NationStates Jolt Archive

1a: Netcrawling.

TME Industries Computer Science Division
Nuha, northern Gauntlet Island, Titan

"This can't be as hard as they're making it out to be." Robert DuBois idly taps the eraser end of his pencil against his lips before running a hand over his never-cleanshaven eternal two-day stubble. "And yet it makes no sense that a nation as advanced as Weyr should be held back by a problem of basic programming. Hell, I could've put together a code for this in secondary school."

The other engineers shrug. It was an interesting thought problem, to be sure, and one that could be profitable for TME Industries if they figured it out. The nation of Weyr uses a relatively unique system of 'subspace' networks to achieve superluminal flight; the deeper one goes into the hierarchy of networks, the faster transmission speeds become but the lower transmission rates become. In networking terms, deeper levels have faster but smaller pipes; it's like moving from a high-bandwidth, low speed copper coaxial to a low-bandwidth, high speed optical filament. Go too deep and the ship crunches. Add to it that response times, especially at deeper levels, requires some sort of augmentation or automation. The problem with the last is that somehow this 'subspace' makes near-sentient algorithms suddenly turn sentient and, for some reason, sentient machine intelligences tend to want to dive as deep as they can and get crunched. That's what the model provided showed, at least.

Complex, near-intuitive programs failed. Sentient programs failed, rushing headlong into a singularity condition which some (like the Angelans) would argue is the next stage of evolution. Simple, bare-bones programs, the simplest they could think of, would send ships into loops an unforgivable amount of the time.

"Hm. Well... we've got the boundaries, I guess--too complex and too simple to be useful. Let's work up from the latter. Now, if simply selecting the first survivable path isn't enough, why don't we just increase the amount of parameters for decision? We leave in the survivability clause as an emergency turn in case it doesn't find an optimal solution once the timer runs out; failing that, it just brute forces, analyzing each one upon detection rather than trying to number an infinite number all at once and roll a d-infinity as to which one to take."

"Like the Weyr scientists have been trying."

DuBois smirks. "Well, if they're asking pre-sentients to pull real integers from limitless sets, of course one's going to get overflow errors, neh?"

* - * - *

2a: Weight Loss.

Legislative Unit Chambers
Stonozka, eastern Xanadu, Titan

Legislative Voice Nakpangi Sidibe folds his broad, black hands over his desk as he listens to the nervous man across from him argue his case. The champion, Legislator Harold Cook, speaks with his hands as much as his mouth, greying red hair giving his ruddy complexion a dash of iron to it. "Look. We gotta act now or else we're gonna have a bit of trouble on our hands."

Sidibe frowns, dark face otherwise completely impassive. It took powerful people to stand up to the challenge of dealing with the strong Executive branch of the Scolopendran government, and Nakpangi--known as "the Mountain" for both his stature and his attitude--fit the bill. The only complaints he ever heard were that he wasn't visible enough, that the regularly re-elected government of the people, the legislature that made the laws and confirmed the pacts and treaties and trade, was being swamped by the cult of Speaker-Rrit and his entrenched cronies. Of course, that ignored that the kzintosh was regularly re-elected too with minimal fuss, but so it goes. "We already have a representation based on population and location," he replies with a glacier's cold, firm inevitability, "ever since the Legislative Unit acknowledged the reality of there being multiple Segments once again. Titan, the Ring, Si'lat, and even the smaller colonies have representation."

"Si'lat might be able to fend for itself," Harold replies, "but it's got almost a billion people on it. One-hundred eighty-five representatives, Nak."

"Titan has, and will be forever limited to, two hundred due to limit constraints." One corner of the Mountain's lips tilts up in a landscaped smirk. "It will soon enough become 'the motherland' which will be marginalized."

"The Ring always works in coalition with Titan," says the legislator, "and that massive swath right there makes up the plurality and comes damn near a majority. Sure, it's partitioned by Ring Sector as well, but the fact is that the interests of Saturn seem to take precedence, especially when Bright Morning only has two votes, Hillary one. We're damn lucky that the last restructuring bill got struck down; we'd be even worse off if it became ten million to every rep instead of five million."

Sidibe shrugs. "I find it unfortunate. Our legislature is getting almost too large to be navigable in any fashion. We will find ourselves most Byzantine, at this rate."

Legislator Cook nods slowly. "I agree with you there. Tell ya what, Nak. If you can see your way into supporting the reformation of a second house with a legislature based on territory and not population, I'll get the colonies to support it. Make it simple, make it, oh, three delegates per spatially separate territory--Titan, the Ring, Si'lat, Bright Morning, Hillary--and that only means fifteen more seats. We then put that restructuring bill into effect along with, cutting the bulk of the Legislature in half."

"Something that big deserves a plebiscite," the Mountain muses thoughtfully.

"And we'll lobby for it there, too. Less legislators means marginally lower taxes, and the total number of legislators for the tiny colonies actually goes up, which means they should support it. 'Pendra's never liked top-heavy government, so we kill Byzantium before it starts and we set a good precedent for the future."

"I will think about it." Coming to a determination for the moment, Nakpangi nods his bald head. "We will have to avoid the excesses of the past--no 'elder house' conflict and such. The two houses are equal in concept and in practice; they simply exist to check size."

"That's the idea. 'Sides, thinning our numbers helps us too; networking around damn near a thousand people can be tricky, especially with 'Pendran turnaround rates. We're still reeling from ScoloMart, and now this knight-errant thing... Jeebus H Hyskos, the people are breathing down our necks constantly."

Sidibe smiles broadly. "As well they should."

* - * - *

3a: Hard Knock Life.

SCS Shanghai

Captain Timofeyev Bondayehr puts the plastic bottle of vodka into its little nook behind a coolant line, one of the few pieces of ductwork hidden behind an access panel. Technically it was hidden because the coolant needed to be insulated from the rest of the ship; no need for the heat exchanging system to make half of the SMISO module freezing cold and the other half burning hot as it circulated between reactors and power systems and heat exchangers. The troopers knew that, aside from that, it was always helpful to have a bar fridge.

