NationStates Jolt Archive

It was hard opening an envelope with one hand; as hard as it was to set up a folding table or to type on a Walmy clatterbox. But he’d had several years to get used to this handicap, and Charles Bradsworth hardly even noticed it anymore. He slipped the letter into the envelope and closed the top.

He applied a bit of hot wax keep it closed. From a desk drawer, Bradsworth produced a small ring and pressed it into the seal. Then, replacing the ring, with careful steps, he walked down the hall to his assistant’s room.

“Hey, Frank.”

“Your Excellency?” It was well after midnight in Golden Agate, but of course Frank was still hard at work. Bradsworth didn’t think the man ever slept.

“The latest good news from the Shield,” said Bradsworth, waving the envelope and then tossing it on Frank’s desk. “Sealed by His Lordship himself. He wants us to read it aloud tomorrow.”

“Without reading it first ourselves?” asked Frank with a sigh. The question was rhetorical, but Bradsworth decided to answer it anyway.

“Naturally. He doesn’t trust me for some reason. Anyhow, don’t suppose I could impose on you, could I?”

“Where’ll you be?” wondered Frank, looking at his boss.

“I’ve got to get back to the Shield. My mother’s come down ill.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Frank hadn’t known that Bradsworth had a family. “Bad?”

“Doctors give her two weeks.”

“I’m sorry,” said Frank again, even though he hadn’t done anything.

“What can you do?” asked Bradsworth. “Anyway, I’ve got a flight to catch in three hours; I’d better get rolling now.”

“Right. Godspeed, ambassador.”

“Thanks.” And Charles Bradsworth left the room. He boarded a flight out of Golden Agate bound for the Shadoran International Aerodock.

-----

At the next meeting of the New Highlands Alliance, F.J. Harnell, acting in place of Charles Bradsworth, stood up.

“Mr Speaker, with your permission, I’d like to read a sealed statement delivered to the Iansislean Embassy by His Majesty’s Government.” It wasn’t a particularly rare occurrence; Inswick and Dirwisham didn’t trust Bradsworth one inch further than they could throw him.

:TAG:

Hrmm...do I trust this not to have anything to do with my interests in the North Pacific or the West Coast of the former USA?...probably not. While I'm here, though, any chance of a post on Masquerade, old chap?

Oh, and what is James's full title? For...future reference, shall we say?

((Nah, just an internal ANH thing. Sorry about neglecting the masquerade; I wanted to get this and the latest Pinprick up before Lark went to bed. I'll probably only be able to get in one post tonight, though.

James's full title? With regards to the Empire, it's 'His Iansislean Majesty James III, by the Grace of God of the Grand Empire of the Shield High King and Protector of the Commonwealth and All His other Realms and Territories.' With regards to Shadoran, 'His Royal Majesty James VI, by the Grace of God of the Ancestrial Kingdom of Shadoran King'.))

The chair recognized Mr. Harnell to read the statement.

(aka tag)

“Thank you, Mr Speaker,” said Harnell, breaking the seal and opening the envelope.

“Ahem - ‘Honored Delegates to the Alliance of the New Highlands,

“‘I apologize for the brevity of this correspondence, but the calls upon my time have of late been greater than manageable. First, I would like to say that His Excellency Charles Bradsworth, Ambassador from Iansisle to the Alliance, is being temporarily recalled due to personal reasons. I hope that his absence will not be too sorely felt.

“‘What I have to say next may come as something of a shock to you. A majority of His Majesty’s Government, including myself and the Right Honorable Edward Tarriff, feel that certain unresolvable differences have sprung up between Iansisle and the member states of this great alliance.

“‘It is therefore my great and somber duty to inform you that --’” Suddenly, Harnell choked.

“I can’t - this - ‘It is therefore my great and somber duty to inform you that as of this Day, His Majesty’s Government feels it can no longer properly discharge its duties to the Alliance and, with the heaviest heart, finds it necessary to withdraw from the New Highlands effective immediately.

“‘Best wishes to the Governments of Larkinia, Celeborne, Agrigento, Walmington on Sea, and Yarrum in all their future endeavors. I know that even in the absence of formal ties, the relations between our great nations shall remain as strong as ever.

“‘God bless the Alliance,

“‘The Right Honorable the Earl of Inswick, His Iansislean Majesty’s Minister of Foreign Affairs.’”

As the murmuring in the hall grew silent with the annoucement, one of the Larkinian delegation was typing a message into his computer and forwarding it to the Presidential Palace.

"Sir, what are these 'unresolvable differences' of which you speak?" the chair asked.

-----

Presidential Palace

Chief of Staff Steve McGarrity was sitting at his desk as his secretary walked in and placed a printout in front of him.

"I'll get to it later..."

"You'd better get to it now sir," she replied, "It's the ANH file, Iansisle's just withdrawn."

"Oh shit," he said urgently as he read the email printout.

A few moments later he was below the Palace and set the paper on Jeff's desk.

Jeff looked at it and at McGarrity curiously before he started reading it. "Hmm.. Tarriff... Inswick..." he muttered as he read. His eyes grew big as he reached the bottom.

"I'll rip both of their hearts out and beat them to death with them!" he said as he punched up the intercom, "Aimee, get me King James on the phone, immediately."

(*grumble*)

“Mr Speaker,” replied Harnell, setting down the paper in shock, “this comes as a surprise to me. I can honestly say there are no differences of opinion, so far as I am aware, between His Majesty’s government and the Alliance.”

The direct line to Dun Adien rung five times. At last, a gloved hand picked it up and answered in an unfamiliar but typically clipped Shadoranite accent. “Hello? Oh, I’m sorry, His Majesty isn’t available right now. May I take a message?”

"Mr. Speaker," Derek Snows, the quasi-official Larkinian Ambassador said as he stood, "I move that we suspend the session until we can determine if this is an authentic statement from Inswick."

-----

Five times? That's not like.. Jeff started to think before hearing the voice. Who in the f*ck is this?

"Yes, this is President Williams of Larkinia. I'm calling to see if our scheduled state visit is still on. I'm guessing it is, please tell King James I'll be looking forward to seeing him at Shadoran Airfield," Jeff said before setting the phone back in the receiver.

"Um, Mr. President," Aimee said, "We don't have a state visit scheduled for Iansisle."

"We don't? Funny Aimee, it sounds like we do," Jeff winked as he stood up. He turned to Browning, "Get the Aerodyne prepped for take-off, we've got 20 minutes."

"So we won't be late for our imagined state visit?" Browning asked.

"Exactly, I hate to schedule these things, not let them know when we're arriving and then arrive. Oh and have the Striker team in the second Aerodyne. For security of course."

"Anything else? Other than an escort of F-45's?"

"Nope."

((I think it’s about time ;)))

Dun Adien

“Wait - Mr President!” shouted the man, but it was too late. He swore violently and slammed the receiver down. After breathing heavily for a couple seconds, he picked up the phone again and dialed.

“Ashtonbury.” The voice on the other end was cold as ice, totally professional.

“This is Matthews, on the island. We have trouble.”

“What sort of trouble?”

“The Larkinian sort. President Williams just called. He’s on his way out for an ‘official state visit.’ He wants to see the King.”

“Shit.” Unlike Matthews’ curse, Ashtonbury’s sounded crisp and intentional. “Well, there’s nothing left for it, then.”

“We don’t have to let him in to our airspace. We could turn his flyer away at the border.”

“No, no: that would just make him suspicious. I’ve been keeping an eye on Williams for some time. If he senses anything wrong - like an allied government refusing an official state visit - he’ll come charging in half-cocked with all guns blazing. And I don’t think the entire Flying Corps could hold off a single Larkinian flyer if they fixed their mind to it. No, I think His Majesty will be attending this event.”

“Do you trust him that far?”

“I’ve also been studying our esteemed monarch for some time. He’ll play his part.”

“An awful big risk on what seems like a gut feeling. What do the Biggies have to say?”

“We’ve already evacuated them to Point Dreadnought. Didn’t you hear the news?”

“News?”

“That Gadsani ass Redford. Princess Royal was sighted ten hours ago rounding Cape MacMillan like a bat out of hell, bearing straight down on Ianapalis.”

“Queen Consort?”

“Still having troubles with her turrets. She won’t be any help.”

“Should I evacuate the island?”

“Probably. We may have to quit Ianapalis shortly. The good news is that Princess Royal is down by the bows, according to Fort MacMillan. Whatever happened out there, she’s limping.”

“Aren’t they having some rotten weather off Troobodia’s north shore right now? Maybe Redford’ll do us all a favor and just sink.”

“We can only hope and pray. For now, though, we’ll have to forestall the Larkinians. In fact, I think I’m off to chat with His Majesty now. Prepare for evacuation, Matthews. Out.” The line went dead.

#4 Jameston Place

“Not looking very regal, are we?” James opened his eyes to the same nightmare face he’d seen since running back to the Shield all those nights ago.

“Ashtonbury. What a pleasant surprise.”

“I’ve actually got one for you,” smiled the Company man, pulling up one of the room’s few chairs and sitting down on it backwards. James’ eyes darted towards the door, but it was blocked by a square-jawed RM&M guard with a surly look on his face. He let the words hang in the air, challenging James or his sisters to ask for more information. Alice, who had been looking out the window, now bore her nineteen year old brown Callahanian eyes into Ashtonbury. Jessica didn’t stir from the bed in which she had been lying ill for the past day and a half.

“No, don’t tell me,” said James at last. “Executor Tedders was gored by an elephant?”

“Better,” said Ashtonbury, standing, “Someone’s coming in on a state visit. We need you to entertain them for a while and then get rid of them.”

“And if I refuse?” asked James.

“Please, Your Majesty,” laughed Ashtonbury. He wielded James’ title like a weapon. The Company man crossed the room to look out the window. He stood gazing out at the black water of Adien Bay for a couple seconds before turning. “We all know you wouldn’t do that.” The last line was said with his hand cradling Alice’s chin. She yanked away from him.

James sighed and hung his head.

Golden Agate

“We agree completely, Mr Snows,” said Harnell. “I would like to point out, however, that I have seen Lord Inswick’s writing many times, and this signature seems genuine. Also, the letter arrived in a diplomatic pouch, sealed with Lord Inswick’s ring.” He offered the split patch of wax as evidence.

Taggage...Maybe its time for one of the mutli trillion dollar Imitoran companies to purchase RM&M? Maybe have UMAC take over, and have ex ICMC Marines in place of the RM&M Gaurds...Me likey....

((Time for what? ;) Jeff to show up? Oh I've been waiting for this one... :twisted: And Ashtonbury's right, turning Jeff away woulda been bad.))

The two aerodynes... three actually, two visible and one cloaked, thanks to Dr. Niven, and a flight of fighter jets closed in on Iansislian Airspace.

"And if they ask for clearance codes?"

"Keep transmitting that we're having radio problems," Jeff said as he walked up to the front. He clicked a switch on one of the monitors. A view of the inside of the cloaked aerodyne was visible.

"Steve, it's up to you to keep an eye on things. If the shit hits the fan I want you guys down there like yesterday."

"Yes sir Mr. President," the lieutenant said with a salute.

"Are you sure about this Mr. President," McGarrity asked. "What if they won't let you get out of Shadoran?"

"But this is my aerodyne, it's always landed at Dun Adien, no reason to change that now."

"If they won't let you in?"

