanting as he drew "Awaaaana.......Amate,Awaaanaaa........."

With the lines finished he sprinkled the white powder along the lines, depositing the rest of the powder into the river, to an observer the lines now resembled Columbia, the river bank mirroring it's coast line.

The Nachxa positioned himself at the edge of the map, perched over it "Now. We shall see what there is to see!"

OOC: He's a witch! Burn him! BURN HIM! ;)

OOC: Gus would have lots of trouble keeping his eyes open, Knoot, seeing as he's dead. Getting riddled by bullets tends to do that to a person. :P Actually, I've never read "For Whom The Bell Tolls", so that doesn't make you the fascists, unless you want to be. Although, thanks for the comparison. I'll say that it was the guy who got caught in the leg instead.

A stretch of road, somewhere in Knootian Colombia

Robbie strained his eyes open, tears involuntarily streaming from his eyes. The pain in his leg was terrible; it wasn't sharp anymore, though, more like a dull throb, seizing its way down his arm, seeming to suck the very life out of him. He looked down for a second. He retched at the sight

And to cap it all off, there was a Knootian stood above him. Somehow the barrel of a gun looked more frightening close up. Maybe it was the darkness inside the barrel, maybe because he knew from this range no-one could miss. Another wave of pain splashed throughout his leg. He twitched, and the Knootian reacted. Robbie grimaced and put both of his hands up, slowly.

"Woah, woah, man. Ah'm gonnae no dae onythin, ye ken? Jist lee us alane, an ah'll dae whit yer wantin, aye?"

The Knootian stood still, a frown on his face. He then spoke very slowly and deliberately.

"Do... you..." He pointed at Robbie. "speak..." He lifted a hand from the gun and opened and closed his hand. "English?"

Robbie groaned. "Whit ye oan aboot? Course ah'm. Ah'm jabberin' oan in yer English the noo!"

The Knootian still looked oddly at Robbie. He sighed again and began to speak.

"Um...Sorry, I don't speak good Dutch. Not much, just stuff I pick up. I..." he faltered. Surrender was never a word used in conversation. "give up you?"

Recognition dawned on the Knootian soldier, and also a little relief. He began to speak slowly, so Robbie could understand him.

"You speak English, though?"

"Ay..Yes."

"Then you'll understand me. Good. Get up. Slow."

Robbie motioned towards his leg.

"Goin'...Going to be hard to dae...do that." he said, picking his way over the words.

Esperanza Marcal and Vestuto Sengalego had remained in the village, although Pablo Ortez, the man who had taken the photographs of the mine and the surrounding area, had departed almost immediately.

They had seemed unsurprised by the cascade of events their advent had unleashed. Indeed, they had met with a good many of the villagers even before the news story had broken, to give them some idea what to expect—and what to ask for. The leaders of the union had already been chosen, and several organizing meetings had taken place. At the Church. And that was when Benignus had seen the real Esperanza, for she was, among other things, a brilliant union organizer and strategist, and a charismatic speaker. She made them feel as though there might be hope.

“You do not have to be treated like dogs! You have the power of unity, of brotherhood! They will try to break you, use their economic power against you! They will close the mine, stop paying wages, hope that this will make you desperate enough to do whatever they want, accept any conditions they impose when the mine re-opens. You do not have to do this! You can be strong! You can fight back! You can use their own laws to get justice, to get fair payment for your sweat, to get working conditions that do not make you sick, grind you down, turn you old before your time, even kill you.”

“They may not care, their ‘Market’ may not care—all that matters to them is their holy profits! And you have the power, my friends, to interfere with those same profits! This is the power we must use!”

She made them believe. She spoke of human dignity, of the dignity of their work, and of justice. She poured strength into them like water into a jug.

But it was not all talk, rhetoric. There was real planning to do. After the mine closed, and the press had had their field day and gone home, a burro train made its way through the tortuous mountain trails, loaded with foodstuffs for the miners from the Union. And the next day, a jeep cam bouncing up the mine road, carrying two men in suits, city men, men of the mine owners’ own type.

One was easily recognizable. He was the lawyer Domenico Guevara, a man whose wealthy background was belied by his populist convictions. He was well known as one of the strategists behind the Colombian People’s Party, and he had thrown more than a few spanners into the Knootian and Chimaean works—all entirely legally, of course, using their own court systems, with which he was more familiar than most of the occupation bureaucrats. He had to be. Only that and his own powerful family connections kept him from being “collected” and “questioned,” by the military and political officials he had irritated.

The other man never introduced himself. He stood to one side, quietly, as Guevara and Esperanza Mercal organized all of the miners who owed money to the DSM factors. Together, then, they went to the mine, and demanded to see the records on every man’s debt to the company.

This caused no little consternation. If not for the presence of Guevara, looming like the Recording Angel in the background, doubtless they would have stonewalled the miners. A few soft-voiced questions from him, however—including requesting the names, job titles, and supervisor’s names from the sullen factors—sufficed to bring out the greasy ledger that appeared on the paymaster’s desk each pay day.

They would not allow anyone to look, but they told the remaining amounts of each miner’s debt. Esperanza stood by and wrote down, on a proper legal receipt form supplied by Guevara, each name and amount. Two carbons.

And the silent man who had accompanied Guevara reached under the jeep’s seat, and pulled out a large bag of cash. As each miner’s name and amount was called, they went first to the jeep, received the cash, and took it and the receipt prepared by Esperanza to the factor. Under Guevara’s eagle eye, the receipt (both carbons) was signed, and a notation made in the ledger. The indebtedness of every miner was discharged.

“Now remember,” Guevara told the miners loudly, when the process was over and each man and woman clutched their copy of the receipt, “This receipt means that you now owe nothing! Your tools are your own, and any property that was supposed to be security for your debts are entirely your own. If anyone tries to convince you that is not so, they are acting against the law, and can be prosecuted!” There was a cheer from the miners, and everyone trooped back to the village. Guevara was patted, wept over, hugged, had his hand kissed, and the eternal blessings, good wishes, and gratitude of the village heaped upon him.

The other man simply seemed to fade into the background, until it was time to leave. The jeep bounced back down the mountain.

Esperanza and Vestuto met with all the miners, then, in the Church. Every man and woman in the village and the surrounding area, miner or not, made the solemn pledge in front of the Altar of God, to stand in solidarity with the Union. They voted Esteban Mochcouoh Steward—a good choice, he was well-respected in the village and had more education than most, having actually gone to Bogota for two years to a Church college.

Over the next few weeks, more concrete plans would be made, on what the Union would ask of DSM. Occupational safety standards and how to ensure them—the right to inspect and verify that equipment was maintained and safe for operation—new filtration and salvage systems to keep the cyanide from running off or leaching into the river and the groundwater—the use of drift mining methods rather than open-face—and restoration of the vegetation layer on already-mined areas of the mountainside.

Vestuto would remain in the village with the miners. Young as he was, he was already trained by Esperanza in the negotiating tactics and legal aspects of helping the Union achieve its goals.

Esperanza, however, would be moving on. There were other ‘Market’ enterprises of the occupying imperialists to disrupt. To inflate their costs and deflate their profits. To force them to operate according to the principals piously mouthed by the imperialist bureaucrats, and the letter of every regulation. It was only one prong of El Movimiente’s non-violent battle plan, but an important one, to be sure.

She had been impressed with the energy and the eagerness of Benignus throughout the process, although on occasion puzzled by a worried, thoughtful expression that occupied his face sometimes when he thought no one was looking. He was bright—very bright. He had possibilities. She talked it over with Padre Pacal.

“Listen, Padre… The node in Cali is organizing a school. We are going to teach about three or four dozen of our brightest young people how to organize and operate Credit Unions. And another three or four dozen how to organize and operate worker-owned co-operatives. And that is just to start. We will move the school around, training new young people in every province. They will become the catalyst, the nucleus of our economic struggle—to remove every vestige of profit from the imperialist occupiers, and channel it into Colombian hands, and foreign businesses and allies who will respect our autonomy and support our independence.”

The priest nodded, vaguely. The technicalities were, perhaps, beyond him, but the shared goal was the main thing, and that he understood—thoroughly. Did it not conform entirely with the Church’s teachings on justice for the workers, self-sufficiency, and the peoples’ control of their own economic and political destiny? These things he understood, very well indeed. “This sounds good, my daughter.”

“I want to take Benignus with me. I think he is smart enough to be very useful.”

The old priest’s eyes grew very sharp, suddenly. He smiled, to himself, puzzling the young woman. Then he nodded. “It is up to Benignus, of course. But I think you are right—he is a very smart boy. Perhaps he can be useful in ways none of us really expect.”

Esperanza was baffled by this rather inscrutable pronouncement, but priests… well, priests were given to such impenetrable utterings. She had what she wanted, anyway.

She went out to talk to Benignus.

Juan the Bellmaker was settling into a new home. He moved quite regularly, and always most unobtrusively. And always to a location that could be reached only if one knew exactly how to do so—and had the consent of Juan and his men. This move was necessitated because the shielded line-of-sight transmitter nearby was jacked into a scrambled, multiply-encrypted comsat frequency, giving him electronic access to the outside world for awhile. They would shut it down after a few days, move it, or replace it with another method.

But for now, it was useful to be able to “meet” electronically with certain trusted old customers and retail dealers. There was some economic finagling to set up. And a proposition to hear from one of his contacts among the various resistance organizations. This one, conveyed in outline by one of his lieutenants, had amused him. He wanted to hear more.

And so, after Mass and breakfast, he repaired to the anonymous, blank-looking room with the communications equipment in it, to sit against a plain gray background, looking into a bank of screens and a camera, and teleconference.