Of course, having alcohol while on duty was against the regulations. Bondayehr doesn't care. Two years he's been on this job, simply not existing to the outside world ten months out of twelve, and every minute of those five-month 'patrols' was on duty.

Screw it, he thinks quietly to himself, laying back on his cot in the two meter by three meter by three meter closet that is his quarters, if I can't write home, much less talk to people, then I'll make do how I have to so I don't kill myself. The alcohol was a sufficient treatment, really, keeping it in moderation, getting himself hammered enough to just stop caring, or perhaps forgetting to care. Usually lasted him a week or so, longer on missions where he was too busy spying on and killing people than to worry about the ramifications of spying on and killing people. He would've liked to have taken up smoking as the traditional self-destructive habit of the trooper, but needless fires in enclosed pressure vessels are never a good idea, and the smoke detectors are wired with just that in mind. As it is, he's keeping a close eye on his liver. It's not his to damage, after all.

Folding his hands behind his head, he stares up at the exposed pipes and conduits, all primed the same equipment grey color, that grace the ceiling murkily hanging over him. "Hardly even my life to live, is it?" No one hears him but the walls, which lack ears. "Oh well. No big difference there. Hasn't been for... what three years now? Should just get over it already."

The heavy door resounds three times with the dull thump associated with a fist on metal. "Dammit," the captain grumbles to himself then announces more loudly, "stand by." Getting up, he shakes his head clear, willing his mind to physically ignore the effects of various false neurotransmitters as he steps forward and undogs the hatch and sliding it sideways into its recess in the wall. "Yes?"

Technical Sergeant Friedlitz, Bondeyer's 'platoon adjutant' smiles wryly. The cap'n does a good job of keeping it a secret--the troops don't know--but he does. And he knows that the captain knows that he knows, and thus a traditional camraderie born in SMISO training is strengthened. "Rough night, boss?"

"You could say that, Fred," Bondayehr grumbles. Of all the times... "What's the sitch?"

The sergeant nods his head to a point inside the room; Bondayehr steps back and lets Fred into the close quarters of the room, sitting on the cot. Friedlitz closes the door behind him, then leans up against it. "Good news. Comm shack reports a message from HQ--they want everyone's continuities in order."

Timofeyev chuckles. The only people who need continuities, those documents that make sure that hand-offs of positions are done with a minimal amount of fuss and lost information, are those with special responsibilities--which, in SMISO, is everyone. "So we're getting ready for a repple-depple. Not news to me, Fred... though, if I know my company right, we're doing just fine. No need for it."

Fred chuckles and smiles broader. "I've got scuttlebutt from the comm shack man, whose pal is in SMISO Charlie Company, Second Battalion. They've also got an up-and-coming first ell-tee who's being fitted for captain's triangles, and their current oh-three is staying put right where he is. They're already at repple-depple but, oddly enough, don't need any repple. What they are getting is a new ell-tee."

"Are you suggesting that some company's going to get a new commander?" Bondayehr smirks.

"Can you think of any other reason two fit companies that don't need any resupply or replacement are going to depot?"

"Not at the moment, no," the captain replies, "but given time, Fred, my paranoid mind will come up with some reason. Still... makes sense. Weren't my last scores a bit low?"

"I dunno. They seemed fine to me, but perhaps that's just for junior officer standings. I've no idea what now-Major Fontaine's scores were like, but I figure they were a bit higher than yours."

"And with things heating up on Mars, they don't want a mediocre or a merely satisfactory officer running a company." Timofeyev nods. "Makes sense."

The sergeant rolls his eyes. "Just no winning with you, is there, boss?"

"Nope," Bondayehr replies breezily, "just as there's no winning for me, either."

(OOC: Here's the scoop. This is where I'll dump day-to-day stuff that probably deserves being mentioned but doesn't deserve being put into a new thread. I'll try to keep plotlines relatively clear with the headings above; 1a is the first plotline's first post, 1b would be the second post, so on and so forth. It'll make sense.)

1b: Once Around the Block

TME Industries facility in Nuha

The ship doesn't look like much, but, then again, it isn't supposed to do much. A spherical, bulbous cockpit in the nose, with attendant life support on blisters, backed up by the boxy drive system and various different mechoptronic cores attached to it. Elros Mirimon Tinehtelë, the test pilot contracted to fly the contraption, is patently unimpressed. "Well, it's a step down from a Thoron, isn't it?"

"Look," DuBois says with a sigh, "you said you wanted the most dangerous ride we've got and there it is." Elves weren't bad, per se, but their self-importance could become annoying at times when they really let it shine. Like right now. "This thing flies in some sort of subethawhatever that we've never dabbled in before."

"I know," Tinehtelë replies, "I've run through the simulator a hundred times. Follow the branches towards the Weyrian nav beacon outsystem, test the computers, then turn around and come back once they fail."

"A usual vote of confidence," replies the synthesized voice of R-Chuck "Yeager" B41722, android avatar standing with folded arms beside the Noldo. "I know I am supposed to have 'holy visions' or something, but I really do doubt that I will get us both killed."

Add an elf with a mechanoid and there's usually trouble. Who the hell in Personnel figured out this match? Roger DuBois is a computer engineer, not a astro-shippy-designer person. This was a computer science problem, so they, the computer scientists, bolted together a ship that would work to test the, again, computer science problem. He wasn't trained for this... oh well. "Hey, we just need to verify findings. If things go pear-shaped, and they sometimes do, that's what the visual confirmation and physical cutoff is for. Everyone makes it back fine and we refine whatever program schema seems to work. Depending on how this trip goes, only one of you needs to come back."

The tall elf and the relatively short robotic body look at each other while Roger steps back. Excellent. Just put in a little competition between test pilots and everything starts working out. They'll both do their best now.