"Then I'm going to tear that f*cking castle apart stone by stone until I find him," Jeff said as his eyes went hard.

"Ambassador Austin on the horn, sir," an aide said.

Jeff picked up the phone. "Dan, we're en route to Dun Adien. Has anything strange been happening in Ianapalis, and if so, why haven't I heard about it?"

(I'll let you RP what he'd know ;) )

((hope you don’t mind me taking this liberty!))

“Just a few riots. There’s shooting most every night east of MacDunn, but the Ians - surprisingly - seem to be doing a pretty good job containing it. There’s at least seven rifles regiments in the city now, plus a couple thousand of John Company’s men. Sounds like just a big time of all that liberal agitation they’ve been having lately.

“Other than that, nothing too unusual. The government’s been fairly reclusive, but not too much more than usual. I imagine they’re just scared by all the street fighting.”

---

Dun Adien appeared perfectly normal from the air. A few men in KIG uniforms patrolled the shore and along the ramparts; they waved to the aerodynes.

((No worries, I figured Jeff would have gotten the info if all hell had broken loose without him ;) ))

"All right Dan, we'll be at the estate tonight for dinner. Come on by."

Jeff hung up the phone as the two aerodynes touched down at Dun Adien. The security detail was walking out of the first one just as Jeff and his staff strode out of the second one. Jeff walked up to the gate and opened them, looking for Weathers. ;)

((oh, I was just thinking, though - this is sometime after the bombardment of Fort Jackson / explosion of the Gurney. Er, forgot about that; sorry. Suppose Jeff’d already know?))

Weathers, surprisingly, was nowhere to be found. Lawrence was also absent, but Princeton was there to greet Jeff.

“Haven’t seen you in a while, Your Grace,” he smiled as a couple unfamilars stood by at attention. “What brings you to town?”

((Probably, he'd have a special interest in what's going on in Iansisle, so anything more than James getting a head cold would be on his desk asap ;) ))

"Oh, you know. The usual. Missed the manor, wanted to see how James was, try to figure out what the hell's been going on around here to nudge Inswick to pulling Iansisle out of the ANH," He said to Princeton with a smile.

((Good deal. Sorry I forgot that rather crucial bit of info; sort of slipped my mind. ;)))

Princeton, who had been walking along with Jeff towards the castle, stopped suddenly.

"Iansisle's dropping out of the Alliance?" he asked sharply.

Jeff stopped and looked at him a moment, "Yep. Delivered the letter this morning.."

(no sweat, so a lot of bad stuff's been going on, heh... excellent. ;) )

"I...hadn't heard," said Princeton. He resumed walking.

"Why is that such a surprise?" Jeff asked. "Does Inswick not have to at least report to his Majesty what he is doing?"

(are the two other guys with them?)

“Legally, yes,” nodded Princeton. “Of course, I don’t figure in to that chain too well.” He laughed nervously.

((sure! ;)))

((*snaps fingers* Curses... :P ))

Jeff picked up on the nervous laugh and glanced back at the two guards. "So, where is James? Up in the Honeycomb?"

“Where else?” asked Princeton as they entered by the South Gate. Gravel crunched underfoot while they passed the great statues of the lords of House Callahan. Princeton held the door open for Jeff.

“His Grace the Duke of Williams!” announced a well-trained doorman. Inside, James and a tall, thin man in a black suit stood.

“Damn, Jeff, it’s great to see you!” exclaimed James, crossing over and shaking his hand.

"Of course," Jeff chuckled, "You'll never be able to tear him out of there."

Jeff shook hands with James before looking around the room, shaking hands.. that was kind of unlike him. "It's good to see you too bro. It's been a little while. What's new?" he said glancing at the man in the suit.

(check your TG's again ;) )

((and backatcha!))

"Too much," James said with a heavy sigh. "Seems the whole country; the whole world is turning itself on its back." He followed Jeff's gaze.

"Oh, Jeff: this is F.S. Ashtonbury. He's with the Company; the Executor had some concerns with the situation in Gallaga. Mr Ashtonbury, the Duke of Williams."

"Charmed, Your Grace," said Ashtonbury with a slight bow.

"Really? What's wrong?"

Jeff looked over at Ashtonbury and nodded, "Mr. Ashtonbury, the pleasure's all mine." he turned back to James, "What's the problem in Gallaga?"

Edit: and another TG

"Everything. I trust you heard about the mutiny on the Gurney?"

"Funny you should mention that, Your Majesty," said Ashtonbury, his hands still tucked behind his back. "Mutiny is the problem we're having as well. Congress has its hands in every bit of our military and police; they convinced a small unit north of Delhi to kill their officers."

Quick question, does Jeff know about Christin/James?

((I figured he'd have found out over a little time (did they actually divorce?), which is why he's not mentioning it, cause the bad juju would overflow ;) ))

"I've heard about that, among other things," Jeff nodded. "Is it true the Gurney had an atomic weapon?"

He looked back at Ashtonbury, "Really? How did they convince them to mutiny against their officers? I'm not surprised that Parliament does, though. So with all of this trouble, Inswick decided that it was the perfect time for Iansisle to withdraw from the ANH?"

((Probably just that they’re having troubles. I don’t think they’re actually divorced yet.))

“From what I hear,” shrugged James. “Reports are still only partial. We haven’t hear anything from Princess Royal other than reporting the destruction of Gurney.”

“Congress has its ways,” said Ashtonbury. “A little propaganda here, a foolish word there, and they’ll have Gallaga at our throat and its own.”

Jeff’s bombshell set even Ashtonbury back on his heel. There were a couple seconds silence.

“Inswick - what?” asked James. “Withdraw, no, no!”

“I haven’t heard anything to that effect,” said Ashtonbury bluntly. “Iansisle has no intentions of withdrawing from the Alliance.”

"Well, what kind of propaganda have they been spewing now?"

He sat back and measured their reactions to his statement, as he took a long, long drink of his water...

-----

In the Aerodyne

*ring ring*

"Steve" answered the phone. "Yes?"

Jeff 'spoke' quickly as he drank the water.

"Go to Jamestown Place now. Meet with Inswick, I don't care what it takes, get in there to see him. Bring him here if you have to. No one knows what in the hell is going on."

*click*

The aerodyne fired up and quickly headed towards Ianapalis.
-----

Jeff put the water glass down. "Well, it's too late it looks like. The resignation's been handed over to the chair."

The well kept lawn at the corner of Empire and Gallaga Streets had never seen so many soldiers. Jameston Place, from the little cul-de-sac to the five magnificent Greek Revival buildings to the elegant piers, was crawling with military men in the khaki of the Tenth Rifles. They milled about uncomfortably at the sight of the approaching aerodyne and until an officer appeared and whipped them into formation.

Jameston wasn’t the only place with an inordinate amount of soldiers policing. All down Empire Street, Steve could see knots of troops at every single major intersection. A light drizzle matted the entire scene; the sky was a very depressing gray.

After the aerodyne landed, an officer with a colonel’s stripes stepped forward and saluted. His uniform bore the red and blue badge of Tharia; his name tag read Domacio.

----

“Certainly not!” exclaimed James.

“This has to be some sort of mistake,” said Ashtonbury quietly, ignoring James’ great consternation. “In what manner did the notice arrive?”

*grumble grumble... at least I'm not grumbling over the Marxist class anymore.. giving in to the inevitable has it's benefits ;) *

Steve saluted back, "We're here with President Williams' state visit. He's scheduled to meet with the Earl of Inswick in," he looked down at the PDA, "probably 15 minutes. We're the advance security team to make sure everything's all right." Steve turned and waved out the remaining security personel. "Make sure the office is secure." he said to one of the men walking out.

-----

"Yep," Jeff said to James. "The letter was handed over today. It was a shock to be sure."

The Larkinian security forces got a few dirty looks from the riflemen standing about on duty. Meanwhile, Colonel Domacio shifted uncomfortably.

“I’m afraid that we can’t let you see His Lordship right now. The death of his son hit him pretty hard, as you can imagine. He hasn’t been in to #3 in a couple weeks.”

Domacio’s tone didn’t *quite* blame Steve for the death of Viscount Inswick.

((do I smell a dropped class? ;)))

"I can understand how having your son shot down by your own military can be upsetting," Steve said. "However, the president will need to meet with Inswick immediately. He has several pressing matters to discuss and something to deliver to him. We can, of course, visit Inswick at his home, but it would be better for relations for them to meet in his office."

((Maybe, if I can handle not getting the money back ;) If nothing else then I'll have to deal with the beating I'll be getting.))

“My God, man!” exclaimed Domacio, his eyes hard. “The man’s only son and heir is dead. Surely you can appreciate that? Here, Mr Edwards, His Lordship’s chief assistant, is in the office. Maybe he can help you.”

"Yes, his son is dead. Yes, it's a tragedy. And yes, he came to Larkinia almost pleading for a meeting with the president for a reason. A reason he was killed for. If nothing else the president has some of his son's effects to return to the family, so no, meeting with Edwards is not acceptible," Steve returned icily. "Unless you'd like to prolong Inswick's suffering."

"Of course I don't," replied Domacio in the exact same tone, "but His Lordship gave explicit instructions to both myself and Mr Edwards that he is not to be disturbed. The president is welcome to leave Viscount Inswick's effects in the Ministry; I know they will be delivered at once."

He shook his head. "But, for God's sake, even an Earl is a man. Let him grieve in peace."

"We would be more than happy to let the Earl grieve in peace, since he and the President have very little love loss between them, but these are personal effects, and they will be delivered to the Earl of Inswick himself, and not to anyone else, for we think he would like to get these as quickly as possibly. It's not like we're asking for a photo op complete with fake smiles and poses for the cameras or anything, for Christ's sake."

((who would Jeff know from his time in Parliament?))

((Probably mostly Centrists - John of Vesshampton, Hiresh Dhawan, Michael of the Foothills, Carlton Interminos, and that lot. Oh, and Sir Richard, of course. The Admiralty House’s just across Gallaga Street from Jameston Place.))

Domacio sighed. “Fine. Just make it quick, all right? Jesus - His Lordship’ll have my ass for this one. He and Lady Inswick are at their estate in Inswick-on-Daldon - that’s in Vesshampton,” he added, in case Steve wasn’t too familiar with Shieldian geography.

((Yes!! Sheer obstinance works!! ;) And no more Marxist philosophy for yours truly, I took the cash loss and pulled the rip cord on that, I feel so... free now ;) ))

Steve took the notes down, "Don't worry, no one here will mention you said a thing to us. I thank you for your support," he added before turning back to the Striker team. "OK boys, let's pack 'em in, the big guy's got a schedule to keep and it looks like these guys would prefer us outta here."

The team boarded the aerodyne just before it roared to life and lept into the sky.

-----

The sound rang through Jeff's skull as he sat with the pair in the Honeycomb.

*ring ring*

"Will you two give me a moment?" Jeff asked before he took another drink.

"Talk fast."

"Inswick's at the family estate in Vesshampton. Apparently grief stricken over what happened to his boy."

"Call John of Vesshampton, see if he knows where Inswick's house is located, with luck, he'll be able to verify it."

*click*

Jeff stood up, "James, I trust you'll be coming to dinner tonight at the Manor?"

“D-dinner?” asked James his eyes darting to the side. A hand dropped into his pocket. “Of course, Jeff!” he said a moment later. “I’d absolutely love to come! What time shall we say?”