The first meeting included about half a dozen men and a woman. Most, he had met through supplying them with his top-of-the-line product, the absolute best cannabis in the world—the Bellmaker’s Best. All were consumers, some were also resellers. Some lived where cannabis was legal, and their sales of the Bellmaker’s product had provided high profit margins. Some lived where it was illegal, and their profit margins had been even higher. All were anxious, some day, to see the Bellmaker’s business back up to its full production capacity. There were two other listeners to the conference calls; they were lawyers. Juan’s business was their principal concern.

They talked… mostly of banks, and money. Charities, and investments. Real estate. The two lawyers took notes, mostly. Wrote down the numbers of bank accounts. Made notes of the names of charities. Real estate brokers. Investment trusts. Certain banks could be trusted to be quite firmly discreet about their customers’ business, even in the face of enquiries from various governments. From such banks, other transactions could be launched, into highly transparent, legitimate channels of commerce and international charitable institutions.

Juan the Bellmaker was a most charitable man. Did not the Church enjoin one to do good unto your fellow-man? Juan was a pious Catholic.

By the time the meeting was over, everyone knew what they were to do, contingency plans had been discussed, contact methods arranged. It was not necessary for them to know precisely why Juan was moving money around. It was enough that he wanted it done. Another meeting would not be necessary.

After lunch, the other meeting took place. This one was not nearly so elaborate. In this case, there was just one figure on the other screen. A man with as much desire for anonymity as Juan himself, he sat in a similarly unidentifiable setting.

His initial proposition disturbed Juan.

“You want to tell them I am alive? Confirm it? But I like being dead. It gives one such a sense of privacy.”

The other man talked, persuasively, and soon Juan began to lean forward in his chair. His eyes sparkled. “Si!” he said, emphatically, when the man finished.

The connection was broken. Juan sat back in his chair and laughed, and laughed. Yes, this would wrap a vise around the nuts of those foolish Chimaean drug squads!

A few days later, one of Juan’s men left, with a truck carefully loaded with interesting items. He made contact with a small group of men, among them Carlos, one of the leaders of El Movimiente. Carlos and his men left with the truck. Salvatore, Juan’s lieutenant, bought a nice new Mercedes car—paying cash, of course—and drove away. But not back to Juan. He would prepare the new home Juan would be moving to in a couple of weeks.

The Chimaean drug squads began to hear rumors. The rumors swirled and circulated—rather unbelievable rumors, at least until one of their undercover agents came back with a packet of cannabis. Very special cannabis.

It was taken for analysis, and the analysis was discussed by the most knowledgeable among the Chimaean anti-drug officials. Finally, they could reach no other conclusion:

Juan the Bellmaker lived.

And he was back in business.

The hunt was on.

Columbian Parliament

Guevara looked angrily at the assistant. “It is better to be free then to be slaves. We will deal with problems – and they will be OUR problems to deal with. Once the Knootians are out… our people will come together and build a new Colombia that is social.

“Always dodging that question, aren’t you?” Sanches rolled his eyes derisively. Metusen quickly intervened to prevent another aargument. ”I was wondering if you had any further questions. The debates of this morning are about to begin and I was hoping that we could be there in time”, he suggested.

---

In the rainforest

A monkey-like creature looked from the trees high above at the strange man making the funny sounds down below. The eyes of the creature followed every move of the Nachxa, awaiting further developments.

---

A stretch of road, somewhere in Knootian Colombia

The Knootian bent over a bit to check the leg, and frowned as he checked it. “I’ll get you some help for that”, he said with a rather neutral tone. He got up again and fumbled with a device that was attached to his helmet. He spoke in a poorly comprehensible mix of Dutch and military jargon that seemed to indicate that there was a 5-16 in the IIZ that required an immediate MAT… or something.

Finally, the Knootian turned to Robbie again, ”Will be any time now.” He pointed to himself and slowly said. “Rob. That’s my name.”

((OOC: Meh. I thought he might still live in a dying sort of way. ;)
Reply to HVS is, uh, in progress.))

-double postage-

Bump for the IMC! Reply to HVS requires some more thought but I'd like to know if the IMC is ready to go on to the parliament meeting. (Oh, yes, and a little bit bumpy for Weegies also. :P)

A stretch of road, somewhere in Knootian Colombia.

Robbie frowned. "Rob? Same here, mair..more or less."

Neither said anything for a few seconds, until a stream of angry, near incomprehensible words flew out of the jungle.

"Fascists! Lackeys of the capitalist class! Willing servants of the bourgoisie! Let me go! You have no right to do this, just as you have no right to do what you are doing to the people of Colombia, keeping them subjugated for mere exploitation! Fascist imperialist scum!"

A tall Knootian came out from the trees, holding the other injured Weegie at arms length. Due to the small stature of the Weegie, his feet barely touched the ground as he barked forth his invective.

Robbie sighed. "Iain. Please. We've been captured. Just shut up and let me be. I can't handle you droning on right now, especially without painkillers."

Iain was speechless. "I... you.... now, see here..."

The Knootian soldier called Rob intervened. "That's not Burungi... where are you from?"

"I won't tell you, fascist!" Iain stuck out his jaw in defiance.

"Aye, but the badge will, Iain." He pointed to a rolled up sleeve. On the olive-coloured shirt he wore was a small badge. It was a circular version of the Weegie flag, with the words "46th International Red Brigade (Weegie)" darned rather erratically at the bottom in gold thread.

Weegie Diplomatic Service (Special Affairs) Building, Aperin Square, Mackintosh.

The room was spacious and well lit, with a large floor-to-ceiling window showing the view of the large, grass-filled Aperin Square, home of most of the diplomatic parts of the Weegie state; the embassies, the Diplomatic Service building, and this, the "Special Affairs" building, in reality the headquarters of the Nialachan Fladh. It was about lunchtime, and various people were out on the green surface, eating, drinking, or just lounging, soaking up the sun. Not Peter Bryce, however. He had to brief some people on the impending Colombia infiltration.

Sixteen people entered the room, eight Galdagans and eight Weegies.

"Comrades." Bryce looked more tired than he had been when he was in Galdago; darkened circles enveloped his eyes, and he seemed more terse, more irritable than he had been. "Please, sit down." Whilst he was sitting down, one of the Galdagans sneaked a look at the memo Bryce had carelessly left at the top of his pile.

"...and in case of VONC coming to a head and DSP replaced by new party/coalition not in favour of CACE membership, we must think seriously about instituting Op. SaB, since CACE documents in a non-favourable, or even capitalist govt.'s hand is not a good situ..."

Bryce took up his papers, shook them about and rubbed his eyes. "So, Colombia... what do you want to know?"

---------------------------------------
Santagio del Christobal
---------------------------------------
Benignus found himself useful everywhere, but for now he was sweeping the church floor thinking about what had transpired so far – the entire row had certainly gotten the active interest of the AIVD. His evenings whispering into the medallion were being followed now – he felt that. But what the Knootians were up to he did not know. A serious frown formed on his face. He was roused from his thoughts by the voice of a young woman greeting him. His worried, thoughtful expression quickly made way for a shy smile – of sorts – and a small blush. Esperanza Marcal always made him blush just a little.

”Hi”, he replied simply, leaning on his broom casually. Subconsciously he swept his hand through his hair, making sure it was looking good. It still looked ruffled and uncombed, but that made it cute in a strange way. Esperanza smiled, and explained to him her plan.

“The node in Cali is organizing a school where we will teach how to operate Credit Unions. You know what those are, right?”

The Colombian gave a quick nod.

“It will also teach other things. Those attending will become the vital core of our struggle.”

“Yes?”, Benignus asked enthusiastically but surprised. “And you want me…”

“Yes”, she confirmed putting her hand on the boys shoulder. “I want you to come along."

---

“That’s it! Out, out OUT!”
After three tiresome days of negotiation, something snapped inside Viviano. The city lawyers – stoic during the entire negotiations - had been throwing obscure rules and regulations at him while not giving in to a single demand. He had tried the jovial approach, tried pouring them alcohol, tried to convince them of their hopeless situation, uttered veiled threats, confided “personal feelings”, sought consensus, proposed genuine compromises, and finally (beyond the techniques described in the shiny DSM booklet on negotiating techniques) he had resorted to open intimidation. All in vain. Walking down the shoddy hallway of the local management office with them, he threw Guevara’s coat at his face, but the fellow Colombian simply catched it and put it on – not showing any emotion himself.

Viviano went back inside, pouring himself a gin tonic with some added Pink Bunny Cola. For taste. The cold shoulder of Guevara had been only marginally more annoying, he regarded, then simply the situation of having to negotiate with the now titled “Steward” Esteban Mochcouoh who had been secretly gloating during the talks whenever he thought it couldn’t be seen. Headquarters would not be pleased.

--------------------------
KNN Financial
--------------------------]
“…only exception in the sector is the Knootian-based DSM which is down zero-point-six percent after the employees of one of their mines has gone on strike reducing their output by five percent. The company has announced that measures will be taken and assured traders that this is only a temporary setback. Despite negotiations over the strike breaking down the company announced that it would give in to several demands stating that production would resume the day after tomorrow. Global crude oil prices are up sixteen cents after no progress has been made in negotiations over drilling for Antarctican oil in the areas now claimed by Lavenrunz and the dollar measures a weak but unchanged 1 dollar and 94 cents against the euro.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------
A stretch of road, somewhere in Knootian Colombia
------------------------------------------------------------------------
At that very moment about ten more Knootians in pale green came out of the bushes from down the hill, a man with a monstrously large moustache, round sunglasses and black cap barking an order on recognition of the Knootian uniforms which made the others lower their rifles. One of them was carrying a stretcher on his back which was still folded up.