* - * - *

2b: Mild Dissent

Legislative Unit Chambers

"They're planning to filibuster the vote?" Nakpangi grumbles at the communicator embedded into his desk. "This coalition was not easy to assemble."

"Right," Legislator and interim International Trade Advisor Jack Kerrigan replies from the other end, "but the moment you did the people who are worried about their jobs becoming redundant started hyping up the loss of power the home segments would have. They're the ones who are working at eating away the Titanian and Ringside support for the plebiscite, and--just in case--they're going to try to keep the plebiscite from coming to vote."

"Get me those five legislators," the Voice of the Legislature booms calmly, "and get me whatever they want passed most before them. I believe we will have to play hardball."

"Got it, Nak. Anyway, the Executive over here loves the idea. Doesn't hurt that one of their own's a colonial now."

Sidibe nods. His coalition was relying on the popularity of Governor Rijil on Bright Morning to maintain colonial support. Si'lat's overall representation would take a hit as well, after all. "Good afternoon, Jack." After politely concluding that call, he immediately dials the number of a good friend.

Those five legislators won't like it, he muses, but they drew the line in the sand first.

* - * - *

3b: Changing of the Guard

Valhalla Station
Antecedent Earth Trojan Orbit

"I win," Sergeant Friedlitz says with a close-lipped grin.

"Remind me to trust the inside information the next time I make a bet with you, Sergeant," Bondayehr mutters good-naturedly as he passes the remnants of the bottle of cheap vodka behind his back.

The sergeant continues to beam as he surreptitiously tucks the bottle into the back of his pants and replaces his BDU tunic over it. "No way, boss. That'd kill my main advantage."

The exchange-of-command ceremony is about as informal as such things are allowed to get, with Major Fontaine trading salutes with Captains Bondayehr and Korolena while the company stands at attention. Short, simple, and to the point..

The later farewell party the troopers of Alpha Company is far less formal, taking advantage of their unexpected off-duty status. Even if Bondayehr wasn't the greatest trooper to grace SMISO, he was going to be missed; in the six months since his promotion to Captain and subsequent command of the company, he always stuck up for his troopers and made sure they got what he needed to do their jobs. Still, at a company level, his lack of background in ground combat and whatnot showed through a bit, although he was always willing to learn to fix his mistakes. Mistakes aren't acceptable, however, so however much they'd miss their boy-wonder officer for however good a leader he was, they'd be glad he was gone just so they wouldn't have to suffer the result of any major mistakes.

Still, he'd gotten the platoons and squadrons of SMISO Alpha Company, First Battalion through plenty of operations without a hitch and therefore was to be commended. Additionally, he was to be rewarded for somehow inadvertently earning the company a month of free almost R-and-R as they train on Valhalla with their new captain to work out any kinks between the new commander and the company. The gifts involved were therefore properly many and varied while the entire company, 144 men strong, pitched in.

Timofeyev looks around, sitting behind the table carrying the traditional banner labeled 'SWAG.' Everyone is enjoying themselves, chatting, telling jokes, getting as inebriated as is decorous while in uniform. Contenting himself with this knowledge, he looks down at the table covered in a bewildering array of alcohol, firearms--a good part of the company were Alvians from along the Karmabaijani border--knives, books, and a large unit photo taken earlier aboard Valhalla and signed by everyone, often with well-wishing phrases made out to "Our Favorite Zoomie."

Looking up, he sees Major Fontaine walking out of the crowd towards him, with Captain Korolena in tow. Bondayehr flashes a wry half-smirk as he stands. "Please tell me that someone called the room earlier while I was out, sir."

Fontaine shakes his head as he arrives at the table, flashing one of his feral-yet-friendly grins. "Nope, Bondy."

"Should I even bother, sir?"

The major looks around, then shrugs. "Naw. Everyone's having too much fun, and I've never been much to get people to squirm under rank."

Bondayehr nods and lets the wryness fade. "Fair enough, sir."

"We just wanted to drop in on your party and say 'hi,'" Major Fontaine explains, "and I've got your sealed orders." He pats one patch pocket, which makes a soft crinkling sound from the envelope ensconced within. "Just get 'em from me on the way out. Also, someone flew your shuttle over from Al Mahdi for you. It's in Commons Bay Three."

Timofeyev cracks into a full smile. "Shorty?"

Fontaine raises an eyebrow. "If that's what you call Embassy-Representative, yes. I offered her a cot in Battalion HQ but she said she'd just camp out in the shuttle."

"At least I have a place to put all this stuff now... hrm." He ponders a moment. "Hell, may as well invite her to the party too, since she's here. Thank you, sir."

The major nods and walks off to talk with some lieutenants near the middle of the largish room; Captain Korolena continues to stand next to the table, looking over her new company. "They look like a good unit."

"They are, Captain," Timofeyev replies with a bit of pride, "and it's good that they'll finally get a CO to match."

This garners him a slight sideways glance, a slightly raised eyebrow. "How do you mean?"

Bondayehr chuckles. "Never overestimate one's own utility. Anyway, Captain, help yourself; no time like the presence to get to know the troops."

1c: Milkrun

Saturn-Uranus Corridor
A billion kilometers away from anywhere

Tinehtelë drops Hopeless Diamond into the first level of what he and R-Charles had dubbed "the subetha" and looks through his mind's eye at the network, his skullcap rig translating it all to something he can see. A fork in the road, ETA five seconds. Checking his left multifunction display with his real eyes, he checks R-Charles' decision.

GO DOWN, the screen says. The Noldo frowns. He, R-Charles, and that egghead Dr. DuBois had agreed no going down past the first level. It would be slower, but it would test the system just as well. He sighs and taps the REQUEST DENIED transmit switch on his HOTAS controls.