----

A decent map showed Inswick-on-Daldon was in the northern more reaches of Vesshampton and a small town of less than a thousand. John of Vesshampton, who was also an CCMP from his realm, would be fairly easy to reach from the front office.

Jeff caught James' eyes dart over to the other man.

A chaperone James? You have to ask his permission? What in the hell is going on?

"Of course, dinner, drinks and a couple of cigars. Say, 7 p.m.?"

-----

The aerodyne streaked through the sky before entering a bank of clouds. While obscured, the pilot threw the switch for the small cloaking device and it dropped down from the clouds.

Steve was on the phone trying to dial John of Vesshampton.

"Seven," agreed James. He didn't say so, but his manner seemed to want to get Jeff out of there.

---

One of the Larkinians could swear he heard the phone ringing in John's office at #5 Jameston Place. A bored-sounding secretary answered it. She said that His Majesty was quite busy. Could she take a message, or was it important?

((Congrats on getting out of that class, man. Sounded like double-plus unfun. ;)))

As Jeff was essentially shoved out of the Honeycomb by James and the other man, he turned to say something but was met by the door slamming in his face. He fought back the urge to rip the door down and find out what was going on.

He turned to Princeton, "Well I guess that answers that."

-----

"Yes ma'am, this is urgent, I need to speak with him immediately."

(Yeah, like I said man, little less painful than that alien probe! :P It cost me $500, but after scoring a 20% on the first test, I had a bad feeling about the rest of the class ;) )

((ouch on the price tag. Do you have to retake it, or can you scratch it off as a lost cause?

Man, that reminds me of that physics course I had to take my freshman year. Class average on the first test was about 34%. I ended up with a 'c' somehow, after not doing half the homework and getting 28%, 64%, and 42% on the tests. One hell of a curve. ;)))

"Answers what, Your Grace?" asked Princeton as he turned to escort Jeff back to the aerodyne.

----

"One moment." Several dozen moments later, the phone at last connected.

"This had better be damn important," warned the shrill male voice on the other end. The noise of a radio broadcast Gulls game could be heard in the background.

(I'm going to scratch it off, I don't even know why I was still enrolled in it now that I'm getting a University Studies (i.e. degree made for someone with a lot of credits in a lot of crap, like me ;) ) program)

"He didn't seem to thrilled to see me. I guess he's still upset about the situation with Christin," Jeff said as they walked back.

-----

"Is this John of Vesshampton?"

"Yes, what in the hell do you want?"

"I'm with President Williams' escort, he says he'll need to meet with you tomorrow during his visit. It's urgent, about an Iansislian withdrawl from the ANH. He's meeting with the Earl of Inswick this afternoon at his house in Vesshampton. He wanted me to ask you if this was agreeable and if you had heard Inswick was in fact in Inswick-on-Daldon."

(i.e. degree made for someone with a lot of credits in a lot of crap, like me ;))

:lol:

"Oh, yeah," agreed Princeton. "His Majesty's taking that pretty hard."

---

"Shit! Naumov, why didn't you blo - er, sorry? Oh, yes. Earl Inswick's at home with his wife. They took the news pretty hard, I guess. Yes! - damn.

"Duke Williams? Sure, I'll meet with him. Have him drop by the office tomorrow. I should be in all day."

"Yeah, I'll bet it has," Jeff said as he veered Princeton away from the two hangers on. "Who was that guy in there with James? I know who he was introduced as, but why is a company man babysitting James?"

-----

"Yes sir," Steve said, "Was there anything strange going on with him? There were an awful lot of military personnel around Jamestown."

“Mr Ashto -” Princeton started to answer. “Oh, sorry. From what I gather, the Company’s having a rather hard time of it in Gallaga, but the Army’s hesitant to send more white troops there with all the trouble here. I’ll bet Ashtonbury’s just trying to get some leverage with His Majesty to hold over O’Bannon’s head.”

----

“Other than the fact that his son is dead, no,” said John bluntly. “Come on! - damn. The troops are here because of all that protesting going on over MacDunn. We don’t really anticipate any trouble this far west, but one can never be too careful - get the puck, you idiot! Anything else I can help you with?”

((Check your tms, Ians...oh, and I'm now confused as to who I should be directing peace agreements to...the government or IanCorp?))

((Check your tms, Ians...oh, and I'm now confused as to who I should be directing peace agreements to...the government or IanCorp?))

((Got it. Peace agreements, eh? Well, you can just send them to the government; they'll find their way to IanCorp that way ;).))

(Roania, or you can just send them directly to the East Gallaga Co, Care of... ;) ))

"I see," Jeff said to Princeton "What has been going on around here?"

-----

"Nope, that should do it. I'll relay this to the president and he'll be seeing you tomorrow."

((Hmm..cannot post during day because of spamming general people / crappy server. Cannot post at night because of sleep for early-morning job.

Possible solutions:

A) Quit my job and sleep during the day.

B) Stop sleeping and subsist on nothing but a constant intake of Dr Pepper straight into my bloodstream.

*gets out coin*

"Other than all the unionist agitation?" asked Princeton. "Not much really; business as usual. Well, besides the Gurney, of course."

----

"Right. Tell Duke Williams I'll see him tomorrow, then."

"Other than all the unionist agitation?" asked Princeton. "Not much really; business as usual. Well, besides the Gurney, of course."

(I vote for B, since you have to work to have money and you have to have NS to survive.. it's a classic cash-survival question. ;) )

"What can you tell me about both of those, I've only been getting bits and pieces of them."

“Not really that much,” admitted Princeton. “At least, not that much about the Gurney. The Navy’s been trying to cover that up; it’s a pretty big embarrassment to them. Also, we haven’t had many reports out of Fort Jackson. I hardly have any idea what’s happening in Weshield; it would appear the kingdom’s political structure was hit hard.

“Here, the situation’s a little more clear. A violent minority group has been building up resentment against us for years and is trying to effect a bloody coup as we speak. Fortunately, there were several rifles regiments stationed near the city and the Company was bringing in troops at the government’s request. The Tenth Rifles are securing the western half of the city, especially Jameston Place; the Fifth and Twelfth Rifles are holding MacDunn Street; and the Second, Fourth, Seventh, and Twentieth Rifles, plus troops from the Gallagan Army, are trying to eradicate the threat on the eastern half of the city.”

"Well that was a lot of fun.

"I said, 'well that was a lot of fun' Daf."

"Dude... were you... dude!"

Daffyd fastened the last buttons on his shirt and folded his arms defensively as small, dark, Asian woman passed timidly between the two Celts and towards what passed in the boat for a kitchen. Brushing down her plain, functional brow shirt and pants she made a poor attempt at the Welsh for, "would you like a cup of tea?" and Daffyd made what was apparently an equally poor attempt at confirming his desire for same, in some hardly spoken dialect. Father continued to frown as he glanced from one to the other.

"Daf, no, I mean...there." He said, nodding west, probably. "Bit hairy, eh? I'm famished."

"Oh...Oh! Yes! Yes, me too, and the rest of us. One more grain of rice, one more piece of dried fish..."

"Not to worry, I'm pretty sure one can still get a decent battered number where we're going."

"We'll never get home on this battery if we stay under!" Exclaimed Daffyd. "What... the Shield and that, again? You know they say people still get-off with assaults there by saying they thought he was you, comrade."

"Hah, yeah, no doubt, but Sho Sulu's sure there's something serious brewing, this time... try saying that three times, fast."

"Shlolus...or...shut up. What in the mothe... very nice, very good tea." Said Daffyd, smiling and nodding to his ladyfriend whilest fearing that there may not be any milk or sugar aboard such a small diesel electric submarine as this.

A call came from forward, they were passing into heavy shipping lanes off the North Pacific Island Group, everybody should stop swearing and brewing up until things were calmer above, apparently. The little black Hound buzzed its way through the ocean, the tower's red-fisted yellow star visible only to the fish Father and Daffyd hoped to be seeing later, in batter.

(And thus concludes a belated and wordy tag, really ;) )

((*nudge nudge* ;)))

((*ZZzzzzzz...* huh, wha?? :P ))

"But isn't it strange... or maybe convienient, for that many soldiers to be stationed in Ianapalis?"

<Tag, because I like reading Iansisle's RPs, and because eventually I must try and "normalize" relations with them. I think Valinon and Iansisle would get along nicely.>

(ooc: Now, I was going to wait, and I think with good reason, but I'm full of vodka and various irish ales, and it looks to me like things are a bit slow... I think this was meant to go in a later thread, but I'll chance it, and just hope for the best. Forgicve me!)

Somewhere significant to the Shield...
The Beth Gellens, having scrambled ashore by an over-loaded inflatable or two, rummaged through their waterproof kits. Sopworth and Daffyd donned advanced lightweight bullet-proof vests as worn by GSIC agents, Daffyd because he didn’t want to be shot, and Sopworth because he sort of did. They made their way casually inland with a mind to find trouble. Father had a rant to expulse.

Daffyd had a job on his hands to keep the hyperactive group of hated Beth Gellens and other-worldly Drapoel out of notice as t hey stomped and stamped through the streets seeking a centre of potential support.

Quite suddenly the impulsive Sopworth stopped his comrades and bid them wait. Returning moments later with an acquired crate (perhaps an actual soapbox) he seemed also to have accosted a number of locals, and even as he strode to his desired location he could be heard booming mid speech.

“...Perhaps you have heard it said that revolution is merely an extension of evolution, I say, comrades, that it is truly so!” Sopworth stopped for a moment as he pondered on the strength of Catholicism in Iansisle and wondered at the security of his footing in Darwinian territory. Oh well, it was too late now, he hadn’t any other good ideas worked out. Daffyd’s hand touched nervously on the 9mm BDA automatic under his jacket as Father went on.

“...In the beginning the solitary wolf became a pack animal and the first societal advance was created. The pack or family group having set a precedent of social behaviour became in early man what we remember as tribalism where we were acquainted with hierarchies, command and subservience, and shared knowledge.

“The way was set for the rise of feudalism, still clinging desperately to the fringe of our society even today. Here currency could be created on a bed of social interaction and bartering, and the hierarchies allowed the rule of law to develop.

“With currency established came yet another new order, all incidental and part of this clear evolutionary chain. The traders, the merchants rose to challenge the absolute rule of the old feudal masters. Currencies born under feudalism killed that system by allowing capitalism. States created by feudal monarchs were now able to trade one another’s masters into near oblivion as political parties dominated by the bourgeois merchant classes replaced their kings. You can see that all around! Has power not shifted from regional kings to state-wide international trading companies? But why should evolution stop here? Why? Should you give up your future because the bourgeois are happy how things are today?

“The groundwork has been laid anew, this time the bourgeois have placed the tools of their destruction in the hands of the workers, just as the monarchists did for the traders. Now is the time for the workers to get theirs!” Assuming he hadn’t been stoned or arrested as yet Sopworth would by now be bellowing in the vein of his half forgotten rants during the overthrow of Prince Llewellyn of Beddgelert. Perhaps his speeches weren’t all that punchy, true. Sopworth was Graeme’s son and had Igovian political theories drilled into his head from a young age, and he was accustomed to speaking for a Beth Gellen audience- one traditionally well educated and untarnished by Hollywood, and thus possessed of a significant attention span. He went on.

“Now the bourgeois shall fall with their parties and companies, their factories run by the workers, their ships captained by the working class, their government run by a dictatorship of the proletariat! By revolutionary every-men like comrade Bradsworth!