Rob pulled down a sleeve on Robbie, partially covering the logo. As he did it, he whispered confidingly “It would be wise for you not to say much. Their captain is a New Jigoku veteran and he won’t like your… kind.”

Then the Knootian turned to face the man and saluted. ”Thank you, captain.” , he barked, ”The area is secure. We have captured these insurgents but we have not yet identified them.

The captain returned the salute quickly, and eyed the situation. Then suddenly, as if it was a thunder striking at a clear sky, he yelled much louder then necessary to be heard. ”Get this sad piece of Rumbiak scum on the stretcher soldier.”] He casually pointed his gun at Robbie before walking over to the other Weegie till he was only a few centimeters from his face. ”And you will shut your commie piehole and come along.

Iain glared defiantly and returned the insult in his own language, spitting out the words. You can’t order me around you - you capitalist murderer!

The captain grunted, breathing heavily under his moustache as he raised his right hand to hit the Weegie. No captain!, Rob exclaimed, He was saying… he’ll come along. Right? The Knootian looked over to Robbie who nodded wearily, still in pain.

The officer glared angrily at the soldier. Then HURRY UP and get your asses into the helicopter. Rob replied with a quick Yes Sir! and motioned for the soldier carrying the stretcher, kneeling down to help his namesake onto it.

-----------------------------
Colombian parliament
Assembly hall
-----------------------------
The IMC delegates were brought into the visitors seats overlooking the assembly hall for the Volksraad of Knootian Colombia. From there, they could overseen the proceedings excellently. The council was seated in half-circle with a total of 100 chairs in different rows. The seats were all filled with Colombians – most of them in western suits. On a elevated position that could be reached through small stairs were the seats for the executive branch. This podium featured a mix of white men and women and Colombians. The center seated a tall elderly Colombian – obviously a president of sorts – who was flanked to the right by Metusen. There were only two other ministers present for this debate, both also flanked by Knootians.

The parliamentarians that had been talking to the IMC entered down below, a little late. The chairman frowned and opened the session. The first two hours of the session were rather uneventful as far as content was concerned, but it did provide an insight into the process. A proposal by the legislative branch would come on the agenda (The subjects where: “standards to prevent budget overruns for agricultural reform in the north-eastern region”, “Phase-3 urban development in Bogotá” and a “Free Market Penetration Evaluation Report”)

The process became predictable to the observers. The Knootians never said anything, leaving the explanation of the proposals to their Colombian counterparts while they read something else. Guevara would then interrupt the speaker as much as the chairman would allow him and fume against the plans, restating often how bad they were for the Colombian people and how this would further Knootian imperialism. When the Colombian minister had finally finished, someone from the Colombian National Party would briefly praise the plans as well as the enlightened legislators proposing them. All very jovially. The only CNP question was asked by Sanches when discussing the F.M.P.E. Report. After making it clear that he supported the ‘clear lines that had been set out’ he complained that things were not going fast enough.

The subject would then be concluded with a vote. (The Peoples Party of Colombia, as a block, voted against all proposals but they still had a comfortable majority and all passed.) After all this, the chairman announced a small break after which the Rumbiak Brigade would be discussed, along with an offer by the Knootians to send extra troops and take extra security measures.

The IMC members were brought back to a restaurant of sorts where they could eat and drink something during the fifteen minute break.

"How many fucking times do I have to kill this motherfucker?"

Colonel Enojado in full fury was a sight to make any man feel as if he was watching a nuclear blast. The man's usually handsome face was twisted into a scowl and his eyes blazed through everybody in the briefing room.

On the wall opposite was a large projected photo of Juan the Bellmaker, smoking a cigar and reclining in some sort of wicker chair. The rumour was that during the initial operations of CAFCOT (the Chimaean Armed Forces Colombian Operations Taskforce) and up until the Bellmaker's apparent demise, Enojado had kept a poster of the Bellmaker in his quarters and used it for darts practice. Some of the soldiers present had surreptiously looked for any holes in the present photo when they first saw it.

The CAFCOT heads in the room chose wisely to remain quiet during Enojado's tirade. The news that the Bellmaker might indeed be alive had fuelled a ten-minute outburst that contained enough swearing to make a sailor's eyes water.

The Colonel had been chosen to head CAFCOT because he had a reputation for never giving up in the face of overwhelming odds. CAFCOT's objective was slightly different from most of the Chimaean Armed Forces presense in Colombia as they concentrated mainly on devastating surgical strikes against the drug cartels. The nature of their operations was a semi-secret; they were mostly special forces operatives and the shadier paramilitary parts of the Chimaean Intelligence organisations. They played a dangerout game of tit-for-tat with the cartels; when the cartels impaled Chimaean soldiers on trees, CAFCOT made sure that the cartels woke up one morning to discover a lot of their payed mercenaries hanging off the branches of trees, bodies riddled with bullets. To their credit, the cartels weren't stupid enough to complain.

"I want every operative not active recalled, hear? I want this son of a bitch's head on my desk! We're going to hunt him down to the ground if we have to set fire to every fucking tree in this god-blasted jungle! Do you understand me?"

There was a chorus of "sir, yes sir!" along the table. Enojado nodded finally and dismissed them. As they filed out to brief their forces, he gazed contemplatively at the man in the photo. "I'm going to find you," he muttered to himself, "I'm going to find you and then you're going to die."

((OOC: I hope to continue this RP now... though there will be internet connection problems ahead in the near future due to a move. Lavenrunz is also on a holiday. I suggest everyone just posts whenever he/she can and I will try to fix up a connection. Either dialup or library. :) Untill friday however I can post. (And I may visit the library here afterward... its a bit complicated.) ))

The Colombian rain forest

Marina Sarmento wanted some action. The Rumbiak Brigade had been back on its heels, reeling from the beach raid. Inactive far too long, she thought. And there they sat in the jungle, isolated, achieving nothing at all for the revolution.

She grabbed a pen (made from corn, to minimize the environmental footprint) and dashed off a note to her contact.

"Sub-commandante," she wrote. "Beloved. I say we strike now. Our friend is in prison still. Can we mount an urban raid on this accursed Bastille? Or must we stay here eating cake?"

(or, re-tag)

((If the IMC people could TG me with their ideas.? You can stay for the Rumbiak Brigade discussion which should be pretty predictable , or leave to do... errr... the other things in your scedule.))

Knoot, answered yr. telegram

*Colombian Parliament, Assemby Hall

As Metusen directed the IMC delegates torwards the restaurant, Gia decided that that was the right time to try a small plan. Moving quickly, she tried to get lost among the crowds of Colombian senators and officers.
Once she had left the rest of the delegates behind, she walked with determination torwards where the senators of the Peoples Party of Colombia where resting.
Mr Guevara looked at the bovine delegate with curiosity as she walked torwards him.
"Mr. Guevara, I was looking for you...."

Carlos Illaquita and Quinto Mendez, with help from the local node, were setting up the first operation in the series. It was a work of art. They had already known, from the old days, of the old Cartel base in the Calequente hills, long-abandoned and well-hidden, but not yet eaten by the surrounding jungle. Quietly—oh, quietly—they had moved their team in to ‘rehabilitate’ it.

Quinto Mendez’s sister was married to a man whose work it was to design and create sets for television shows, films, even a few stage productions. Among them had been a couple of very ‘realistic’ continuing crime dramas. His extensive experience and consultation with law enforcement and forensic experts was invaluable to them as they recreated the first of the “Bellmaker’s bases.” The trick would be to make it look like a going concern—hastily abandoned.

The trick to making it “real,” Martin told them, was to actually do it “as if.” Several of the Movimienti had at various times participated in the production, harvest, and processing of premium cannabis products. They knew how such a facility should look, how it would operate. And the information and personal items that the Bellmaker had supplied them would enable them to convincingly indicate his presence. It would take some weeks—paths through the jungle must be made to look well-travelled, nothing could look too new.

And while the “base” was being prepared, small, strategic amounts of ultra-fine cannabis were being distributed in ways carefully calculated to look like only the most inadvertent indications of a much greater traffic. Known CAFCOT spies caught glimpses of something… never too much. One CAFCOT informant was allowed to purchase a small brick of ultraprocessed sensemilla, heavy with resin, producing the Bellmaker’s signature lengthy, extraordinarily clear and rapturous state of enhanced consciousness.

Finally, the “base” was completed and staffed. To make it look lived in, they had lived in it, while carefully creating the tiny details that would be so convincing—an array of tire tracks produced with tires brought in by truck, mounted on axles of different spans, and attached to loaded camouflaged platforms to make the small dirt road look much better-travelled than it was; a slightly antique music system in the ‘living quarters,’ with a well-used collection of recordings that might have been valuable had they not been so well-worn; the corpses and decayed bones of a great many chickens and not a few pigs in various states of age and decomposition—all the detritus of long occupation and heavy use. They had set up communications dishes, weathered from use elsewhere, orienting them carefully so that the weathering patterns would match their current locations.

It was Graciela Quilaco who had the tricky job. She was employed (had been, for years,) as a cleaner in a large building next to the cantina where most of the CAFCOT operatives spent a few off-hours now and then. Slowly, over time, she’d spread certain misinformation among the waitstaff and the regular prostitutes there. Most were unaware of the nature of what they knew, but she saw to it that they knew of a regular traffic building up near the Calaquente hills. Some purchased a few bits of product from a “connection”—a man who was unaware that the “wholesaler” he was buying from was part of the operation. In good faith, this ‘mule’ overheard bits of conversation, small clues. At some point, he would be able, when properly encouraged or ‘incentivized,’ to direct the CAFCOT operatives to just the right general area. The clues they had left, the one communications dish set up on a remote wireless timer to send encoded bursts at regular intervals, would do the rest.