The screen fails to change, four seconds later the fork comes, and, true to its word, R-Charles takes Diamond down another level. Another fork--three seconds away. Elros looks over to his left MFD.

GO DOWN.

The elf holds down his transmit key. "This isn't funny, Yeager. Don't make me pull your plug."

Diamond goes down another level. Another fork, two seconds away. GO DOWN, says the screen. If we do, Elros thinks, then reaction times start becoming a problem. I can't think fast enough to keep us from--

While he's thinking about it, the ship drops another level. Fork in one second. Tinehtelë's instincts take control, his left hand lunges out to the physical disconnect lever and pulls while his other hand pulls back on his column as the fork hits and...

Diamond goes up another level. Elros firmly keeps his control column pulled back as he checks the left MFD again. DISCONNECTED. The ship gently rises through the subetha before returning to lesurely strolling five seconds between action points, and the elf sighs and shakes his head as he shifts his hand to the second lever on his left and curls his fingers around its knob.

This thing is gonna kill me, thinks Elros as he pushes it forward, balls to the wall in its original and traditional sense. Behind him, a relay snaps into place, physically connecting the computer scientist's relatively simple block of code to the navigational system. The code parses the information coming into it and makes a snap judgement based on whatever meets criteria first, then holding that judgement in buffer while still searching just in case something better comes up, then repeating before going with the last judgement stored in buffer when the action moment rolls around.

The Noldo looks around as the ship wavers to the 'left' and the 'right', not keeping on the wished course whatsoever but also not going deeper in a zealous quest to see the light. Tinehtelë leans back and sighs. Sure, he wins his bet with the mechanoid... but he also has to stick through this cow of a project for the duration.

There ain't no justice, sometimes.

2c: Sacrifices for the Cause

Legislative Unit Chambers

Legislator Zeyad al-Hussein, the unfortunately named leader of the opposition coalition, growls lividly through his screen at the impassive obsidian rock that is The Mountain. "Now that is just raw."

"You give me little choice," Nakpangi replies, massive black hands folding together. "Filibustering is an appropriate tactic, after all... would you not agree?"

"You know full well you can't do it," al-Hussein grumbles. "The votes on the CDC appropriations bill and the cultural identity ordenance, which bracket what you so neatly threaten, are three days apart. How are you going to hold the floor for over three days straight?"

Sidibe's lips curl up almost imperceptibly. "Rrozzchnu-Representative. The Song of the People."

The lower Legislator blinks.

"Cultural edification is appropriate material for filibusters, as proven by your precident, Legislator al-Hussein." He pauses, timing his inevitable continuation for the instant his opponent opens his lips. "It will also cover many proposals useful to my coalition," the Voice continues with the inevitability of a lava flow rolling over a small village, "for example, the loss of the measure to begin working on a test sector of Ringside territory for ecological experimentation saddens me and my interests. Nevertheless, sometimes sacrifices must be made for the cause."

Zeyad is silent for a moment, visibly brooding. "So... how do I prevent this madness?"

"Quite simple, Legislator. Give me your signed word of honor that you will not filibuster the vote for a referendum by plebescite and I will give you both my and Rrozzchnu's signed word of honor that we will not filibuster any of your proposals."

Another grumble. "Very well--if it comes to that, we'll talk. But you won't get away with this."

Nakpangi smiles just a little more and nods. "Perhaps I will not. Good evening, Legislator." Clearing the connection, he dials another close associate to make sure that he indeed will.

3c: Reassignment Blues

Valhalla Station

"So, you see," says Lieutenant General Nikunj, "the Advisor would like to keep you in a good front-line operations role but your experiences are a bit limited and your qualifications for what the AeroSpace Directorate does--flying--equally so. He also doesn't want you in any second-fiddle positions either, which prevents us from sticking you on a Loki and being done with it. Can you see my dilemma?"

Captain Bondayehr nods curtly at the telepresence image of Nikunj, the commanding officer of the Directorate. "Yes, ma'am!" The response is a bit loud and abrupt, standard for a Mobile Infantry official meeting with a high superior but somewhat too... stiff for the Directorate's culture. It had been a while since he had to wear Class A's, and the last thing he was expecting were orders telling him to report to Valhalla's secure comm center for a telepresence meeting with the woman one step down from Advisor Hawke.

Chuckling, the general looks down, hand coming up to idly scratch the bendi between her brows. "I'm sorry, Captain--I didn't mean to sound harsh. The thing is that, for some reason, the top brass"--it seems very odd to Bondayehr that a general would be using that phrase--"want you to be a fighter pilot. Still, given your eyesight results... even if SMISO allowed you organic contacts for astigmatism we can't. Higher g-forces and all, you know."

Bondayehr nods with a wry smirk. "Of course, ma'am. That's the main reason I never thought about being a fighter pilot. Then again, I also never thought about being special forces so I guess this makes about as much sense as anything else."

Nikunj continues to chuckle good-naturedly. "Well, there is one way, and it will fit into a position later we think you will grow well into. The Triumvirate is starting up a space police force of sorts, Space Patrol and International Rescue. Heard of it?"

"Yes, ma'am. The idea is they fly around, righting wrongs, do-gooding, and assisting corvettes and local governments in defending merchantmen and enforcing Triumvirate laws. Caters to the knight-errant crowd, almost."

"They need a fighter corps, and the SASD needs a liason to it. You, Captain, can be that liason. You can go through their fighter training program for us. That way you can then challenge our new pilots and we can see how it compares and we don't have to worry about a fighter-pilot Captain having the flight experience of a fighter-pilot Flight Officer."

Bondayehr half-smiles wryly. "Great. Ma'am."

1d: Where'd Everybody Go?

Saturn-Uranus Corridor
Some Time Later

Hopeless Diamond pops back into realspace, at full stop relative to the Sun. That doesn't last all too long, given that Diamond's station-keeping drives are nothing to talk about, but the acceleration due to the various bodies of the solar system are on the order of millimeters a second and therefore it doesn't cause much concern.