“As it has happened in Be... abroad, so let it happen in the ‘wealth! All that is solid melts into air, all that is holy is profaned! Unite because you must! Unite because you can!”

Daffyd cried out from behind Sopworth, “So come on, friends! To the barricades, again!”

"But isn't it strange... or maybe convienient, for that many soldiers to be stationed in Ianapalis?"

"Strange, yes. Convienient - depends on for whom you mean it to be convienient," said Princeton as they reached the aerodyne.

((BG, I'm getting a TG out to you soonish that will hopefully fill you in better so Sopworth can make the right decisions.))

<Tag, because I like reading Iansisle's RPs, and because eventually I must try and "normalize" relations with them. I think Valinon and Iansisle would get along nicely.>

((Well, thank you, sir! I'd like to think so myself ;). Of course, Iansisle as we know and love/hate it may not be around much longer!))

A late tag, cuz the summary sounded so, like, innerestin.

(*nudge nudge* ;))

The Beth Gellen Old Guard and their associates -a jumble of adherents to some part of the economic left- wandered the streets, conversation largely hanging around just how well their various speeches seemed to have been received in...

"...It's Wyclyfe! We've come right past Weshield!" Shouted Daffyd, jogging up behind the group after carrying out some investigations, and so quickly that he'd barely had time to see himself properly inebriated along the way. One of the less prominant members of the BG Old Guard frowned at the consideration of his own lack of capital. How'd that sod got his hands on booze? He wondered. The real vets, fellows such as Daffyd and Sopworth, could always get their paws on what they wanted, despite being amongst the most firm advocates of currency-free economics.

Father seemed to have enough cash on him that he felt able to treat the eight or so comrades to a night in whatever local tavern would next catch their eyes. Perhaps it was usual for foreigners to find Iansisle's presumably old-fashioned ales and such a touch strong, but the Beth Gellens grew up with old Celtic brews barely of diluted alcohol and were of the belief that the aim of drinking was to become paraletic before ones comrades could manage the same. Quite how their comrades of other nationalities, including the tiny east Asian Drapoel, would cope remained to be seen.

It still hadn't been settled as to whether it was a good idea to reveal Father's identity to the locals, and one hoped that it wouldn't come out at an inopportune time during the evening's festivities.

(ooc: Yeah, nothing much there, I was bored and thought I'd click some keys and chalk up another bump :) Plus establishing where the BG element is, roughly.)

"Strange, yes. Convienient - depends on for whom you mean it to be convienient," said Princeton as they reached the aerodyne.

"Yes, it does depend," Jeff said to himself. "Although in Ianapalis, something this strange usually isn't coincidence. Well, I'll see you this evening Princeton."

Jeff boarded the aerodyne, which quickly lept into the skies. He turned to one of the aides on the craft, "I want someone to keep an eye on what's going on in Dun Adien."

The aerodyne flew into Ianapalis, as it passed Jameston Place, Jeff turned to the pilot. "Put us down at Richard's office. I want to find out what's really going on here."

*In a large, well-fortified, complex in Ianapalis, which happens to be a hive for anti-Shield forces...the High Consulate of the Divine Imperium of Novar Ohan and the Sunset Isles*

Lord Ambassador Baron Rothspierre chuckled grimly as he read the latest reports from his consuls throughout the Shield. "Well, well, well..." he thought, and then spun his chair back, and scanned a map.

Roughly in between the Divine Imperium and the Grand Empire were several small island nations, whose continued existence was only because they made a useful buffer-zone.

The situation in the Grand Empire, though, had been slowly growing more, and more...chaotic, certainly. And he smiled at the thought as he wrote a quick note, saying that there would never be a better time for the Divine Imperium to annex those islands... and to eliminate Shieldian influence in North America, once and for all.

His own personal view was that, as in Altara, the Grand Empire was over-due for a revolution. His own research into Shieldian culture had revealed frightful archaisms, including that slavery which is known as arranged marriage. Also, it was purely, he was sure, the pride of the upper classes that kept the Grand Empire and his own Imperium from coming to a detente.

Of course, a revolution might be far distant...unless, of course, there was a little help...

(Pshaw! Shieldian influence shall be vital to the future administration of North America's west coast, Great Walmington shall make sure of that. What? Oh, no, it's not that the Walmingtonians are too distracted to pay attention, ah, thingi! Yes! [bombs Portland and Los Angeles again, for good measure])

(Pshaw! Shieldian influence shall be vital to the future administration of North America's west coast, Great Walmington shall make sure of that. What? Oh, no, it's not that the Walmingtonians are too distracted to pay attention, ah, thingi! Yes! [bombs Portland and Los Angeles again, for good measure])

((LOL, just look away, we swear that's not a Roanian fleet coming to lay some smack down :P ))

(Pshaw! Shieldian influence shall be vital to the future administration of North America's west coast, Great Walmington shall make sure of that. What? Oh, no, it's not that the Walmingtonians are too distracted to pay attention, ah, thingi! Yes! [bombs Portland and Los Angeles again, for good measure])

((Bah! Walmingtonian Dog! It is the Divine Imperium that shall ensure the safe transition of the West Coast, Old USA to democracy! [eyes Hawaii, and bombs Honolulu.] Only mad dogs and English...men...

oh.

Carry on. :( ))

((Post coming! I swear! - just got a little distracted describing Wyclyfe for BG ;)))

((see, I told you! ;)))

The Beth Gellens might be surprised by how warm their reception in Wyclyfe was. The land of House Donnelly had always been the weakest of the Seven Kingdoms, both before and during the Empire. Sandwiched between Weshield and Vesshampton - which was all but in name an extension of Shadoran - Wyclyfe had missed out on the scramble for Gallaga and the riches of Asia. An ill-fated expedition to Sentry Island, which had met disaster outside Analia at the hands of the all but defunct Old Empire, drained her coffers. Several major incursions by Thortraian forces destroyed her defenses led to her annexation by Shadoran during the campaigns against Weshield. The sovereign right of House Donnelly to rule as lord under the High King had been restored in the Peace of Topton, but Wyclyfer pride could never be made up.

Wyclyfe had the ‘slow drawl’ of the West Shield and all its associated social stigma. Many outlanders, of course, found the rustic accent immeasurably preferable to the East Shieldian way of speaking, in which every syllable is spit from the mouth as if it had a nasty taste rapidly enough to have been fired from a machine gun, but it would win no favors in Ian’s Court. Meanwhile, the Wyclyfers were rejected from their natural allies, the Weshielders, as lazy, unindustrious pushovers. The three and twenty miles of railroad track, financed from the King’s own pocket and now choked with weeds, that meandered north from Wyclyfe’s harbor towards the coal fields of Thortraia, was an enduring symbol of the kingdom’s inability to attract industry of any sort. Perhaps remembering old feuds between the kingdoms, perhaps repaying a debt to the High King, perhaps just senile, King Alistair IV of Thortraia had built the steel mills of his new Royal Mining and Manufacturing Consortium in Vesshampton and Shadoran, leaving Weshield high and dry.

Poor Wyclyfe! Rejected by West, East, and North! At least the vast expanse of Troobodia Bay on her southern frontier gave no offense, if it also offered no sympathy. What was her place on the Shield, in the world?

Doubtlessly, the Beth Gellens would find Wyclyfe had an otherworldly atmosphere stronger even than the rest of the backwards Grand Empire; the only comparison would be the underpopulated and reclusive north. Her people were simple folk, for the most part. They lived in small villages spread across the countryside, tilling the land as their ancestors had done for generations. Wyclyfe itself, the only city of any size, still thought a hundred thousand souls in the same vicinity was quite a few, never mind the great metropolitan centers of the East and West. Abraham Hendon, that educated young book-worm from the flat above the widow Mrs Kentley and her collection of cats, said Ianapalis and Fort Jackson measured their population in the millions - Ianapalis even over ten million! Poppycock! replied Mr Turnbelly, the local feed store proprietor, as he took Mr Bladdyton’s rook with his queen. So many people couldn’t all live in the same city - surely they’d starve!

Nothing of excitement ever happened in Wyclyfe. The local citizens all read about the dramatic mutiny on the Gurney to their west, the exciting riots to their east, or Sir Penton’s latest sex scandal to their north. Then the men got back to discussing that new tractor John Smithie had bought from Chatwick-Graf’s mail-order catalog. Imagine, a machine doing the work of horse and oxen! The women got back to discussing whether Harold George would really propose to Mary Hatterman. He’d been talking of it for so long! The boys dreamed of a swashbuckling adventure in Gallaga or Africa or with the Navy. Surely, with enough determination and work they could be the next Jeff Williams! - once they got out of this boring backwater. The girls imagined a handsome Shadoranite lord coming and sweeping them off their feet and back to a life of high society and romance in Ianapalis. Too bad Mary would have to miss out after Harry screwed up his courage!

-------

Princeton waved until the aerodyne turned towards Ianapalis and took off.

The Admiralty House is just across Gallaga Street from Jameston Place. An intimidating ancient brick building, its entrance was guarded not just by the great stone tigers on their marble perches, but also by severe looking Marine guards in their olive green tunics.

“Your Grace,” said one officer whom the others had called when the first aerodyne landed at Jameston as he saluted smartly. “I assume you’re here to see His Lordship?”

At the Admiralty House, there is just one ‘His Lordship.’ The First Lord works with the other politicians at Jameston, and the Second through Fifth Sea Lords are never referred to as such.

------

Doubtlessly, the Emperor of the Golden Quarry of Ryansisle, the Premier of the People’s Republic of Healdsburg, and the Pater of Effit would be most distressed to hear their great countries referred to as just one of ‘several small island nations’. Iansisle and her Commonwealth occupied but the north-western quarter of the great Tilsitian continent. True, her neighbors following the collapse of the Greater Effitian Empire had always been overshadowed by the technological advances and strides in industry on the Shield, but their huge agrarian mass still dominated three quarters the land and a bit more than four fifths of the population.

Meanwhile, the Iansislean campaign against what had once been the United States of America went well. Commonwealth and Gallagan forces, aided by Filipino freedom fighters such as Emilio Aguinaldo*, were even now laying siege to Manila. The promise of freedom from American tyranny, reunion of the northern islands with Mindanao, and a self-governing Filipino Dominion within the Commonwealth were powerful incentives indeed, and the Americans found themselves having to fight not only the Iansisleans - who were decimated by the wastage and inefficiencies which accompany any Shieldian ground campaign - but the very people they had attempted to ‘civilize with a krag.’

In the East, bombers took off nearly daily from the newly conquered Midway Island aerodock. Admiral Lord Westergate, who had beaten two ancient American battleships in the only confrontation between two Lines of Battle since Merry Mave met Bismarck in the last war, was even now resting. His ships were being pulled from duty and rotated to Chateau for rest and repair while the weather permitted. Meanwhile, the Admiralty hadn’t quite made up its mind on the critical next step - would the twenty five thousand men of Fourth Corps go to Dutch or Pearl Harbor?

((* - Aguinaldo’s actually one of my favorite characters from history. Knew I had to work him into an RP sooner or later ;)))

"Ah!" Said Sir Henry, out at midday in England's second day of official summertime. "Hailstones!"