The “evacuation squad” was sent into the “base,” their job to make the few last-minute touches and leave an obvious trail that quickly deteriorated into unreadability when the forward observers let them know that CAFCOT had taken the bait. Among the “clues” they would leave was an insolently-placed, somewhat obscenely gigantic spliff, rolled of high-grade sensemilla, in the exact center of the abandoned desk in “the Bellmaker’s quarters.” A deliberately mocking, provocative ‘you can’t catch me’ gift to CAFCOT.

Now it was only to wait, for their dear good Chimaean friend Colonel Enojado to put the clues together.

*Colombian Parliament, Assemby Hall

As Metusen directed the IMC delegates torwards the restaurant, Gia decided that that was the right time to try a small plan. Moving quickly, she tried to get lost among the crowds of Colombian senators and officers.
Once she had left the rest of the delegates behind, she walked with determination torwards where the senators of the Peoples Party of Colombia where resting.
Mr Guevara looked at the bovine delegate with curiosity as she walked torwards him.
"Mr. Guevara, I was looking for you...."

Guevara's face lighted up "Please tell me, Comrade, how can I help you?"

A non-violent demonstration had started all this off, and been met with deadly force. So the urban activists did not want to try anything like that again. But a few of Sebastian's friends were still itching for action, and looking for ways to get out their message.

They set out, in the small hours of the night, to glue posters to buildings and telephone poles throughout major cities.

http://www.tmcrew.org/killamulti/cocacola/coca-campagna.jpg

The new corporate imperialism!

Colombia is colonized. But not by Knootoss and Chimaea. The country is being ruled by a cabal of trans-national corporations who also rule Knootoss and Chimaea. The Colombian struggle for freedom is part of the global struggle for freedom from corporate rule.

Knootian cola companies rank high in the councils of this neo-colonialist globalization. Local drinks producers are driven out of business by the Cola Goons. The teeth and brains of Colombian children are rotted by the Pink Bunny Poison. The hard-earned wages of Colombian toil are siphoned into the yawning maw of Corporate Cola greed. Don't pay for your own enslavement! Boycott foreign cola. Slake your thirst for justice with local drinks, and end imperialism!

Similar posters were also produced for other trans-national corporations, not least the Knootian mining conglomerates who had attracted so much bad press lately.

Guevara's face lighted up "Please tell me, Comrade, how can I help you?"

"I've noticed, my friend, that you and your fellow party members seem very informed about the real situation in your country and the real nature of Knootian and Chimaeran ocupation. And so, I would like to arrange a meeting with you tonight to discuss this"

The bovine female gave a suspicious look around, to see if any Knootian authority was looking....
"You seem willing to tell me the truth, and I value this. Meet me at this adress, friend. Now I must go, the other IMC members are surely looking for me"
The female cow handed a napkin to Guevara, which contained the adress of the hotel as well as the time of the meeting (2 am).
Then, quickly, Gia got lost among the crowds again. She didn't trusted pretty much anyone she had met until then, but as she knew, "each person gives a distorted view of reality; the truth is in the middle". This Guevara seemed to be quite honest and sensible - Perhaps he would reveal what the Knootians seemed to be willing to hide. It was a risky plan, but worthy, Gia thought to herself.

Some minutes later, she arrived to the doors of the Parliament, where Metusen seemed to be quite hysterically looking for her.
"I'm sorry, I had to go to the ladies' room", she excused herself, wondering how ridiculous had that phrase sounded....

OOC: It was an idea kicking the back of my mind, Knoot. If there's any problem tell me and we can change it. :D

BUMP for weegies and Chimaea while I save other replies to my floppy disk.

Order Trademarks Freedom™

From: KNN International website

THE HAGUE - A group of high-profile entrepreneurs claiming to be members of the Order of the Invisible Hand today symbolically obtained an international trademark of Freedom™ and Liberty™. The group, which includes board members of Pink Bunny Cola Incorporated and Bonifatius Recreational Drugs, intends to start an international campaign to promote the proper use of the word Freedom™

A spokesman for the group told KNN that “the words Freedom™ and Liberty™ have been abused far too often by evildoers to mean the exact opposite.” He cited, amongst others the use of the false promise that ‘Arbeit macht Frei’ in Nazi concentration camps and the concept of ‘worker freedom’ used in the propaganda of non-Market regimes. “We are just a group of ordinary, upstanding people who want to stop people like Stalin, Mattew Iesus and the propagandists of the Rumbiak Brigade from befouling the noblest of values.”, the spokesman said. “Contrary to the message in the book 1984, Freedom™ is *not* Slavery and Freedom™ can only truly be Freedom™ in the Market.”

The group also has the intent to launch a ‘grassroots campaign’ combined with a media offensive and the use of popular idols such as pop- and rock stars and the popular Pink Bunny [Cola] mascot. The spokesman stressed the apolitical and non-commercial nature of the group: “We do not intend to profit from this endeavour, which is why we only ask a symbolic monetary fee for those who wish to use the trademarked slogans.” Still, ‘Fight For Freedom’™ and ‘I Love Liberty’™ merchandise is expected to hit the stores next week as part of the campaign.


((OOC: more on the Colombian parliament coming up. Its a bit hard to write that post without having internet acces to backcheck stuff like spelling of names and such. The Guevara meeting is okay. This piece above is re: the cola boycott. Local Pink Bunny Cola sales inside Colombia may go down a little bit. (-5% revenue would be my guess.) Mining and such would be practically unaffected since we don’t put processing industries in the third world; now do we. :P ))

A helicopter, somewhere over Colombia.

They had taken off, and Robbie was aware of the gravity of the situation; he'd been captured. Oh, yes, it had occurred to him before, certainly, but certain things seemed more pressing, like the large gaping wound in his thigh which had made him scream in agony. That certainly had taken up a lot of his time. But now, in the helicopter, with various painkilling drugs being pumped into his system to stop him from moaning horribly, he began to think a little more clearly. Or as clearly as you can get when you're beginning to hallucinate. Where were they going? What were they going to do? Did he count as a soldier, and subject to Wolvish Convention on POWs that Knootoss, as a UN nation, had to abide by? He doubted it, honestly. There was one final question: What was that unicorn doing right next to him? Oh, right...

Iain was sitting in a corner, a couple of Knootians standing guard beside him obviously rather pissed off. Whenever Robbie turned his head towards him, he scowled, mostly mouthing obscenities at him when the guards weren't looking. Robbie didn't have the energy, or the control over his facial muscles, to reply, and instead tried to ignore the whirling noise of the blades outside, and went slowly off to sleep...

OOC: Oh cripes, I forgot to post! Sorry! eep! To make up, here is an amazingly long post, filled with action and stupidity and underaged drinking.

---------------------

The intel filtered in, slowly at first, then with a bit more speed. Various operatives and the Colombian police reported that a possible new shipment of high-grade cannabis had entered the market. Few run-of-the-mill arrests were made, mostly of end-users who had purchased it from small-time drug dealers. So the chain was followed with the due process, link by link.

CAFCOT operatives started digging deeper. The news was of a production facility somewhere deep in the Colombian jungles--secret and secluded, only accessible by heavy truck. Reports were passed up along to the section leaders, who made their weekly reports to Colonel Enjado and his staff. Enjado pushed and the more he pushed, the more the section leaders pushed the operatives into finding something. Leads were sought and pursued, most leading nowehere. People were taken in for questioning only to be released and another lead dropped. Surveillance was mounted on the usual suspects.

It was looking gloomy for the section leaders in their meetings with Enjado when a breakthrough was finally made. An off-duty soldier rostered to CAFCOT security detail had been told several rumours by a waittress he was trying to seduce that there was a build up of traffic around the Calaquente hills. The rumours and reports increased until Colombian police took in a man for possession of cannabis.

CAFCOT immediately had him transferred and questioned. He in turn led to the dealer...

--------------------

3:04 AM, outside apartment building in Bogota

Miles was getting impatient. The bunch of teenaged girls and university-aged young men didn't appear to be leaving any time soon. They were clustered around two bins, the contents of which were burning, and passing several bottles of alcohol around, as well as lit joints of what looked like marijuana. He suspected that both had been provided by the young men looking to get lucky. Well that was not his concern, though he'd have called the police if it didn't risk the package getting spooked.

The suburb wasn't one of the best. The old apartment buildings and shops had a run-down, patched-up quality about them. There was a drunk man loudly snoring in the gutter a few yards down the street, though it shouldn't be a problem.

His team had waited over two hours for the kids to move but to no avail. Around the back and sides of the building, the other three teams waited, ready for his word. Nearby, a helicopter would be hovering, just out of earshot, ready to deliver the roof team and take up sniping position in the air.

Miles drummed his gloved fingers soundlessly against his weapon, a 9mm military-issue pistol. He was a good shot with it and had rigged up an easy-loaded system for his chest rigging. The others on the team had the usual mix of urban warfare weapons: shotguns, stripped-down CR60s and M4s which they weren't technically allowed to have.

It was nearly 3:15. He had to make the call before 3:30 otherwise dawn was too near. If he made the call now the kids could get caught in any crossfire; he's been involved in too many urban firefights to know that just about anything was possible in the close proximity of the target area. It wasn't known if the package was armed or not.