What does cause concern, however, is the fact that the test control ship, an ubiquitous civilian Centipede-class bulk hauler, is gone. Elros looks over both his radar screens and squints through his canopy in every direction he can, but to no avail. "Chuck," he says with a groan, "we've got a slight problem."

The navigational computer, operating off of stellar positions as well as rangefinding data from various known radio sources, indicates that yes, this is the right spot with a margin of error of a few hundred kilometers--a margin of error designed to be within sensor range. With nothing better to do, Tinehtelë flips on the emergency beacon, folds his arms, and waits.

2d: Social Bond

Legislative Unit Chambers

A signed word of honor is equivalent to a contract in the Segments. While contracts are often used in business and law, where they are expected due to the assets and concerns on the line, the word of honor is used in civil agreements. There are no marriage contracts, but agreements practically identical to pre-nuptual agreements and marriage contracts in other cultures are accomplished through the signed word of honor. Divorce proceedings likewise are accomplished through the signed word of honor. Breaching one's word of honor is grounds for a civil suit just like breaching one's contract would be, and it actually does happen on occasion.

The strange thing is that the signed word of honor is a product of the Scolopendran culture and not, as it is widely assumed, a product of its legal system. The Scolopendran legal system, tied to the government of the Federated Segments, could not possibly care less what people do with their time as long as they pay their taxes in return for defense, education, and other government services. On the other hand, the highly ethical (if not moralistic) people of the Segments despise the thought of both shirk and duplicity, and as such demand that there be some sort of evidence in writing that can be used just in case someone breaks their oath.

Thus the signed word of honor is not taken lightly. It is also not held in esteem, as it indicates both a lack of trust between parties and, furthermore, a quiet accusation that one party or the other may go back on its word and break the agreement. Its rare use in the back rooms of the Scolopendran representative government is done very quietly, as it is unpopular; also, demands for it are definitive challenges against another's ethical standing--another reason such deals are often done in private.

"This is low," Zeyad grumbles as he leans in to sign the agreement. Lacking a traditional brush, instead he signs his word of honor with a chisel-tip marker, good enough to calligraphy his graceful, flowing Arabic.

"Not to sound childish," Sidibe replies, shifting one brawny arm forward to do the same in his own Arabic cursive, "but you started it. Trying to stall a vote intending to gather the people's voice... that is not our duty."

al-Hussein's eyes flick up with a frown. "I only want what's best for my constituents, Mountain. If I let you do this, then they will lose a great deal of their voice."

"And for the nation as a whole?" Nakpangi steps back, allowing the even more massive kzin Conservator to step forward. Zeyad remains silent while the kzintosh extends one obsidian claw, dabs it in the inkwell, and signs in the dots-and-commas of written kzints'ung.

"You will get your plebiscite," Zeyad says quietly, "and I will make sure the people understand why your plan is wrong."

"You are free to try," replies The Mountain with a short bow.

3d: Back to School

TYCS Camp LeMay
Ringside

Bondayehr pulls back the elasticized wool cuff of his new pilot's black leather jacket, black web-belt with a silver buckle over its double-breasted tunic cut; three-pipped gold captain's triangles on his epaulettes shining weakly in the dim morning light. The rank, just like the insignia on his arms and nametape on his left breast, is held on by geckoweb, allowing for quick removal and making the leather tunic everywhere from a Class C (fatigues equivalent) to a Class B+ uniform (just short of service dress) depending on the occasion.

There are some things fighter pilots simply won't go without, and tradition is one of them. It is a tradition spanning centuries that fighter pilots wear stylish leather jackets. That is all there is to it.

Looking up at the empty field in the middle of the TYCS training base, he frowns a little. This place should be swarming with people doing physical training. It's 0630 on a Saturday... He sighs. It's the weekend. You're not in the Infantry anymore.

Shaking his head, he wanders off to the cafeteria to get some chow. Good thing about military mess halls--they're open all the time. Once he gets there, he watches green flight sergeants and second lieutenants--his classmates--wander in as they meet up off of transports carting them to this facility. SPIR would use the TYCS's training facilities, apparently, but have a slightly lower bar and easier training program. Space Patrol and International Rescue is a police force, not a military, and so it needs to do well enough to police against bandits and rogues. Military adversaries are what the TYCS are for.

These lower pilots-in-training go through the lines and enter the dining room, naturally gravitating towards the other person dressed like a pilot: Timofeyev. Inbetween bites, be simply looks at them with a wry half-smile as they gather around with respectful silence, speaking mostly amongst themselves between eating and glancing at him, waiting for the unusually young senior officer to take command.

"Pardon, sir..." ventures one second lieutenant, probably from an OTC program like the one Bondayehr was in before the Dominion, "would you happen to know about the SPIR pilot training program."

Timofeyev nods with a noise of assent, quietly eating another bite of good pre-crowd eggs. "That I would."

"Well... we've been talking amongst ourselves and we're still wondering how SPIR is going to be set up. After all, some of us haven't even passed field training."

"You haven't eh?" Bondayehr raises an eyebrow, letting himself frown just a little. Let 'em wonder.

"I have, sir," the lieutenant quickly corrects, "but, ah, a lot of my compatriots here only have law enforcement training."

Bondayehr smiles predatorially. "Do you know how to clear a building?"

"I mean, even they admit they're not quite soldi--sir?"

"Do you know," the captain repeats quietly, "how to clear a building?"

The lieutenant pauses momentarily. "No, sir."

"You can hit a target thirty-five times out of fourty with a powergun?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, then," Timofeyev quips wryly, "on the basis of skills your average cop certainly outsoldiers you, no, Lieutenant?"

The junior officer looks down, turning a shade redder. "Yes, sir."

"Now get to the point, Lieutenant. Besides disparaging your fellow classmates, what are you trying to ask?"

"We're just wondering about the training program, sir. Trying to get a step ahead."