The Knight was far from well pleased by leftist gains in the Shield, being in serious need of support over the American war. Ah. Police Action. The Walmingtonian economy was rolling along quite well, and WoS had just joined the Commonwealth of Nations (formerly the British Commonwealth), but there was little real growth. Everything extra was going into the war effort. Eventually growth would level-off. With continental Europe still in Nazi hands, and the US ripped apart by the RWAF, RWN, and 400,000 battle-hardened Walmingtonian troops, Sir Henry realised that he had few markets into which his wares would be distributed. Iansisle was terribly important! Lots of people, lots of capital, enough openness! If the hard left took charge there was every chance that WoS would be frozen-out, or worse yet that currency would be withdrawn!

Sadly the resources of both the CM WoS and Sir Henry's Chaspot Company were already fully stretched by the demands of a war against a foe three times as many. There was nothing that could be done. "The system" was in some trouble. Fingers were crossed for the Empire, but little else was made available.

(OOC:Quite true,by the way- first day of summer was opened by the heaviest hail I have ever known!)

((Pearl Harbour is definitely out, my friend... I've had this post for quite some time, just waiting for the chance to try it. AND THERE'S NOTHING YOU CAN DO ABOUT IT! MWAHAHAHA! You brought this on yourself!))

The American flag hung listlessly in the breeze, the stars easily visible from the dock. The navy had been drawn out by the constant battles with the Ianislians.

They weren't expecting an attack from another quarter, because the Divine Imperium had issued a policy of sworn neutrality to the American government. Strangely, though, they were about to snap it in half. As the Prime Minister had put it, "no American government means no treaty."

===========

Lord Captain Commander Barctavan had accepted this task with trepidation. The first thing he had asked when he had been appointed head of the combined operations against Hawaii was, "Where are the Shieldians?"

The Aguans, pragmatic to a fault, had never believed they could win an engagement against the Grand Empire's naval forces with their own navy. Instead, they had devised a policy where-in they pretended to have solely colonial purposes in Micronesia and the small colonies in the distant south Pacific and Gallagan Oceans. But the threat had always been there. The Divine Imperium had no real interest in Hawaii, California, or even Alaska.

All the wished to ensure was that external forces had no hand there. And now, pursuing that policy, the Imperial Aguan Navy and Marine Corps was about to go toe-to-toe with the greatest naval machine the Pacific had ever seen. The fact that on land, the Legions could easily and brutally crush the Shieldian army was of little to no comfort. Barctavan doubted he would be able to land.

The Imperial Naval Force drove onwards from Micronesia, drawing ever closer to Hawaii.

On board, men prayed that diplomacy would triumph, and they wouldn't need to fight...

OOC: Paging Mr. Ian, I await receipt of the information you promised in the telegram about a conference on the west coast (ESPECIALLY ALASKA!!!!!!) in Larkinia.

IC, again:

Far to the North, another exercise was taking place. But this time, in the Imperium's own home-waters. Rather than risking anyone else taking them, a decision had been ratified in Parliament to annex the Aelutian Islands. The First Marshal had been most eloquent on the dangers involved in allowing the Clerks or, god forbid, the Walmingtonians, from taking command there.

In the command room of HIHANS Redemption, the Lord Admiral in charge of this operation blinked at the machinery in front of him. "What's this gadget?" He asked, confused.

"It's called a comp...a mechanical compass, sir..."

OOC: Owing to recent OOC decisions, I've completely dropped any and all future-tech...about 8 months ago, actually. I was going to drop fantasy as well, but since Ian here has psychics...

/me wonders if his pyschic boy-wonder would like to go toe-to-toe with Damien?

Oh, and WoS, if you people had been more polite in dividing up the USA (and you knew I was in the North Pacific, WoS), I'd have been more than willing to assist you earlier.

As it is, looks like I'm going to have to smite you...

OOC: To all, no, the invasion hasn't started yet.

Troops have been dispatched, but they're all still in my waters. Or those of my 'protectorate', the Micronesian Island Chain. ^_^ I'm trying for a diplomatic solution here...but, it seems unless force is applied...

(OOC: I was just this evening trying to post a news update, by the by, on Walmingtonian operations in America. Strangely it failed to post and the copy/paste failed without clear reason... it seemed to think I had nothing in the clipboard to paste, which was a lie, damn it. Anyway, the gist was that WoS forces, largely victorious on the eastern seaboard, were trying to clear up new US naval facilities around the Gulf of Mexico, and had suffered a recent defeat near the Mexican border after meeting unexpectedly tough US resistance in the form of late model Sherman tank-supported infantry born out of a still-thriving western industrial base. Of course we've obliterated any heavy opposition in the east, and arrived in a world living before modern concepts of terror had evolved.
Erm, point being that WoS forces are still deploying in specific missions to the west, and not always coming off too well as a result, while in the east we're increasingly consolidating some sort of power. In truth direct government of even the eastern seabord is fairly ineffectual, as people just aren't doing what they're told, but Chaspot Inc has taken-over just about ever commercial outlet on the coast, and is raking in an absolute shedload of cash. Hawaii... eh, so long as someone's distracting the Americans in the west, Sir Henry couldn't care less who was behind it :) (Of course, to any not already aware, WoS never had any interest in maintaining authority beyond the US eastern seaboard, in fact not beyond the founding states.))

OOC: Paging Mr. Ian, I await receipt of the information you promised in the telegram about a conference on the west coast (ESPECIALLY ALASKA!!!!!!) in Larkinia.

((oops, sorry. I've a terrible memory (to which Lark can probably testify ;)) and simply forgot. However, I've also forgotten what info I promised you. Care to send me a TG back, and I can dig up the relevant info?

Oh, and we probably ought to ask Lark before having a conference in his country. :P

Oh, and in Todd's defense, he's the only psychic the Shield's ever produced and likely to be the last. And quite falliable, I assure you. It's always been my policy to RP with any and everyone, be they fantasy, modern, future, spacewank, or whatever.))

((Huh, wha? Conference where? When did I annex Alaska? Darn it won't someone tell me when stuff like this happens? ;) and I can vouch for I-man's memory :P ))

“Your Grace,” said one officer whom the others had called when the first aerodyne landed at Jameston as he saluted smartly. “I assume you’re here to see His Lordship?”

"You'd assume right," Jeff said as he and his security detail strode through the doors and towards Admiral Tri's office.

((Huh, wha? Conference where? When did I annex Alaska? Darn it won't someone tell me when stuff like this happens? ;) and I can vouch for I-man's memory :P ))

((Oh, didn't you get the memo? And thanks man, I can feel the love from here! ;)))

The marine briefly considered stopping Jeff and forcing his retainers to wait outside. The idea was just as quickly discarded as an exceedingly bad one.

A lot of saluting went on as the unlikely party, the officer trailing along behind the Larkinians shouting out directions, descended into the depths of the building to where the First Sea Lord held court.

Grand Admiral Sir Richard Tri looked up as they entered with but a precursory knock. The secretary had been going to make them wait, but that idea was quickly discarded as an exceedingly bad one

“Hullo, Jeff,” he said with a weary grin on his face. Captain Conroy, the Chief of Operations, had been going over some sort of brief with the Admiral. “What brings you here?”

The marine briefly considered stopping Jeff and forcing his retainers to wait outside. The idea was just as quickly discarded as an exceedingly bad one.

((He learns fast, this one does.. ;) ))

"Hey Richard, how goes the fight?" Jeff asked as the group walked into the office. "I was just in the neighborhood and thought I'd drop in to see how you were doing, how things were going, related to what we talked about back at the party."

Sir Richard removed his glasses and sighed. “It goes ...well. Better than expected.

“As for what we talked about, there’s really no reason to beat about the bush. Inswick the younger was the victim of an unfortunate powerplay. I strongly suspect Mr Edwards to be behind it - or at least involved, but I’ve no proof yet.”

He glanced at Conroy. “And don’t worry about the captain here. He’s a good man.”

"So it's exactly as you foretold. Inswick's son gets killed as a result of some misinformation being fed to Inswick, who then goes on to order him shot down. Whatever happened to that criminal they told us was on the plane?"

"Claude Bouchet?" asked Sir Richard. "I haven't the foggiest. Last report we have of him - last actual report, that is - had him running to Tharia. That was over a month ago, though."

Unlike Iansisle or Walmington on Sea, the Divine Imperium's government had no secret corporation behind its back, forcing it into things. Quite the opposite, really. Especially under the current, Popular Front, leadership.

Thus, it came as no surprise when Parliament voted for steps to be taken to encourage a moderate revolution in the Shield, which would hopefully break the power of the nobility and allow peace-talks to begin...which the Divine Imperium would of course win, because the revolutionaries would have little to no diplomatic training.

Pursuing that policy, a small boat set off across the White Sea in between Tilsitsia and Novar Ohan, heading for a port in a heavily industrialised area. On board was an exile from the Grand Empire... a modern day Lenin, so to speak.

Guards knocked on his door, softly. "Mr. Ouvrier," they said, using his pseudonym..."we're arriving soon."

OOC: Since Ian knows Marxist theory, it seems, I'll let one of his citizens be a spark...

((I should probably point out now that I have never really read nor studied Marx (I skimmed through the Communist Manifesto, but that’s about it). I know the basics - the historical progression, the class struggle, and all that - but not enough to have a proper Marxist Revolution.

Which is just why I don’t intend to have one. But there certainly can be Marxist instigators and elements. :)))

Mr Lawrence Maders hated the pseudonym his Roanian sponsorers had picked for him. He had never believed in sneaking about, like the Communist Party of Iansisle always insisted on doing. Of course, that might be why the Communists - albeit with but a single seat on the Combined Parliament and two on the Imperial - still existed as something of a political force.

But he could also understand the need for secrecy. His last abortive attempt to sneak from Ryansisle into Tharia had ended in inglorious failure. Maders spent two weeks running from Tharian authorities (and the hangman’s noose) before escaping from the Arm back to the Golden Quarry.

He wondered where his benefactors intended to drop him. The West Shield, perhaps at Mansmouth, would be easiest, as it avoided the tightly controlled Northern and Southern Straits. But Mansmouth was eight hundred and fifty miles from Ianapalis, and Ianapalis was where the action was. It was there they needed a leader to unify the resistance groups - a leader like Charles Bradsworth had been, before he sold out to the system. Like Maders had been before the Grand Street Massacre and his exile. But there was no way this boat would be able to run the tight blockade without being stopped by either the Navy or a Revenue Service cutter. And it that happened, Maders would be arrested, found guilty of violating his exile, and hanged by the neck.

((Oh, by the way, it’s Tilsitia - I think Tilsitsin is a country somewhere in NS ;)))

The Imperial Trading Guild charter boat solved the problem of getting past the blockade into Ianapolis very, very easily. A flag had been risen on top, showing that an Imperial Nobleman was on board. This hypothesis had been confirmed by the Imperial Naval forces patrolling their half of the White Sea, who had, on cue, given the required 2 gun salute for a petty noble.

The guards, while still in the incredibly narrow stretch of international waters, had put the man whom they had given the name of 'worker' ((in French, rather than the preferred German or Russian, so that it sounded like a plausible name)) into a secret compartment in between the two thick-walled state-rooms.

At the same time, a message rang ahead to the Shieldian navy.

[code:1:c95c215b0d]TO: The Commanding Officer of the Shieldian Naval Forces in the White Sea
FROM: The HIHS Doughty, from Port Dargon

Owing to recent troubles in the merchantile and transport marine of the Aguan navy, his excellency Baron Robespierre has chartered this boat to bring the latest dispatches from the Imperial Ministry of Colonial and Foreign Affairs and Trade to him.