Miles adjusted his nightvision and studied the kids again. They seemed to be enjoying themselves, he reflected bitterly. There were a few who were getting quite intimate with each other. He glanced at the time on his visor, then shrugged. The kids would have to deal with it as best they could, but what with all the pressure to get results, he wasn't going to risk another burn-out with the Colonel.

"Ready in five." he whispered into the microphone coming down from his helmet. Around him the team tensed, the atmosphere of bored waiting changing to that of alert anticipation.

Four... Three... Two... One.

Miles felt the adrenalin lash out in his body as he surged up from behind the straggly hedges and industrial bins they had hidden behind. The team moved silently and fast; the kids didn't even notice them until they were on top of them. The team motioned for the kids to drop, hissing "abajo!" and "silencioso!". The few who were too stoned or drunk were put to sleep with a swift knock to the head.

The door was made of thick glass and openable only with a key. It was the work of a moment to pick the simple lock and gain entry into the deserted and odd-smelling lobby. One man bought the lift down and immobilised it, then followed the main team up the stairs.

Miles was glad he was in the peak fittness condition that CAFCOT demanded of its operatives; all too often stairs featured prominently in gaining entrance to a building. The stairwell was dimly lit by flickering neon tubes which made night vision an annoyance but hindered normal vision. He just hoped that they still had the element of surprise and no clown would try something clever using the stairs.

The team reached the third level; one operative covered the stairs to the fourth level while another covered the stairs they'd come up from. The two others took up position, pointing the torches afixed to their guns at the door. Miles reached out and gently tried the handle; it was unlocked. He nodded to the others, then in one fluid motion he opened the door and stepped inside and to the right of the doorway, scanning for enemies while the operatives behind him filed out from the doorway in turn. The hallway was empty and dark.

"Clear!" Miles muttered softly into the mic, then crept along the wall towards the target door. He knew that the top and bottom floors would ahve been cleared and secured by the other teams, so the two operatives guarding the stairwell followed. All five made their way to the target door: no. 24. Light from a television flickered through the crack of the door as the team took position: once more two men guarded either end of the hallway, and Miles and the other two would secure the package.

The operatives each radioed readiness. The lock on this particular door was a strong one that was new, so one of the operatives fixed breaching charges to the door. When it was finished, Miles unclipped a flashbang from his rigging hefted it.

When the door blew, it blew with force. The door seemed to disintegrate around the lock as it was pushed onto the ground by the explosion. Immediately Miles' flashbang bounced in and exploded harmlessly, temporarily incapacitating anyone inside the room. As before, Miles was the first in and the other two followed suit, fanning out along the wall.

Cowering on a couch in front of a widescreen TV was a half-naked young woman and an overweight, balding man. On the TV flickered a cheap porn movie, the sound turned off. Miles let the other two secure the woman and the man, stepping towards the apartment's one main bedroom. The door was closed, so Miles shot out the lock, kicked the door open and ducked inside, taking practiced care to scan his blind spots. On the bed a girl was screaming, staring at him in shock, and a naked man was on the floor where he had falled, one leg tangled in bedsheets.

Miles gestured with his gun and shouted for the girl to be quiet. He swiftly made his way over to the man and pulled him up inti a crouching position with his hair, hands on his head. Soon the other two operatives had secured them with cuffs and tape.

The only other rooms in the dingy apartment was the bathroom and kitchen, both of which were empty apart from two glocks, some ammunition, a lot of drugs in various states and quite a quantity of child porn. The girl on the bed also turned out to be underaged.

After everything was secure, Miles radioed to the C&C helicopter hovering above them. "Greyhound 1-2. All clear, package is secure. Advice you that we have also encountered a miniature child porn ring; shall I inform the police?"

"Negative that for now, Greyhound. Secure the package and all collateral and extract to base."

"Roger that. Greyhound out."

--------------------

Colonel Enjado was a happy man. He sat in the darkened briefing room with the rest of his staff and watched the video of the interogation. They didn't even have to use violence, the sod had been scared so much by the operatives he had pissed himself. Not, he reflected, your usual Colombian policemen. The child porn was a perverted blessing, though not for the man's bald friend. Lady Bryce's anti-child-abuse campaign had paid off and some of the shadier CAFCOT soldiers were teaching the man about military justice.

The tape came to an end and the lights brightened. He nodded to his sections leaders, smiling. "This is good work, but we're not in the clear yet. How reliable is this man's intel?"

One of the section leaders, Major Sutton, was shaking his head. "I don't like it, sir. The man's unreliable, the situation was too easy. This doesn't smell right."

Enjado glared at him. "Don't look a fucking gift horse in the mouth, Major. This is the link we've been holding out for."

The Major looked annoyed, but said nothing. One of the section leaders tapped the map unfurled on the table before them. "A thorough search of the Calaquente hills is obviously needed. Since that's some heavy jungle, I suggest sending five platoons of Marines in with the operatives. For air cover and support, we need the heavier attack choppers... I'd rather have more than we need on this one rather than less. The bellmaker is probably very well guarded."

The Colonel nodded. "Whatever you want, you got it. Just get me this fucker's head on a spit, and I'll be a happy man."

--------------------

Miles didn't like the jungle much. He had served on a few jungle missions in his time at CAFCOT and hated every one. There was something about the jungle, for all his training, you just couldn't trust.

It didn't help he was the one who had custody of the child-molesting drug dealer, who had been brought along to help identification of any apprehended suspects. The man made his skin crawl in a way it hadn't before. He'd had to help secure and transport a lot of evidence from the man's apartment and the experience hadn't put him in a good mood.

Now as he followed the man, who was sweating profusely in the combat fatigues he'd been dressed in (and from the occassional prods from Miles' rifle-barrel), he pondered on the nature of the intel they'd recieved. Miles didn't like it much. He had no great love for Colonel Enjado, and thought the man was a over-eager fool. Miles had been in a great many missions in a great many places and he knew when something didn't feel right, he should trust his gut instinct.

Behind him and arrayed across was two of the five Marine platoons. Miles liked the Marines; they were a fairly straight-talking, business-dealing group of professional soldiers. He had an idea that this group had seen combat in Street Island by the way they tended to move through the jungle.

An instruction from the C&C chopper above them suddenly interrupted his thoughts. "Eagret to Trap 2, come in over."

"This is Trap 2."

"Head due east of you. Trap 1 has found a makeshift path that's been recently used."

"Roger that, Eagret. Trap 2 out."

Pulling the man back with him, he walking along the line of Marines till he found Captain Eisen, who he informed of the news. Then moving fast, he dragged the man back due east as fast as possible, hoping they weren't walking into a trap.

--------------------

The trail was wide enough to admit a fairly large truck. The beaten earth and mud was rutted from heavy use, and the foliage had been roughly hacked to stop its encroachment.

The CAFCOT forces beat a path paralell to the track, taking care not to get too close. Soon another beaten out dirt track joined the first one. Cautiously, the soldiers trudged on through the jungle, alert fro the first instance of an ambush.

Then another report came in through from the C&C bird. They had picked up encoded radio messages of some sort through the jungle at regular intervals. The end of those messages was only a few kilometers down the track. Trap 2 was chosen for the frontal assault and Trap 1 and 3 was sent out to the back and sides to prevent escape and form a net.

The prisoner was passed back to the support soldiers. Miles wasn't quite ready to protect a paedophile in a firefight. Clutching his CR60 closely to his chest, Miles walked second in a squad of eight, two operatives and six Marines. They were in lead when the last five hundred meters was announced.

There was that tense anticipation in the air that heralds any possible action. Miles noticed that the jungle was oddly muted in this area. Which meant that the area was possible active.

The point man suddenly signalled down and the squad sank to their knees. Miles crouch-walked slowly to the point man and looked at what he had scene.

It was a fairly large chunk of jungle cleared way. A rough log wall afforded what protection it could, but the gates were wide open. inside, Miles could see several buildings and vehicles but no people.

Miles signalled for the squad to take up firing positions at the edge of the jungle, nearest to the gate. Soon the rest fo the squads had caught up and took up position for the assault.

Miles radioed Trap 2's readiness and was given the greenlight to begin. Dodging from cover to cover, squad after squad entered the compound, weapons at the ready.

--------------------

"...deserted, sir. Looks like some heavy activity just before we came. They knew we were coming and made a run for it; we're expandingour searches now."

Colonel Enjado didn't appear to be listening to Miles' words. Instead, he was staring at the photo of the Bellmaker that hung from the wall of his office. Miles was thinking that he was handling it rather well when Enjado turned to face him and the sheer fury that boiled from his eyes almost made Miles flinch.

"You. Listen. To. Me. I don't care how you do it, or how much it takes. I don't care about the costs or the geneva conventions or what you have to do. But you will find this son of a bitch, and you will kill him."

He turned around so fast that Miles did step back. Enjado's fist was flying before Miles could even wonder what he was doing. The fist connected with the framed photo, breaking the glass and mashing the picture back into the wall. Blood dripped from the Colonel's hand as he withdrew it, but he appeared not to notice.

"Did you hear me? I want him dead! DEAD! BURN EVERY FUCKING COLOMBIAN ON EARTH IF YOU HAVE TO, BUT I WANT HIM DEAD!"

OOC: Basically, just an embellished BUMP, but still...

A camp, somewhere in Knootian Columbia

The camp was, for want of a better word, a little messy. The remnants of a long-dead campfire was the focal point of the camp, and there were crates of food and weaponry lying all over the place. Tents were laid out haphazardly, but it was interesting to see how you could tell something of the resident's personality by the tent. Some were covered in mud, sticks and leaves in a rather pathetic attempt at camoflague, obviously by those who thought they were soldiers but weren't. Some had scrawled messages on the side like "Éilaigh schlanch té revolutiach!" (OOC: "The revolution lives forever!"), obviously the zealots of the group. Others still were more or less plain, except for a couple of personal effects, and seemed to be resided in by the real soldiers of the group. Unfortunately, there were precious few of them.