"Oh. Beats me," Timofeyev replies with an impish half-smile, "I'm in your class."

"You teach it?"

"No, I'm in it." He taps the M.I. insignia on his left arm, placed right under the SASD insignia. "I wasted my first three years in service in SMISO. Rule number one, Lieutenant, is that us trainees are a team. If the brass says we're equal enough to learn together, then we're equal. Got it?"

The lieutenant nods. "Yes, sir."

"Not to rake you over the coals, but I'm going to take advantage of my priviledges right now before I continue on with what Rule Number One really means. Trainees have to work together; we learn and we improve as a team. Elitism only harms that comraderie and I don't want to hear any of it, because when it comes to elitism, I have you all beat. You hear that, all of you?"

The entire table replies a bit louder than necessary. "Yes, sir!"

"Good. Now, for the bigger thing of Rule Number One. The first thing whoever is playing TI will tell you is that you are all equals and that your current rank, mine included, mean nothing. In the eyes of the program we are all equal. I posit we extend this concept to after-hours. We'll still have customs-and-courtesies, but we are trainees first and captains, lieutenants, and warrant officers second. We don't order each other around, we ask for help. We don't abuse, or even use, our rank, we just work together like it's the cadet corps or the military academy or the police academy all over again. Now..."--he holds up a hand to prevent the inevitable response--"...this isn't an order. This is just a recommendation from someone who's been around a little longer. No need to sir-sandwich everything from this point onward, I'd prefer you didn't. If you agree that my suggestion sounds reasonable, nod your head, assent, whatever; if you don't, that's fine too."

Heads bob around the table, but some, especially the second lieutenants, frown slightly. Timofeyev looks up and down the table and quietly notes the responses. First recommendation: SPIR should recruit independently from other organizations and maintain its own basic training program, just like the TYCS. Still allow people to second in, but espirit de corps really needs work.

Of course, what the good captain doesn't realize is that this is the seconding class.

1e: Debriefing

SCS Fermi (licensed to TME Industries, homeport of Nuha)

The TYCS Wildcat-class corvette's crew seemed just about as surprised as Tinehtelë was, and eventually the TME Industries Centipede came along to retrieve Hopeless Diamond while Elros kept trying to get a straight answer out of the Combined Services folk. He wished they'd at least let him out of the quarantine area, for crying out loud.

Now he was on Fermi, the bulky cargo hauler's hangar deck, staring down at the shorter computer scientist. "Can you, of all people, give me some idea of what's been going on?"

DuBois looks up at him, obviously flustered. "You've been gone for a week out there, Elros."

The Noldo blinks, then waves the idea away with the flicking wave of one graceful hand, shaking his head. "Bah. Look at the mission clock on Diamond--we weren't out for more than two hours."

"We have. The manual said something about time dilation, and we're going over the flight data recorders now. Right now we've got some minds giving R-Charles the equivalent of a warm blanket and a mug cocoa for shock. As far as we can tell, you got damn lucky."

"That's my job. At least I can say your little program didn't try to get me killed, unlike the aforementioned R-Charles."

DuBois grimaces. "Chuck's in a very bad way, Tinehtelë. I would prefer that you can the rivalry long enough to show a little sympathy here. At least..." he sighs. "With the information you picked up we can refine our code. The next step is to put in a direction-finding bit, and also a maximum speed that allows it to go down as deep as possible before reaching crush depth. You're in for the duration, it seems." He shifts back to a business-like attitude, folding his hands behind his back.

Tinehtelë nods quietly. Even if he may be inclined to being... insensitive from status, birth, and life, he isn't stupid and he isn't a complete boor. "I understand on all counts. Once I rest up a little, I'll be ready to continue the program." He pauses, and frowns. "Will R-Charles be all right?"

Dr. Dubois shrugs gently. "I've no idea."

2e: Taking It to the People

All Across the Federated Segments

The people of the Segments pride themselves on being up to date with what and how their government is doing. They became unforgivably lax during the Hertzfeldt years, but, fortunately, those turned out to be no more than a reminder that constant vigilance is necessary. Watchdog groups, non-militant knight-errantry chapters dedicated to government transparency, and even common citizens keep in touch with government officials, making sure everything is on the level. The media is closely monitored as well and supplimented (some would say 'challenged') by smaller matrix-blogs and scream sheets, which all go together into the democratic process. With all this, campaign advertisement is essentially a third wheel because most eligible voters already know what they want and what is best and who can get it for them.

Therefore, political advertisments are usually greatly ignored. But this one... this one is a bit different, alerting them to a planned plebiscite intended to both scale down and expand the Legislative Unit at the same time. Odd. One side claims that it reduces the representation of large portions of the population, which is ideally bad. The other side says that it makes the representation of colonial and Solar interests more equal, which is ideally good, and scales back an ever-growing government body which is becoming unwieldy, which is ideally good. Neither side resorts to character assassination or sneering condenscension, as that is political suicide in the Segments.

Intrigued, the populace takes a few minutes of its time to research the issue. The current system of one delegate per five million people has resulted in over eight hundred representatives. Now, if this were changed to the proposed one-for-ten-million, that makes four hundred... which is more manageable, but will the number of representation keep getting smaller as time progresses just to keep the core number small? That hardly sounds worthwhile.

Then the debate shows--honest, intellectual debate--go from there. But it is worthwhile. For one, you have to get all these people into a room. While it's nice to imagine the science-fiction interstellar republic with the truly massive meeting chamber, it's utterly untenable with standard parliamentary rules. If they all had something to say, there wouldn't be enough minutes in the day for them all to speak. While the number of augmented individuals in the Segments are growing, especially when it comes to non-visible implants such as subdermal induction datajacks, it will still be quite some time before people are comfortable with the concept of virtual democracy. The government computers could always be rigged, after all, and there is still a good arguement for maintaining elected representatives in any case, people whose job it is to know how things work. With that kept in mind, it doesn't sound so bad anymore.