Also on board is his lordship, Baron Tylan, who has a tourist visa. We politely request the two-gun salute due to any Imperial Noble, and remind you that the Divine Imperium has always done the same for any ships and nobility from the Grand Empire.[/code:1:c95c215b0d]

“Two guns?” scoffed the signal midshipman upon reading Doughty’s message. “Who on Earth salutes with an even number of guns? Bad luck, that’s what it is!”

His Iansislean Majesty’s Sloop Dalenford was a stout little ship of eleven hundred tons. The great red ensign flapped from her stumpy mizzen mast on her stern and the triangular red pennant of an acting commodore strained against the steady south-westerly wind that blew across her mainmast.

Commodore Thomas Ward, who was in rank just a list captain with Royal Iansislean Navy Reserve, silenced the impudent boy with a harsh glare. It was hard enough for a fifty three year old man to whip an entire squadron crewed by third rate officers, midshipmen in diapers, and pressed men into any sort of a fighting force without having commentary on every incoming signal.

Dalenford was one of many anti-submarine sloops that had been built during the last war to combat the u-boatwaffe. After the war, the ungainly slow ships had been put in mothballs and their crews used to man the great ships of the line and cruisers of the Linhower Plan. When the American War started, the risk of Yankee submarines wreaking havoc on Iansislean flag shipping had been a major concern, and the sloops were equipped with the latest in hydrophones and ASDIC and brought back into service. Manning them had been a bit more of a challenge. Of course, a couple months of experience had proven Uncle Sam was much worse at undersea warfare than Fritz had been; often, Yankee submarines were pinned and depth charged before they could even get off a torpedo spread.

“Shall I alert Vice Admiral Jones, sir?” asked the first lieutenant, who was standing nearby with his hands clasped behind his back. Vice Admiral Sir Kenneth Jones, who flew his flag from the heavy cruiser Mainwaring, was the Area Commander, Western Marches and in charge of Ward’s sloop squadron. Despite the vast amount of shipping that passed through the Straits on any given day - enough to overwhelm the Revenue Service, even with the extra help it was getting from the Navy - a foreign-flag ship claiming diplomatic dispatches and addressing itself to the Area Commander warranted some attention.

“Yes,” nodded Ward, clasping his hands behind his back. He waited patiently as the wireless operator chattered for a while with his opposite number on Mainwaring. After what seemed an exceptionally long wait, Ward had his answer. He listened to the report, then fashioned a reply for the Roanian ship.

TO: Commander, HIHS Doughty
FROM: Commander, HIMS Dalenford

I am authorized to pass on Vice Admiral Jones’ compliments, sir, and welcome you to Commonwealth waters. However, I am compelled to ask you to turn out of the shipping lanes and heave to presently. Given the unfortunate state of war existent between the Iansislean Commonwealth and the United States of America, all foreign-registered shipping passing through the Straits must submit to a precursory search - I apologize for the measure and assure you it will not be intrusive.

Admiral Jones has expressed the wish to dine with yourself and His Lordship on his flagship, HIMS Mainwaring, this evening if that would not throw off your schedule too terribly.

Doughty could see Dalenford plodding alongside her port quarter, between the ship and the Shield. Dalenford, with wide hull, single 4.7”/52 gun, depth charge throwers, rust-streaked hull, and ungainly superstructure would never win any beauty contests, but she was a practical ship for her job of hunting American submarines. Of course, none had threatened to penetrate Troobodia Bay in nearly two months, and Naval Intelligence estimated all but one or two American submarines in the Pacific had already been sunk.

“We’re not really going to fire that salute, are we?” asked the first lieutenant, leaning in close to Commodore Ward. “First of all, it’s rotten luck, and every man knows it. This is a bad crew, sir; there’ll be a lot of grumbling about something like that.”

“Let them grumble, Mr Watson,” replied Ward without concern. “If I hear any man, he’ll lose their rum ration. We’ll respect their customs, however strange they might be.”

“Aye aye, sir,” replied Watson. He wondered briefly if Ward cared what his second concern was; the commodore had started pacing the bridge. “Sir?”

“What is it, Mr Watson?” The snappish reply indicated Ward didn’t care one lick about anything besides what was on his mind. Watson plunged on; it was too late to retract his question.

“Well, sir, if they wish to give our flag the proper salute, they’ll need twenty one guns. Or eleven at least, sir.” Watson indicated in the direction of the acting commodore’s pennant flying high above the bridge. “Shouldn’t we give them at least that many?”

“Their commander seemed rather fixed on two,” snapped Ward. “And that’s how many we’ll give him.” The Commodore continued to pace the bridge. “Mr Watson?” he said suddenly.

“Yes, sir?”

“I do believe I’ll require your services on the night’s watch this evening.” Watson flinched; double duty, especially when he might have been treated to the run of a heavy cruiser’s stores! Ward noticed the reaction and nodded imperceptibly. “I trust you have no objections, Mr Watson?”

“None, sir.”

“Very good. Carry on.” Ward turned his back on the distressed first lieutenant and gazed out over the black water at the Doughty. There had been no discipline in the navy since he retired after the last war. Imagine, a first lieutenant questioning orders on the bridge, in front of potentially rebellious ratings! In the Navy Ward had grown up in, Watson would be pulling double watches for the next week and grumbling ratings would have felt the cat o’ nine tails on their back.

Dalenford’s heavy anti-air battery suddenly fired the salute. Two two-pounder guns blasted, and she waited for Doughty’s return salute.

The Captain of the Doughty, Rachmaninoff, nodded, appreciatively. They know their stuff... he sighed, and checked his book of signals. "...an odd number? Dear god...that...that..." he didn't know what to call it. An odd number...one extra...one that wasn't properly organised... the Aguan felt faint, briefly.

But he pulled himself together, and sighed. They had given him his own signal, it was best if they did the return compliment. ITG ships had several small guns on their hulls (ten, of course), at least, officially.

Un-officially, there was always the chance that Americans or the like would sneak into the straits, and before Alaska had been dealt with, that had been a fairly frequent occurence. And the Shieldians and Ryanislians had never shown particular courtesy to ships from Novar Ohan...jealousy, it was supposed, because the Divine Imperium had pulled itself back together (admittedly, after four hundred years), while Tilsitsia remained a morass of countries. Still, no point in causing a diplomatic incident which would pull the Imperial Aguan Navy on the guild...

He gave a sharp order. "11 gun salute. On the double, man! MOVE!" He shouted when his lieutenant looked uncomfortable. "And then order the men to heave the boat to the side and prepare for boarding!" He looked back at the two Imperial Legionnaires who had accompanied him. "Is your...package secured?"

"But of course," one of them said, in that superior voice that Roanians always used when speaking to Aguans, "we are Legionnaires, after all."

"Yes...Legionnaires from Roania...surrounded by sea water," Rachmaninoff at least got the pleasure of seeing the two cocky soldiers pale visibly. "Oh, go below decks, man...and tell his lordship we've been offered a dinner arrangement." Bloody desert dwellers... and bloody Yanks, getting all the straits worked up...shieldians think that just because they have more naval forces in the White Sea than us, they can control it...

========

Baron Tylan, also known as Mr. Alexander Barnentrop, was a former commodore in the Imperial Aguan Navy who had, for services rendered in the Micronesian Wars which had started in 1934 and continued interminably until 1944, been made a peer of the Grand Duchy of Agua by Grand Duke Leopold VII.

This was his first time on the White Sea on the opposite side of the country from his homeland, and he had been distinctly un-impressed by the port facilities which his fellow Aguans had started to put together on the Jungle coast.

He had no idea why he had been required by that uppity woman, Prime Minister Bencenoff, to transfer from his booking in Port Kamenev in the People's Internal Republic of Altara, to the pestilent hell-hole of the jungles, and even less as to why he had been rudely ordered by the Legionnaires not to ask questions.

"Still...ours not to reason why...ours just to do and..." he opened his closet. "AAAAAAAAGH!" He roared. "A TRADE UNIONIST!" He had just spotted the unfortunate Mr. Ouvrier, dressed in a worker's smock, and had reached an...obvious conclusion.

Commodore Ward had decided to oversee the boarding himself. Dalenford’s barge pitched gently in the small swells of Troobodia Bay as she crossed the distance towards where Doughty was lying hove-to. The ten rows of thwarts and their accompanying oars were quite worthless as the barge was now powered by a single rating manning the aft-mounted diesel engine, but the Admiralty insisted on keeping them. This was, of course, the same Admiralty that insisted on training midshipmen on the handling of the tall frigate Nestor before they left the martial academy for active duty.

It always felt good to receive a gun salute, Ward thought as the long, narrow boat sliced through the black water. He sat in the bow, his arm resting on the larboard gunwale, and savored the taste of salt spray in his mouth. Dalenford had participated in eight inspection actions in the past three days. The six marines who sat behind him, Dalenford’s entire compliment, three ratings, and Mr Compton the Revenue Service man were getting to be quite proficient at it. The barge pulled alongside Doughty

“Ahoy!” called one of the ratings, Pike, as he picked up the forward line and tossed it up to any heads which appeared over the side.

Meanwhile, Maders just about had a heart attack. He was positive the man opening the door would be a Revenuer and he would be dragged off to stand trial.

“AAAAAAAAGH!” roared the other man. “A TRADE UNIONIST!”

Only then, Maders ventured to open his eyes and look at his assailant. “What the!?”

Everything seemed frozen in time for a moment.

Everything seemed frozen in time for a moment.

((And then?? And Then????))

((And then?? And Then????))

((Lark got smacked for being impatient :P))

The Imperial Legionnaires rushed into the bedroom, and found a curious scene...

Tylan standing on a chair, fumbling for his sword while acting like a woman who's just seen a mouse run by.

Mader, standing up in the closet, wondering what all the fuss was about.

The two legionnaires sighed, and grabbed his lordship, pulling him down and into a huddle. Occasionally words like, "a far better thing," and "duty" could be heard wafting over. Tylan rumbled menacingly, but gave in with good grace, sweeping out of the room and up to the Officer's Club.

The two legionnaires hastily passed Mader a bundle of clothing. Upon closer inspection, it consisted of an Imperial Messenger uniform, with a wide brimmed hat. "Get dressed, Mr. Ouvrier, and pull the hat over your face...and don't say a word." They then handed him some official looking documents. "You are an Imperial Messenger with dispatches for the Lord Baron Robspierre. Think you can manage that?"

Overhead, Captain Rachmaninoff was effusive in greeting the Commodore. "My dear sir, I am honoured to have you aboard..." in complete contrast with the clean cut and well-pressed uniforms of the Shieldian Officers, the good captain of the Doughty was dressed in robes, several rings decorating his fat fingers. Leaving the military for the guild had given this Captain the chance to indulge himself.

His crew, generally former naval ratings, was turned out rather better, their constant activity keeping them in shape. But there was little uniform, the only mark of cohesiveness was a Guild Badge on each shirt.

The Legionnaires, when they appeared, proved a striking contrast. Black uniforms, kept immaculately clean and well-pressed. Each their broad shoulders had their rank and Legion staters, and bars of merit were conspicuously displayed. The taller one spoke first. "Herr Captain, is there any reason we are being delayed?"

Rachmaninoff spluttered, and then coughed. "Yes...um...revenue inspections, officer." The Doughty's captain waved a hand at the men.