A couple of the group were, supposedly, standing guard, but mostly were just joking and talking amongst themselves... until they heard a rustle.

"Alright, who the fuck is there?"

"It's us, alright? Back from our little raiding party."

One of the guards relaxed. "Hey Jim, hoo's it goin'?"

Jim emerged from the trees, and sighed. "Maist o' the weans bought it. Me, Mary, and Eilidh mair or less the ainly wans left." He added darkly, "Unless thur's a wee trick fur survivin a bullet tae the heid I havenae kennt yet."

Both of the guards lowered their weapons. "But, ye had aboot ten men!"

A female voice called out. "Had, Eric, is the meaningful word there."

Mary emerged from the trees, with a wide-eyed Eilidh close behind.

"How many of us is there now?" said Mary.

"Us, minus the new dead'uns... aboot sivinteen." said Eric.

"And how many did we have?"

Eric choked slightly. "Thirty-five."

Mary grabbed her gun more tightly. "That's it. We're being decimated. We can't go on like this. Either we go home and regroup, or..."

Jim grabbed her arm. "Or whit, Mary?"

"Or someone else takes charge. It's obvious that our current leader is incompetent. We're ending up just with the death of kids like Gus on our conscience, all because he can't work out a proper plan of attack! He's useless, and we should get rid of him. Now."

"Haud it... we'll settle this a' the meeting the night, a'right?"

"I suppose so... but I could make it far easier than organising a meeting."

"We're no' gonnae chib him. We've talked that up lang enough."

"Oh, but.."

"No."

Mary sighed, and returned to her tent.

------------------------------
Colombian Parliament
------------------------------

Despite the air-conditioning in the old colonial parliament building, it was getting hot and the delegates where all overcome with a feeling of tiredness. There had been no siesta for the IMC delegation, after all, and after the break inbetween sessions Metusen made sure they where all seated properly again for the rest of the show.

For any keen observer, the remaining part of the discussion was predictable. A request by the administration to allow additional Knootian troops in was granted, with the socialists voting against. Another document evaluating the policy of “Opening Markets” in an extremely positive light was also approved, albeit with a smaller majority. The representatives of the different parties played out their familiar roles, posing only when the bored journalist seated next to the delegation pointed a camera in their direction.

By the time the delegates where finished the sun had set and dusk was hanging over the Colombian city. The top Knootian came to the delegation as soon as the meeting was finished, leading them out of the building. As the group was heading through the hallways, Metusen talked to them casually.

“I profoundly apologise for the delay, but the local market we were supposed to visit today has already closed”, Metussen told the delegates. I think its best that we do it tomorrow. If you do not mind, we have arranged for a Hotel, if you’ll just follow this security officer?”

The Knootians hand reached out to a tough-looking Chimaean. The caravan of black cars toured through parts of the city before stopping before a red carpet laid out in front of the Expert Hotel Chain Hotel #34. This hotel was, despite its name, quite luxurious and provided for all the delegates needs.

-------------------------------------------
Expert Hotel Chain Hotel #34
That night, 2 AM
-------------------------------------------
Silent whispers open many doors. This was at least the case with the grey back entrance of the kitchen of the Expert Hotel. With the sound of a whisper, the kitchen was opened for a cloaked figure. Slipping past Knootian and Chimaean personnel guarding the front entrance, the man was guided up three stairs to a sub-chamber where a clothed cow was drinking her nightcap.

The figure removed his hat, revealing the distinguished features of Guevarra. He spoke with a hushed voice: “Good morning comrade. It is good to see you again… but let us not dwell here. Let us instead sit amongst the workers, where we at least know who is listening.”

After reciprocating his welcoming words, Gia followed the Colombian down the stairs and into the imply-lit kitchen of the hotel, where a lonely cleaner was mopping the floor. Guevarra nodded to him with recognition and the cleaner gave a small nod back after which the Colombian sat down on the kitchen table, looking at the Bovine with a puzzled face…

--------------------------------------------------------------
Kamp Duyvendak
A military base in Knootian Colombia
--------------------------------------------------------------
When Robbie woke up, the sound of helicopter rotors had vanished but for a vague throbbing sound overhead. Slowly he became aware of his surroundings: the pain was gone and a dull feeling of nothing had taken its place. He had also been stripped of all of his clothes but for his underwear, socks, and t-shirt. He was locked up, apparently, in a grey cell with a toilet, washing place and a window to the outside world. Iain was in a cell next to him – he couldn’t actually see that but the other Weegie was yelling something.

---
Briefing Room
Rob was getting adamant about his point. “Why don’t we wait for the Chimeans to get here Sir?!”

The private was rewarded with an angry glare by his superior officer. “Wait for the Chimaeans… always wait … They are busy hunting down poor narcotics farmers and teens druggies while the rebels get away. I know them… they will just interrogate them to get to this bellkeeper or whoever it is they are after now. I’ll be damned to wait for the Chimaeans while they waste precious resources in their cannabis witch hunt . We’ll deal with these rebels ourselves.

“Yes, Sir. Excellent idea. But uhhhm … how… … Sir?”

The officer frowned and stuttered, which made his self-confident leadership pose quite ridiculous. ”Well… errr… when you capture rebels you interrogate them, right? I’ve seen that done.”

“In movies, Sir? With all due respect, we aren’t trai…”
“Don’t question every single one of my orders private!”
“Yes Sir. I mean… no Sir.” Rob said saluting quite unnecessarily.
“Lieutenant Wever can handle it. You go along… they know you. If they say they are soldiers, get their name and serial number. I’ll look up the POWs convention. If he is a soldier… well…”

“Yes Sir.” Rob turned and sighed deeply as he walked over to the barracks to fetch Linda Wever.

---

Robs cell door opened and a beautiful Caucasian woman with golden-blond hair draped over her pale green uniform entered. She smiled at Rob, whose leg was still incapacitated.

“Welcome to Colombia Sir. I am Lieutenant Linda Wever. If you want a drink or something to eat just tell me.”

Without waiting for a response she continued with a voice that tried to inspire trust. “The badge on your uniform says that you are a soldier. 46th International Red Brigade. Weegie, right? Are you a soldier?”

((BUMP... hope to see HVS on IRC))

Oh, it had gone wonderfully well. Mendez and Illaquita had used Peeping Tommy recorders to watch from nearby trees, blinksquirting transmissions 48 hours after the first penetration of the “base,” and then destroying themselves. Dear Colonel Enojado must be just about pissing himself with rage.

And they’d managed to rid themselves of a nasty barnacle, that fat pervert informer, who most unfortunately happened to be a second cousin of Graciela’s. She and her sisters (who’d survived his predations in their youth,) had been trying to get the family to do something about him, and not made much headway. She hoped he and dear Colonel Enjado were enjoying each others’ company. They deserved each other.

The second stage was trickier. Calaquente was about fifty kilometers from the line that demarcated Chimaea’s sphere of influence in Colombia from Knootish territory. The next “base” had to lure them closer to that line. Almost on it, in fact. Indisputably in Chimaean territory, but close enough to Knootish-controlled land to set up the final punch.

This time they chose a village that had been abandoned when a damming project had diverted its irrigation water. The villagers had been “relocated” to other communities, breaking up old interclan traditions, depriving the village elders of generations of prestige and influence among their people, and cutting the young ones loose from the discipline of the close-knit village customs. Many had made their way to cities to seek easier money than trying to re-establish an agricultural lifestyle among strangers.

The village had a few wells, still—enough to make it a believable choice as an “emergency base,” for the Bellmaker’s operations. They were silted up, but a little drilling dealt with that. With great stealth, the operations node made its way in and selected four large abandoned houses that already had storage cellars dug out beneath them. Subterranean excavations enlarged these, and they were fitted up with the right amenities. It must look as though the Bellmaker’s operatives were feeling the pressure, a bit. Tighter security.

And this time, there would be a few unpleasant surprises carefully arranged—but not so carefully concealed that most of them wouldn’t be found and disabled. The Bellmaker had never been known to resort to needless violence, but he protected his own. So there would be some mines, some tripwires, some gas traps, and a few other ‘security measures’ that one might expect to find if an evil druglord was worried about the law on his trail, yes? They would be effective, but not too effective. It was no part of El Movimiente’s plan to take lives needlessly, even Chimaean lives. Although there were those in the leadership who wouldn’t have minded seeing that principle compromised in the case of a few Knootians…

Still, discipline was firm. Only as many casualties as absolutely necessary to make it believable. The equipment was installed, some of it quite costly—like the “marygin” that separated the flower buds from the rest of the plant. Still, it was worth it, for the verisimilitude. And this time, they’d leave a goodly pile of discarded plant material for the CAFCOTties to burn. They always liked to burn things. A pity they never allowed themselves to inhale, though.

A comb, with a few of the Bellmaker’s hairs still in it was left behind a chest in one of the living quarters. A good many years ago, some officious agency had gotten hold of one of Juan’s discarded cigar butts. It had been before the occupation, but it was just barely possible that the Chimaeans had managed to obtain the DNA profile thus obtained. If so, they’d be doubly certain that it was truly the Bellmaker’s trail, hot and fresh.

The evacuation squad this time had a trickier task. They had to leave a trail that led clearly toward the “punchline,” but that petered out without making the final connection. Clearly, the Bellmaker was making toward Knootian territory, but, just as clearly, he no longer had the resources to move too far or too fast. An artistically abandoned truck would be part of the set decoration, here.