But the CSEA had a legislature of over three thousand seats and it operated efficiently.

Ah, yes, but the CSEA was a corrupt postCommunist oligarchy whose legislature served only to stamp the ideas of the premier through. No, if we wait for the land to become so massive that it reaches the probable maximum limit of a representative body of, say, two thousand, then it will be a ten billion strong. No, the cut needs to be made now; that should provide the buffer necessary for us to come up with something better.

There's still the issue of the regional house being planned. The large populations of the Ring will be equal to the few millions on Hillary. That's hardly fair... except, one keeps in mind, that tyranny of the majority is hardly fair either. Hillary needs a voice too, even if they are a bunch of crazy aviators. There's also effective historical precedent for it... and it'll be the first time we've cut costs by expanding the government.

The citizens watch, and nod or shake their head as they deem fit with the debate; they discuss it with each other over tea or coffee at the innumerable bistros, sidewalk cafes, diners, bookstores, community theatres, art galleries, and other assorted accoutrements of culture that are so tightly packed in Scolopendra that one almost can't stretch one's arms out without touching one. Lively debates they are, too.

3e: Not in the Infantry Now

TYCS Camp LeMay
Ringside

As Timofeyev expected, the first words out of Major Daniel Freeman's mouth after a quick introduction was a short statement on how everyone, regardless of rank, was now a trainee and should treat each other with equal respect. "I don't want to see you, Captain," he says with a teasing chuckle, "bossing everyone around here."

"Yes, sir!" Captain Bondayehr replies enthusiastically, snapping to attention to reply before returning to parade rest. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see most other people in his 'formation' doing little more than lollygagging about sloppily. This gets him thinking--sure, the M.I. are pretty easy around their officers in the gritty, but this was an opening formation and... wait... SASD. He breaks his bearing, looks up, and sighs as he forces his body into a more relaxed posture. "I am not in the Infantry any more. You might have to remind me of that from time to time, sir."

Major Freeman chuckles and shrugs. "No worries. Good to know we're just on the same flight plan with that."

"Actually, uhm, sir," offers one of the flight officers, "you probably needn't worry. The Captain's already given us that speech."

"Oh, really?" One side of the major's lips curls up into a slight smile. "Is this true, Captain?"

"Sir," Bondayehr replies in a theatrically exasperated voice, looking at David wryly, "this is the third time I've been in a serious training environment. SMISO Recap and SMISO-MA Specialty Training do count as separate in this matter. University-OTC doesn't." Looking over at the burning look this gets him from the second lieutenant from earlier, Bondayehr half-smirks. "Never made it to field training, Lieutenant. Anyway," he looks back to Freeman, "this is the first time training's been so... informal."

At the revelation that he never apparently made it through any sort of basic or field training, switches of realization click in people's heads, including the major's. "You're the Timofeyev Bondayehr?"

A wry half smirk, a glance over the crowd, and a wink. "No, I'm Trainee Bondayehr, and I WANNA BE A PILOT!" The last part comes out with pep-squad enthusiasm while looking at the trainees with his well-practiced 'play-along-dammit' look. "HOOAH?"

"Hooah," replies the trainee flight, somewhat dumbfoundedly.

"Bah. Enthusiasm is the key to airpower," Timofeyev mutters.

"It's actually a force multiplier, sir," replies one of the second lieutenants.

"Well, sir," Bondayehr continues to the major, ignoring the hair-splitting, "let's get on the bounce and start this party. What do we do first?"

Major Freeman simply chuckles again. "Nothing planned for today, troopers. Just a meet and greet."

Timofeyev's face falls. "We don't even get to see what we're flying, sir?"

"Nope. You've got the weekend to get situated. See you all on Monday, tranees. Dismissed."

Captain Bondayehr just stands there and blinks while his flight wanders off. One of the flight sergeants looks back and calls after him: "Hey, sir, we're gonna go find some entertainment. Want to come with?" Sighing, Timoveyev watches the major walk away before turning around and catching up with his fellow trainees... on the bounce, of course. This is training? What kind of madness is this?

The thought that it's been three years since he's had the luxury of a normal weekend as most working stiffs understand it never enters his mind.

1f: The Exciting World of Applied Science

Saturn-Uranus Corridor

After the initial scare with Hopeless Diamond diving too deep into the subetha, the project takes on a much calmer, much more orderly pace. Elros takes the Hopless Diamond out, flies back and forth, and returns; the computer scientists look over the data, refine their code, and upload the new version into the testbed, and the process repeats. Needless to say, the Noldo test pilot is bored out of his mind.

He just does the same things over and over--take the ship out, engage the Weyrian drives, and let the computer try to run a course back and forth towards one marker and then back to the Sol system marker. As time progresses and Dr. DuBois' team refines its coding, Tinehtelë finds himself doing less and less, instead just being an instrument checker to make sure nothing goes wrong.

In between flights, he visits with R-Charles, who is in a very bad way. Other than a slight feeling of professional camraderie, Elros quietly finds it difficult to empathically connect with a box of mechoptronics. Still, he thinks to himself, I am making the effort and that's what matters. I just hope whatever got him doesn't get me too.

2f: The Exciting World of Politics

All Across the Federated Segments

Time passes and the plebescite, long expected, comes around. Voting technology has progressed a great deal from the mechanical booths of times past. Now, to ensure no fraud, every voter simply logs onto secure government servers from various places with the required equipment, everywhere from ATMs to cybercafes to home, and inputs his or her civil service number--all citizens either are or have served in some manner, so they all have an identification number--and confirms it with a biometrics check--thumbprint, voiceprint, and retinal scan. They register their vote and carry on with their lives.