The Legionnaires turned, and regarded the Shieldians, before giving the Commodore a sharp Imperial Salute, clenching their hands over their heart.

Ward regarded the fat Imperial captain with a cool eye. He was of the old school of Iansislean officers, who believed that one could only lead by example. Commodore Ward was fit and trim for his age, with only the smallest hints of loose skin below his chin. He had the brown eyes of the southern Shield and a short, thinning tuft of grey hair stuck from under his peaked cap.

Most likely to show off to the Imperial merchants, Ward had come in his full messdress blues. The immaculate blazer was a deep blue, almost black, and neatly covered a white shirt and blue tie. His insignia were just that of a captain and a golden pin on his lapel indicated that he was a reserve officer. There were no badges except for a narrow horizontal blue and green one, indicating that he was from the Grand Empire. Blue and gold would have denoted Noropia, dark and light blue Gadsan, red and black Dianatran, red and blue Tharia, orange and brown Troobodia, and solid brown the colonies.

He saluted Rachmaninoff grudgingly and then clasped his hands behind his back. “I realize this must be a dreadful inconvenience,” said Ward in the typically clipped tones of a Shadoranite, “so I thank you for being so cooperative. Makes things much easier, you know.”

“Should I begin the search, sir?” asked the marine sergeant. The senior enlisted man was probably only eight or nine years younger than Ward. He also spoke with a Shadoranite accent, but his was the more inflected tones of the lower classes. All six of the marines were in their relatively simple olive green battle tunics. Each wore an extremely short boarding carbine Galveston Model 74D magazined bolt-action rifle across their back, a .45” Camstol repeating pistol on their right flank, and a sheathed sabre on their left. Commodore Ward was the only other member of the boarding party who was armed, with the ornate 100 general sabre he received a dozen years ago upon making the list hanging at his side. Neither Mr Compton in his cheap pinstriped suit and the ratings, who stayed behind to watch the barge, carried weapons; in Mr Compton’s case because he wouldn’t know what to do with one and in the sailor’s because they foresaw no need of one.

“I trust that a few of your men would care to show Sergeant Buttle and his men to the hold?” asked Ward of Rachmaninoff, leaning forward slightly.

He watched the Legionnaires haughty arrival with some amusement. Hypocritical, of course, given the way he tried to lord over Rachmaninoff with his uniform and quietly mocking manner. Ward returned the salute in the traditional Shieldian way, with two separate motions, first jerking his arm out at a fifty degree angle to his body and then quickly bending the elbow so his open palm faced the Roanians with his fingers just brushing the brim of his peaked cap.

Ward again clasped his hands behind his back and turned to speak with Rachmaninoff again.

“I trust you and His Lordship will be accepting the Vice Admiral’s dinner offer?” he asked, his tone very clear on what the proper answer would be. The Navy did not suffer merchant captains who refused its invitations gladly.

Rachmaninoff nodded, briskly. With a sharp movement, he spun around. "Johannesen! Burkely! Take the Commis...I mean, Sargeant and his men to the hold! If either of you spend the briefest moment lolly-gagging, I'll have you shot!"

The two men clenched their hands over their heart, and lead the marines down below. Rachmaninoff stuttered at the question, but nodded. "I would be honoured..."

One of the soldiers cut in. "But it is of vital importance that the dispatches reach the embassy as soon as possible." The two soldiers had RA-87 assault guns on their backs, and short daggers on their belts.

The guild captain visibly paled, and stuttered out, "Yes...Commissar Kelentov..."

Ward almost snorted at the sight of Rachmaninoff bellowing out orders and threats interchangeably. Always knew the Imperials weren’t born leaders. Honestly! - base death threats! Why, their underlings must be pure chattel to follow such meager leaders. And I’ll bet the threat of death hardly inspires any sort of command independence! Iansisle’s long naval tradition, especially in the days before wireless, had often required intense independence for her commanding officers, an attitude which was still cultivated today. For instance, while Commander Ronald Garland was showered with laurels for taking his light cruiser into the teeth of an American heavy cruiser with a third more force, Commodore Sir Leonard Casin was court-martialed for merely using his destroyer squadron to shadow a pair of heavy cruisers without so much as loosing a single spread of torpedoes.

He started to nod at Rachmaninoff’s reply, but then glanced in annoyance at the impudent legionnaire. “Commissar Kelentov, is it?” he asked sharply. What did an Iansislean naval officer, in his domain upon the waves, have to fear from a Roanian desert rat? “Well, begging your pardon, but I believe that Captain Rachmaninoff can spare an hour or two to dine with the Vice Admiral; Mainwaring will be here soon enough. In fact, His Majesty’s Navy would consider it terribly unfriendly if the captain were to refuse.”

Ward smiled in self-satisfaction. “And I’m sure that if it were truly that imperative that these dispatches reach Ianapalis as soon as possible, your government would have sent them by aero-flyer.”

Kelentov turned around, and supplied the Commodore with the full-force of an Imperial Officer's stare. "Sir, we were unaware that an Imperial Mercantile vessel in the channel would be so impudently..."

The other soldier interjected, "Brother, we can, I am sure...wait..on this boat..." the commissar looked around and out at the undeniable *sea* water, and paled, "while His Lorship and the captain dine with the admiral..." The new commissar clenched his hand over heart, and the two withdrew.

Kelentov's voice could be heard growling as they went below, "why couldn't they send Aguan Commissars? Hrmmm? They couldn't send the fools from Altara or Derricks, but an Aguan...hell, why did the Legion have to get involved at all? Weren't there Marines..." their voices faded.

Rachmaninoff watched after them, an inmistakable sneer on his fat face as he watched the fear and loathing on the faces of the Roanians. "Hrmph...they're all high and mighty back on the continent, but get them a mile out of port and they're as scared as Altarans in a library..."

It was truly a contest of wills, however, brief, when a Roanian soldier’s eyes met those of a Shieldian sailor. In the end, however, home court advantage won out. Ward couldn’t help but smile, though he said nothing, as Kelentov was led below.

“Hrmph...they're all high and mighty back on the continent, but get them a mile out of port and they're as scared as Altarans in a library...” said Rachmaninoff after they had disappeared. War may not have fully understood the analogy, but he was inclined to agree with it on general principle. Having met the soldiers, Ward was starting to like Rachmaninoff a bit more.

“Quite.” A few quiet seconds ticked by. “Captain Rachmaninoff,” said Ward at last, “I don’t mean to impose on you, but I fear I’m not in the same shape I used to be. Might that you grant me someplace to rest these weary bones while we wait for Sergeant Buttle and his men?”

Rachmaninoff gestured to a doorway, and led Ward into the Doughty's lounge. Standing in the corner, nearly 7' tall, was a man with a slightly dazed expression on his face. Sweat glistened on his brow in vast quantities, and he muttered about the heat of the sun.

Tylan was resting on the sofa, feet up, dressed in the lounge-uniform of an Imperial Aguan Naval Captain, his white hat pulled low over his face. With a simple movement, he growled, "Kybar, you pathetic excuse for an Altaran, stop moping about the sun and bring me the mulled wine I had asked for!"

Kybar blinked, carefully, and then daintily opened the bar and brought Tylan the drink requested. "Here, sir..."

Tylan sighed. "Kybar, for the love of god...get yourself a chilled wine or something..."

Rachmaninoff coughed. "My lord...might I present Commodore Ward, of the Grand Empire's White Sea fleet... Commodore Ward, might I present Alexander Barnentrop, created Baron of Tylan for services rendered to the Divine Imperium in the Micronesian War, formerly the Captain of the HIHS Retribution-class Shore Bombardment Vessel the Tarnaqin."

Tylan assayed a quick Shieldian salute (the Aguans having adopted it for their own navy, and the practice of it starting to spread through all Imperial armed forces save the Roanian Guards and the Altaran mercenaries), but otherwise didn't move.

===============

The hold was opened for the marines, and the stores were revealed. "Wine, cotton, silk, Durians..." the guildsman pointed to each carefully marked bag, "

Ward touched his fingers to his hat again, with much less than the rigid formality reserved for the legionnaires.

So this is their sort of naval officer, eh? Pathetic - as if that fool Rachmaninoff wasn’t enough to convince me of the weakness of the breed! What’s more, this one was promoted to the peerage for his ‘services rendered! No wonder the Admiralty always predicted we’d whip the Imperium should war ever arise; why, a man like Sir James Redford or my Lord Westergate could probably beat the lot of ‘em with one hand behind his back!

“A pleasure, I’m sure, my lord,” Ward said with the usual deference due a member of the aristocracy.

He shifted uncomfortably. They had offered him neither seat nor drink, and he’d be damned if he asked for either.

-----

“Mr Compton?” asked Sergeant Buttle, gesturing at the casks and cases.

“Yes, I see,” the revenue man, making a great show of checking several of the containers. “You’re aware, of course,” he asked, “of the new import duties on spirits?” They probably were not; the new tariff had just been announced (and much to the Revenue Service’s consternation) in order to help pay for the much more expensive than anticipated Linhower Plan.

“If one could even call that Ronnie water a ‘spirit!’” whispered one marine wearing a red and blue badge, quite loud enough to be heard by all. Dark black eyes peered from his olive-colored face, as if daring the guilders to defend their wine. The joys of alcoholic nationalism!

Tylan gestured to a seat, as the idea came to him that Ward was actually waiting to be invited to sit down..."Please, commodore, do sit down." The Aguan regarded the Shieldian with detached amusement, far too worn down from years of warring against Micronesian pirates and the scum of the Jiggolian Independence Movement to stand on ceremony. "Can I offer you a drink? I'm afraid we don't have too many of your Shieldian spirits here...the alcohol content is rather high, and...ah, but what am I saying."

The Baron straightened up and removed his hat. "The events leading to my elevation to the nobility are, I'm afraid, rather boring..."

The vaguely Mongolian looking Kybar chuckled vaguely. "Them pirates didn't know..." he was silenced by Tylan fixing him with a steady glare of his brown eyes.

Tylan coughed, and continued, "as I was saying, the Captain keeps a good store of Tarnaqin White on-board, and I'd reccomend the year 1927..." He gestured to his own glass, which had been filled and re-filled after his shock with the trade unionist.

========

The guilders regarded him with detached amusement, and made a show of giving hand signals to one another, communicating in TradeSpeak.

'Shieldian wine? He means like mead or ale? Or their...um..."wine"?'

'The stuff we sell to the Legions for anti-freeze?'

'That'd be it.'

They both gave a big laugh, and then turned and regarded the revenue man. "No, sir! If it's an increase beyond the previous rates, the Ministry hasn't informed us yet."

“Thank you, m’lord,” said Ward, taking the seat. “I’ll satisfy, myself, I’m sure with whatever you’re having.”

His ears perked up at the mention of the word ‘pirate.’ Was that rage which briefly broke through the implacable face of a Shieldian naval officer? Perhaps it was!

“I’m sure the Admiral and I would be most enthralled by those stories, m’lord,” Ward said after receiving his drink. “You will be accompanying Captain Rachmaninoff to dinner on the Mainwaring when she arrives, won’t you?”

It was really nearer an order than an invitation, though Ward’s tone left just enough doubt to be truly impertinent.

------

Previous rates? wondered every Iansislean in the room. What previous rates? These are the first duties since the Wars of the Shield three hundred years ago!