And finally, they were ready. It was easier now that the CAFCOTties were in the area, searching, already. Informants wouldn’t be needed. Tire tracks, radio signals, imperfectly disguised trails through the brush. One step ahead of the CAFCOTties, and only just—Bartolomeo and his squad, carefully leaving a few torn cannabis leaves caught in the thick creepers reaching into a makeshift trail, had to be quite nippy to evade a patrol. Fortunately the patrol was staffed with relatively new recruits, not really experienced in the local conditions. It didn’t take too much to lose them, and the freshness of the pursuit would be doubly convincing.

“Jesu e Maria! Felipe muttered to Bartolomeo, when they had safely doubled back in the opposite direction from the abandoned village “base.” “That was too close!”

Bartolomeo nodded. “Si, but at least they know someone is here, and someone doesn’t want to be found. Be sure that the signal is left for Quinto, so he can get the evacuation squad moving. They’ll be moving in on the target within a day. Most of them are fools, but some of them are not. They will find it.”

Imperceptibly, the two—both locally born and raised—melted away to return to the tasks they had never left, in nearby hamlets.

****************************

The operation in Cali was a tricky one, Esperanza explained to Benignus. Technically, there was nothing illegal in what they were doing—teaching the basics of starting and running a Credit Union, organizing collectives for economic enterprises, and so on. But they had already started taking a bite out of Knootian banking operations in the northern cities—Cartagena, Baranquillas, Arboletes, Mompos, Ciudad Perdita, and smaller towns like Sincelejo and Monteria. Small credit unions had opened in most of the middle- and working-class neighborhoods there, and already attracted a substantial membership.

And several collective enterprises had begun—the most promising one being the creation of a new carbonated drink combining cola nut extracts with coffee extracts: “Colocafi”. The resulting beverage was mildly caffeinated, only lightly sweetened, and really quite refreshing. It was becoming a small sensation in Baranquilla already, and Colocafi barrows, operated by owners who were members of the co-op, did a thriving business outside the big office buildings. Even some of the foreigners had been seen surreptitiously buying Colocafi. The Colocafi collective—one hundred percent worker- and supplier-owned—banked at a credit union, of course. And they were ready to expand to Santa Marta and Cartagena.

“So we have pulled their nose already. Not hard, you understand—but now with the Pink Bunny Cola boycott, Colocafi is likely to become fashionable. And the spread of collective enterprise and credit union banking will be noticed. They will start looking for ways to undermine what we are doing, and they can do that so easily—find ‘regulations’ that have been contravened, create costly and time-consuming ‘fees’ and ‘licensing’ that must be obtained. And then the applications for the ‘licenses’ will be ‘lost,’ or ‘sent to the wrong agency’—oh, yes! For all their talk of letting the “Market” run free, they will find plenty of ways to keep Colombians from taking control of our own economy.”

“And they will begin looking for the source of this activity, you see? They will want to find it, and cut it off, before it spreads too widely. We, on the other hand, want to get it as widely spread as possible, so that eventually there will be no way they can control it all. But we are not there, yet. It all still depends on just a few people. So we are discreet. The learning takes place under the guise of the Society of Santo Cristobal, the charity that helps with literacy and spiritual studies. They are everywhere, and the Church approves their work—they are too big and too numerous, too many people first received their education from the Society—for the foreigners to suppress.”

“Our classes look like ordinary Santo Cristobal classes, but after the regular class is finished, the “special students” stay on and we teach what they need to know quietly. You will learn these things, Benignus, and then you will be a teacher, yourself. You will join the Society of Santo Cristobal openly—the Society is no part of our operations, just a few members in many towns and cities really know what is going on—and take their classes to become a literacy teacher, yes? And all the while, you will be attending the “special” classes, too.”

Expert Hotel Chain Hotel #34

James couldn't sleep. That annoyed him; after all, he was back in a more agreeable climate, and yet here he was in the wearying depths of insomnia. He hadn't even gone to bed, either. He decided to make some coffee; if he was going to be up all night, he might as well enjoy himself doing it... he brought out a little bottle of Celdonian whiskey from his coat pocket, as well.

He heard murmured voices outside... he paused as he tried to make out what they were saying, but the walls were too thick. He considered poking his head out to see who was outside, but thought against it. The voices passed, uninterrupted in their conversation. James turned back to the kettle in the room... damn, only instant coffee in the rooms... he sighed.

Kamp Duyvendak

Robbie was slightly floored by the rather stunning blonde lieutenant who had just walked into his cell. He was dumbly silent for a couple of seconds, and was about to just answer the rather soothing, gentle voice... but then, a feeling of misapprehension and distrust crept back into his blank brain. He was in a cell, for heaven's sake. He'd just been shot. Why the hell should he trust any of the sly Knootian bastards? Besides that, he felt guilty for staring at that lieutenant like that... especially since Eilidh was still out there, in the jungles of Colombia.

He grinned at the female soldier slowly, and then proceeded to speak.

"Have you seen the fiealdain? It swoops and swirls with the mightiest of ease, but yet it wanders softly, like clouds billowing over air, coloured for the needs of its life and its furtherance of itself, to see the very fabric of the world is good, yes? But no-one sees the world as it truly is, it is covered in the mirrors that reflect what we see throughout our own eyes, and drift from person to person ever-changing, ever moving, never settling, but continuing to make the world in the eyes of its' own maker. For who is that maker but a shape, a manifestation of who we see and who we put in our trust, our life, our everything that disguises the real life and shades us in a million colours of safety? Those are the questions that we have to ask ourselves when we sleep, but never do."

He grinned again... he'd finally found a use for Meditations on Reality by Harriet McLeod, that strange book he'd found in a little bookshop on Gustavsson Street... his friend Brian had lost the bet.

OOC: I have no idea how I came up with all that gibberish. ;)

RevTag, so I can find this thread easely.I'm tired of "search". Ignore it.

Kamp Duyvendak
The smile Linda Wever had flashed to Robbie dissapeared as he continued to speak gibberish, and she regarded him with quite a puzzled expression for a moment, as if she was thinking about the meaning of the Meditations on Reality. Indeed, if he Weegie had said it in Dutch it would probably have made an equal amount of sense. The Weegie seemed innocent enough, grinning to himself seemingly. This was not going to be easy, she thouight.

Instead of just staring, she turned her head around to face Rob. Instead of her sweet, soft voice her Dutch intonations were clipped, harsh and pragmatic. "I thought you said he spoke English"

Rob, standing behind her, looked puzzled too and eyed the handsome Lieutenant and then the Weegie prisoner again with confusion. "I did."

He stepped forward into the cell next to Linda. His voice was a bit tired, and he spoke slowly. As if he did not really feel like it. "Look Robbie. Linda just wants to know what the heck you are so we can determine your status. Either you are a prisoner of war, or a criminal, or an enemy combatant or whatever. Its really best for you to cooperate unless you prefer to remain here in a legal limbo for a while. And really... you don´t want that. Unless you like cola a lot."

Robbie frowned, and then grinned again.

"Tha' a threat?"

Linda raised an eyebrow, sighing slightly. "Ah, so he does speak a language we can understand."

Robbie snorted. "Aye, that's me a'right. Fluent in at least wan languidge. Whit am ah? Does whit ah say make any slight bit o' diffrance? Ah suppose the question to ask yerselves is; wit dae yous think ah am? 'Cos, after a', it's no gonnae be me who decides where ah'll be banged up. S' youse, or at least yer high heid yins."

The next cell

Iain was a little angry.

"LET ME OUT! YOU JACKBOOTED PIECES OF EXCREMENT! YOU WHINING, SLAVERING FOOLS! YOU... YOU... ARGH! LET ME OUT! NOW!"

Well, he was very angry. He continued to pace around his cell, kicking the spartan bed whenever he passed by. Occasionally, he also punded his fists against the door, again screaming towards anyone who might be outside.

OOC: Gibberish, indeed. :P

OOC: Sorry about the delay. My computer got infected by a trojan and that made me lose quite a lot of my internet time. :(
But now the problem has been fixed, or so it seems.

IC:

-------------------------------------------
Expert Hotel Chain Hotel #34
That night, 2 AM
-------------------------------------------
Silent whispers open many doors. This was at least the case with the grey back entrance of the kitchen of the Expert Hotel. With the sound of a whisper, the kitchen was opened for a cloaked figure. Slipping past Knootian and Chimaean personnel guarding the front entrance, the man was guided up three stairs to a sub-chamber where a clothed cow was drinking her nightcap.

The figure removed his hat, revealing the distinguished features of Guevarra. He spoke with a hushed voice: “Good morning comrade. It is good to see you again… but let us not dwell here. Let us instead sit amongst the workers, where we at least know who is listening.”

After reciprocating his welcoming words, Gia followed the Colombian down the stairs and into the imply-lit kitchen of the hotel, where a lonely cleaner was mopping the floor. Guevarra nodded to him with recognition and the cleaner gave a small nod back after which the Colombian sat down on the kitchen table, looking at the Bovine with a puzzled face…

Gia Grassfun leaned over the table, and looking Guevarra in the face spitted out the reason of the meeting.
"Thanks for coming, comrade. The reason of this meeting is a simple one: I have no doubts myself that the Colombian people are being exploited under this colonialist government.
But sadly, if we want the IMC to intervene, we need more than words, we need proof.
Of all the Colombian politicians I've met so far, you are, my friend, the only one that sounds sincere. The only one that doesn't seem to be just another Knootian puppet. And that's why I called you. I need that you, as a native colombian, help me to find proofs of the brutal and undemocratic nature of the Knootian ocupation. I need you to help me discover what Metusen seems keen to hide from me. I've got my camera ready to take photos, I only need you to show me where the incriminating evidence is."
She paused, took a sip of his night drink, and asked. "So, comrade, are you with me on this?"


edit: typos, always the damn typos!