“Easy, Raduco,” commanded Buttle, eying the bristling marine from the corner of his eye. Neither of them had any idea what had been said between the guilders, but the idea - and the laughter - was certainly clear enough. “Any more, Mr Compton?”

“No, no,” muttered Compton, apparently withdrawn into the world of the little black notebook he had produced and was presently scribbling in. Perhaps it was, as it indeed seemed, more to show off his fancy new ball-pointed pen than write anything of importance. “I’ll need to use Dalenford’s wireless to alert the Port Authority of Ianapalis to these casks, but nothing else.” He peered at one of the sailors, who seemed to be in charge. “Unless, of course, you have something else to declare?”

Once more there was the fast movement of hands, this time with an attitude of doubt.

'Tariffs? What would the increase be percentage wise?'

'We've never had to pay import duties on spirits before.'

'Well...where would we pay? Why didn't the Guild Head inform us?'

'Maybe he didn't know.'

The Guilders both had a very, very low opinion of anyone who would place import duties on their merchandise. Still, rules are rules. One of them did, however, look at the marines with amusement. "Well, we would have offered your men an inspection of our merchandise...we opened a cask on the way here. But, I'm sure they can find enough 'water' elsewhere..." There was another round of guildspeak, and then more laughter.

The Head Guilder nodded briskly, and then shook his head. "Nothing more to declare, Revenue-Master. The only other things on board would be His Lordship's property, and the dispatches."

=========

Tylan nodded slowly, drawing his hat back down over his face. "Well, I'd be honoured...gets me away from that trade unionist and those two pesky legionnaires..."

“Well!” exclaimed Compton, snapping his notebook shut. “I trust his Lordship has nothing compromising? Good - then I should like to make for Dalenford at once. Sergeant?”

Buttle was only paying Compton half an ear, though.

“...better off without that damn junk, anyway,” Raduco was declaring. “All it’s good for is lubricant, and I’ve all ready moved my bowels once today.” The other marines laughed, except Buttle, who just looked on. Emboldened, Raduco continued: “It’s bad enough we had to fire off that improper even salute today; the last thing I need is to be shitting like a champion racehorse when our bad luck kicks in.”

“All right, Raduco,” said Buttle at last. “That’s enough, now. Keep it up and you’ll be off rum too.”

“Now that would actually be a shame, sarge,” grinned the irrepressible Tharian.

“Sergeant?” pressed Compton. Buttle still wasn’t really listening.

-----

“I’ve all ready had the pleasure of meeting those last two,” said Ward, grinning at the memory. “But to what trade unionist do you refer?”

The guilders once more 'spoke' to one another, and then gave another chorus of laughter. One of them left for a few seconds, and the Head Guilder just leant back and refused to respond.

Finally, the one who had left came back.

With Kelentov. The tall Legionnaire looked down his nose at the Marines, making it quite clear he considered them and the military tradition that had spawned them unfit to be trodden on. When he spoke, though, he was the very sole of politeness. "Herr Raduco," the Commissar started, "I understand that you had very amusing things to say about Imperial Wine..." the hilt of his sword seemed very obvious just then.

===========

"Hrmmm? The one that the Legionnaires have dressed as a dispatch worker, of course...apparently, he had fallen through the wall of the closet during a rough patch, as I found him inside the closet of my cabin." The Aguan looked faintly mortified. "He looked a bit like one of you lot, but of course all you Shieldians have your sea legs. You'd never fall through a thin cabin wall just because of a wave."

“I’m glad you found ‘em amusing,” replied the short Tharian, drawing himself up to his full five foot five inches. “I was starting to think that these chaps had no sense of humor, whispering about to each other like a bunch of third graders hoodwinking the master. Mayhap we ought to slap ‘em with a ruler, no? Oh, and it’s Lance Corporal Raduco, too.”

“Ease up, marine,” said Buttle again quite calmly, but he made no effort to shut up the offending Raduco or apologize for him.

Compton, on the other hand, was getting rather distraught. “Perhaps we’d best make oars for Dalenford,” he said nervously. “I do have a report to file and all.”

No one paid him any mind.

-------

“I should think not!” scoffed Ward before adding a hasty “m’lord.” “Why, the very notion’s preposterous! - we Shieldians are born sailors, equally at home in boiler room or on yard-arm!” A deliberate shot, or simple nationalism? Whatever, it distracted Ward from what any legionnaires were doing dressing up Shieldian-featured trade unionists.

Kelentov drew himself up to his full height, towering over the luckless Raduco. "Yes. Quite. And it's Commissar 1st Class Kelentov of the Divine Imperial Legions." He made quite a show out of cracking his knuckles, his well-defined muscles moving noticably under his black uniform and the officer and his eyes taking on a peculiarly menacing look. "My parents run a winery in the Imperium..." he said, now unamused. "I believe you referred to their products as lubricant?"

The Guilders tittered again, their loose robes not telling anyone anything about their height, strength, or what weapons they might be concealing.

============

"Quite. We Aguans are more merchants...but your nation has only one culture, yes? Ours has four...the Altarans, such as Kybar here, prefer their farming...Derrickers enjoy getting drunk on alcohol that would knock any Shieldian out, and then attacking eachother with axes...and our desert-dwelling overlords, such as the two Legionnaires down there...they prefer to smile politely, format plans, and then use the tools at their disposal to deal merry hell on a democratic basis..."

“It was my general impression, m’lord, that every nation has but one culture,” said Ward with a small wry smile. Another victory for Iansislean semantics! “However, the great state my forefathers built spreads across many national boundaries, from the frozen wastelands of Noropia to the burning deserts of Dianatran.

“Of course,” he added, “We long ago abandoned our imperialistic ways. Now all nations may participate as equal members within our great Commonwealth of Nations.”

------

Their diminutive stature had never been an impediment for anyone from Iansisle or her Dominions. Most all the word towered over them; what was one more person?

“Do they indeed? Well, my dear boy, you’ll have to excuse me! I didn’t know they had their own moonshining still - or, pardon, did you call it a ‘winery?’ How nice of you to humor them!”

Despite his light tone, Raduco was staying light on his feet. Perhaps because of their short height, Iansislean personal combat, as did most other aspects of its culture, had always emphasized the quick and subtle over brute force. Of course, the preferred way to settle things was with a quick tongue - but a quick sword could just as easily be substituted.

“Right, Raduco, that’s really enough,” said Buttle at last. “Commissar - Klanatov, was it? - you’ll have to forgive him. The Tharians are quick to anger and slow to reason.”

Not, of course, that he contradicted Raduco’s statements nor withdrew them.

Kelentov leaned down, and carefully regarded the little man. "I should call you out, sir..." he said mockingly, thumbing his short sword. "But I'm afraid my epee is slightly larger than your body..." He gave a dismissive gesture, and turned his black-brimmed hat to the side in an Imperial gesture of contempt. "Besides, what would water-fat Shieldians know of true culture? Your alcohol is only fit for anti-freeze, and your society is barbaric and primitive."

One of the Guilders chuckled. "It true you don't allow women the vote?" Shapes under the guilder's robes might be handguns, might be daggers...but there were certainly a lot of the guilders...

The situation was saved from becoming any more explosive by the sudden appearance of Rachmaninoff. "Commissar Kelentov! Do not speak to our guests in such a manner!" There was a flurry of movement and a throwing dagger was buried beside the impertinent Guilder's head.

Kelentov gave a look around the room once more, and departed. "Remember to whom you are talking, Herr Captain..." he said, sweeping from the room. The guilders followed, rapidly.

Rachmaninoff didn't look at any of the Marines, instead turning to the revenue man. "Is there anything else?"

=========

"Four cultures, one nation, one destiny," the Aguan said, taking another sip of the wine. "Speaking of nations, why is that revenue man taking so long?"

Raduco smiled as Kelentov swept out. “You know what they say, Commissar. The bigger they come, the harder they fall.”

His hand had been drifting casually over the hilt of his sabre as they spoke. Short and heavy, the marine weapon was designed, like the boarding carbine, for close quarters action in narrow corridors; however, it was not so clumsy a weapon as the long cavalry sabre or the brute-force ratings’ cutlass. Not for one who knew how to use it, at least. And the Royal Iansislean Marines made damn sure their men knew proper use of all their weapons.

Compton, meanwhile, had almost fled to Rachmaninoff’s side, much to the shame of Buttle and his men.

“Ah, Captain. I was just, er, on my way to report to you when, er, er, when - there’s really no problem. I just need to alert Ianapalis Port Authority to those casks of wine so they can apply the proper duties, and, er, er, you’ll be all set,” he fumbled out quickly.

--------

“You know Revenuers,” replied Ward. “Every nook and cranny hides potential contraband. I’m sure he’ll be done in a minute.”

Withdrawing a watch, he added, “After all, Mainwaring is due to arrive in an hour or so, and I wouldn’t dream of depriving Your Lordship of the time he needs to make ready.”

That seemed to remind Ward of something. His eyes narrowed briefly, then he almost visibly shook the thought off.

Rachmaninoff nodded, briskly. Then a thought struck him, and he gaped out, "Duties? How much? Since when?"

========

Tylan nodded. "Kybar, dress uniform...Order of the Firebird medal, as well, I should think."

OOC: Sorry, just tired.

Compton smiled apologetically. He’d been getting that reaction a lot.

“They’ve just been announced. Not too steep, though - and it’s just on liquor, so far.”

"Just on liqour?" Rachmaninoff gasped. The thought of any impediment to trade shook the Guild Captain to his very core. He steadied himself on a doorpost. "Well...I see... will you need to be inspecting anything else?"

“Yes -” said Compton, snapping his little notebook closed. “ - even his Majesty has ends that must be met. I’m sure you understand.”

He glanced about the hold one last time, from the cargo to the at-ease marines and back to the bloated captain. “I think I’m finished. Thank you for being so cooperative, sir.” He extended a hand for Rachmaninoff to shake.

The marines just started heading back topsides, apparently eager to get back to the Dalenford.

-----

Meanwhile, Commodore Ward stood and put down his drink. “I hope you won’t think me too terribly rude, Your Lordship, but methinks this inspections is taking over long. With your pardon, I’ll go see if I can’t expedite the process.”

Something was still tugging at the back of his mind, but he couldn’t remember precisely what.

Rachmaninoff shook Compton's hand, still silently stunned. "A report will be made to the President of the Guild and the appropriate ministries..." the Guild Captain warned as he led the revenue officer up the stairs. Like all Imperials, the guild captain was a bureaucrat down to the rings on his fingers. Thus, the next words were probably meant to be more of a threat than they sounded. "There might be a strongly worded complaint..."

~~

Tylan rose and gave a slight bow from his waist. "No problem at all..." the Imperial Captain said. "The steps down are just outside the cabin...watch your step, and do try to avoid upsetting those legionnaires..."

“Yes, yes,” agreed Compton, nodding furiously at Rachmaninoff. “I’m sure the Government will do all it can to respond to your complain. Of course, these are slim times; yes, slim indeed.”

“Your Lordship,” said Commodore Ward, bowing out of the room - and right into Mr Compton. “Ah, just the man I was looking to see!”

“Hello, Commodore,” replied Compton. “The ship checks out fine and dandy.”

“Splendid!” exclaimed Ward, before turning to Captain Rachmaninoff. “Sir, I appreciate the hospitality of your ship. However, if you’ll excuse us, I think we’d best be making for Dalenford.”