((Just a FYI... I had already written a large part of a reply to this post including an entire episode with HVS, Weegie interrogations and some keywords on what I wanted to do with HB when parts of my computer, errr.... well lets just say there was an accident involving fire and my grocely underpowered 70MW Power Unit who really did not like to power my computer anymore... Anyway, being a good little consumer I bought a new computer today instead of bothering to repair the piece of junk (for now). The Harddisk should still be salvagable so I really want my post back. If that aint working I am just going to re-type it. Must conquer frustration. (This is from a laptop by the way. ))

--------------------
Cali, Colombia
--------------------

Benignus had been taking his lessons for a few weeks . The entire process as it was explained to him was actually quite interesting and he was surprised by the ingenuity of Esperanza and her helpers. For a while, he did not hear anything from the Knootian intelligence people in Colombia and a peaceful feeling mastered him. There would be classes, and training. One one cool evening Benignus decided to take advantage of the cooling breeze to take a walk in Cali and shop for some minor things. In Bogotá the shops had already taken over the habit of the Knootian 24-hour economy but in smaller cities and towns the shopkeepers closed down early for the weekend.

As he took a left turn on the sidewalk to go round the corner of a small groceryshop he felt a hand touch his shoulder from behind. "Benignus", a voice with a decidedly non-Spanish accent whispered. "We need to talk. Continue on to the end of the street. A car is waiting there."

Benignus did as he was told and got into a rather cheap generic Lavenrunzian import car. A man got in on the other side - a Knootian of about forty of fifty - and shot him a short smile. "AIVD. I have spoken to you before", he said pointing to the trinket hanging around the neck of the Colombian. "So boy, I hope you are all right. Please tell me, what have you been up to lately?"

The boy proceeded to tell of the last few weeks casually and in his own words, as if he was telling a friend of what he had been doing. Some times he would hesitate, and then the Knootian would give him a friendly nod to encourage him to go on. Now and then the Knootian would frown and ask some specifc questions. He seemed particularly interested in names. When the boy mentioned the Society of Santo Cristobal he raised an eyebrow. "You sure?", he asked with interest. The boy nodded. "Then the church..." He did not finish the thought, but instead nodded for the boy to go on. When he finished his account, the Knootian looked in his pockets and handed him a new hanger that looked exactly like the old one he wore around this neck. "Latest of the latest," he commented. "This thing has a digital camera inside. It works like this...", he flipped it open and pressed a tiny button. A flash lighted up the inside of the car. "It also has the sending equipment of the old one, but you have to be much more careful with this one. Don't drop it. If you can find any documents that would be interesting, make snapshops. But ONLY do it when you are absolutely sure that you will not be seen. You understand?" Benignus nodded. "Remember," the he continued. "You are much more valuable to us then any pictures would be if you are caught."

The car pulled over in a small deserted street not far from where they had started. "You are doing a good job kid", the man said as Benignus opened the door. "Keep up the good work."

((replacement post #1))

----------------------
Kamp Duyvendak
----------------------
Linda nodded seriously. "Then that is the way it shall be. You will be arrested under suspicion of murder in the first degree, conspiracy against the state, terrorist activities, assaulting Knootian military officers, illegal posession of firearms, posing as a military officer and, uh.. you shall be officially informed officially of all the accounts in due time."

Rob, who was still standing behind Linda, added: "You will be interrogated momentarily. If you are open and honest this will do your case much good. If you don't talk or if you turn out to be a military officer after all, well... that won't be a good thing."

Linda backed away and left the cell without saying goodbye. Rob also looked around as if he was about to leave. "Uh, if you need anything just call", he added as he did a step towards the exit. "I'll see what I can do."

The next cell
While Robbie still had some time, Iain was up for interrogation first. The captain had been adamant about this: those that scream the most are just more afraid, he had proclaimed. Four strong men in uniform were brought in to drag Iain over to the other room. He resisted, obviously, and the yelling could probably be heard in the entire base.

The interrogation chamber was considerably more roomie then the one the Tanah Burung citizens had been interrogated in. It did contain straps, however but they were mounted against the wall. The Weegie was tightly secured so that he stood facing the room.

At that point, Linda entered holding a cup filled with juice with a dark pink colour...

----------------------------
Expert Hotel Chain Hotel #34
That night, 2:15 AM
----------------------------

The Colombian was a *bit* surprised by this offer to go on a nightly trip to photograph the opression. Nevertheless, he quickly managed to restore his composure and give an appropriate rhetorical answer. "The opression is everywhere!" he proclaimed. "It is in this hotel, it is in the Volksraad, it is in the very air we breathe - polluted by their factories. It is... such a monumental task that I would not even know where to begin. Especially now that their opression is covered by the blanket of darkness. But while the night and the Knootians can obscure the eye they cannot obscure the heart."

He grabbed Giga's paw. "If only I could show you this... this heart of mine that beats for Colombia."

((OOC: Poor HB. :( Stupid trojans.))

The demoralized Burungi fighters had finally regrouped.

"The Sub-commandante suggests declaring a liberated zone," Marta reported, breathless. She had run for miles with the news.

The group talked for hours, poring over maps of the district. Finally, they determined their target: the tiny, lightly-guarded village of San Pablo. Shouldering their weapons and taking their machetes in hand, they set off through the dense jungle.

"Viva," shouted Setiawan.

"Shh, keep it quiet," Marta admonished.

Inside San Pablo, the only official government representative was a police officer, Jairo Restrepo. And he was asleep, with his feet firmly planted on his small wooden desk and his nose high up in the air. He was snoring, much to the annoyance of a woman who was typing out letters in the adjoining room.

The thing that always struck Marta about villages like this was the goats. They ran freely in and out of houses, behaving almost as if they were members of the family. And they were: too much wealth was tied up in one of these scrawny and ill-fed animals for it to be worth eating them. These were milk-goats, goats who kept the grass from growing in what the authorities were pleased to call the "avenues" of San Pablo.

"Hey Marta, there's no soldiers here at all," Seth said excitedly.

"Well, that was the idea. We're hardly going to liberate a village from armed soldiers, now, are we?"

Most of the vilalge seemed to be asleep. A few woman were toiling away, washing their husbands' clothes or mending. A few children played. Rosa grabbed her megaphoen and addressed them in slightly accented Spanish.

"Beloved companeiros, this village has been freed, in the name of the Popular Movement for the Liberation of Colombia. Viva!"

The response was not exactly what they may have expected. Years of unrest and rebel groups claiming to free the people had made the villagers understansably wary. The goats did not seem to feel strongly about their liberation at all, and they continued chewing.

One of the children was coming towards Marta but the mother dropped her basket and grabbed the child, dragging her away. Others walked away from the group. All seemed frightened. One of the women headed quietly along the walls towards the tiny building that represented the police station, post office and community house..

One of the mothers bravely stepped foward, bowing her head humbly for the Tanah Burung woman.
"Please... we have little to spare", she begged. "What we have we need for the coming winter."

Winter? In the Colombian jungle? What an odd thing to say.

"We too have little," Marta answered. "What we have is yours." She handed over a bag of flour and a bag of raisins from her pack. "Tell me sister, are there any police in the village?"

(( I was not implying that it was going to snow, now was I? :P
Bed now.
AND I SAW THAT NEW SIG OF YOURS!))

The same village
The woman looked reluctant to accept the gift, and finally took it in her hands. After a "thank you" she looked down to the ground and mumbled something that could not be understood.

((Alright, I guess I'm going to need some help if I'm going to get the IP involved... so, what could I do?))

----------------------------
Expert Hotel Chain Hotel #34
That night, 2:15 AM
----------------------------

The Colombian was a *bit* surprised by this offer to go on a nightly trip to photograph the opression. Nevertheless, he quickly managed to restore his composure and give an appropriate rhetorical answer. "The opression is everywhere!" he proclaimed. "It is in this hotel, it is in the Volksraad, it is in the very air we breathe - polluted by their factories. It is... such a monumental task that I would not even know where to begin. Especially now that their opression is covered by the blanket of darkness. But while the night and the Knootians can obscure the eye they cannot obscure the heart."

He grabbed Giga's paw. "If only I could show you this... this heart of mine that beats for Colombia."

((OOC: Poor HB. Stupid trojans.))

OOC: Indeed, the net seems to be swarming with them lately. That's why I got myself a firewall now. :D
Sorry to hear about your "exploding computer" At least it was a good excuse to get a new one, wasn't it? ;)

IC:
----------------------------
Expert Hotel Chain Hotel #34
That night, 2:15 AM
----------------------------

Upon hearing the passion that Guevarra had, Gia confirmed that she hadn't commited a mistake by having this meating. The passion of the Colombian almost reminded her of another revolutionary of the same name, only with one "r" though.
"I'm sure, friend, that your heart beats for Colombia, as much as mine beats for all the opressed peoples of this world.
And that's why you must aid me in this. With enough proof, we can make the IMC intervene, and probably give your nation the freedom you are looking for.
Will you then take me to a place where opression reigns? A mine, perhaps? I heard Columbian workers were exploited in the mines of the south, or is the rumour false?
Anyway, the night is about to come to an end, what means we should leave any possible mission for tomorrow. Thanks anyway, comrade, your help is really appreciated.", Gia said with a bow torwards the Colombian idealist.

((Ack! Almost forgot. Post later.))