Now, this is not exactly secret voting; somewhere something attaches a particular vote with a particular number assigned to a particular person. This is considered a necessary evil; truly secret votes are far too simple to rig. Instead, the voting computers--monitored both by government and nongovernment parties--takes the information, spits out raw results in yeas or nays, and outputs the results in hyperdense two-dimensional binary code matrices on hardcopy. This is immediately sealed by Federal Police in front of a Leglislative Unit advisory committee and delegates from several nongovernment organizations chosen by raffle, and placed in a plexiglas case in the public Legislative Library which can be seen and monitored by the government at all times. There are, of course, points where the votes could potentially be altered, but they are already well known and as such easily detected if such an event should occur.

At the end of it all, three to seven different sources all give their numbers--all agreeing--to the various news-wire services. By this time a lot of people have gone to bed, so they'll find out what happened in the morning.

3f: The Exciting World of Military Training

Camp LeMay

Captain Bondayehr whistles low as the technicians wheel out the older-model Phantom III aerospace fighter-bomber out in the early morning sunlight. She's a huge bird, to be sure, when compared to most other nations' aerospace fighters; just short of twenty meters long from nose to dihedral tail and five meters from the bottom of her fuselage to the tip of her vertical tail. Twin airbreathing fusion caterpillar variable jets dominate her sides, leaving room in the center for gravydrive, MHD reactor, and some internal ordnance. Her broad wings with their exaggerated winglets provide plenty of space for underwing ordnance, and overall, while she doesn't strike one as a thing of beauty in her ground support camouflage scheme of white on bottom and smatterings of green, brown, and black on top, she certainly is a muscle plane.

"This is going to be your ride for the next six months, and perhaps beyond," announces Major Freeman. "The TME Industries Model 209 Phantom III, used by the Federated Segments, the Dominion, the Combined Services, and the Sunset Defense Force--making it the most commonly used and widely supported aerospace fighter in the Triumvirate. For that reason, it will also be the standard aerospace fighter for the roving insystem and interstellar portions of SPIR."

The trainees nod, and some of the second lieutenants look downright disappointed. The Phantom is reportedly not as hot a ride as, say, the Excalibur. "Isn't it for ground support, though, sir?"

"That was its original intent, yes," replies the major as he walks along the leading edge of the port wing, trailing his fingers delicately over it. "However, it's still far more nimble than the pirate craft we expect to face, and the gauss rifle has been modified to link to a second ammunition feed that fires microsabots with an open-bore 'action.' Essentially, hose down the sky." He grins predatorially, an image Timofeyev used to see a lot of on Captain Fontaine's face. "As it is, it is just as good a dogfighter with the gravyplant on as the Excalibur and, gravydrive off in the atmosphere, it surpasses that fighter. It is also quite a bit less expensive, making it a perfect aerospace interceptor for SPIR, and you will be flying it. You've been reading up in your manuals, yes?"

It is a rhetorical question--of course they have been. That's what they've been working hard on in ground school for the past few weeks, with Bondayehr and a few others not having any trouble at all, with most of it being review--the people from the more advanced Triumvirate nations certainly had a rung up on this sort of thing. Despite that, the trainees nod their assent.

"Good. Time to get you people into the air, then. Suit up in the equipment room and check your assignments. You'll be rotated through pilot and weapons officer slots to make you qualified for both by the time you leave."

* - * - *

Bondayehr shifts slightly in his crash harness, looking at the huge, almost bug-like visor of his flight helmet in the mirror as he familiarizes himself with the projected helmet-mounted display. Nothing I haven't seen before... He had no idea how Nathi did it, but that Selene was almost a military grade ship itself, and the simulators covered the rest. Taxiing his aircraft to the runway--it was traditional for the first flight to be done the old-fashioned way, rather than relying on gravyplants--he waits for his wingmen to get into position to his aft-port and starboard before requesting clearance from the runway. Getting it, he pushes forward the throttle and the caterpillar drives open up, speeding his plane down the runway and into the air. Gears up, he tips the plane back until the HMD artificial horizon reads ninety degrees inclination then pushes foward the throttle, quickly blasting through the sound barrier, straight up.

This is also a tradition. "Yee haw," Timofeyev murmurs quietly.

While feeling more powerful than the Selene, the Phantom III really isn't. It is far more durable, though, and it feels solid even through the roughest and tightest aerial maneuvers. Training proceeds apace and even becomes routine--first basic formation flying skills, working on that; then basic air combat maneuvers; then basic space combat maneuvers, all of which Bondayehr has down from a bit of simulator time and tooling about in his Selene. Unlike air combat, space combat demands an entirely different mindset. Traditional dogfighting is not half as effective as essentially spacial strafing runs, taking full advantage of the fact that attitude and direction of flight need not coincide at all. One has to keep in mind their position, their direction, and their attitude, moving to evade enemy attacks while turning to attack enemies. On bare fusion drives, this limits it to high-speed strafings; on gravydrive, it can get much more intricate indeed. Then come the more advanced strategies and practice for the 'final' of the six-month program--the carrier landing.

Timofeyev does not look forward to this part.

OOC: Interesting...very interesting....

1g: Happy Chrismahanakwanzaka

TME Industries Computer Science Division
Nuha

Doctor DuBois watches the hot plastic extruding from its insulated hose cover their simple silicon integrated circuit chip, creating a large black blob on the circuit board. After letting it cool and harden from a shining liquid to a matte solid, he gingerly picks it up with hands glossy in places from soldering iron burns. "And this is the product of our work."

"It's not exactly... impressive, is it?" Tinehtelë grumbles, folding his lithe arms.

"Of course it isn't," DuBois snaps before returning to an unnaturally gentle voice, turning around the simple circuit card in his hands like a gem wrested from the grip of the earth and finely polished. "That's the point. Impressive things are large and ostentatious. This... this is the simplest answer to a complex problem. It has the least parts and is thus the least likely to fail, while still being complex enough to do the function asked of it. It is... what every engineer dreams of. Just enough."

"Yes. You've programmed a series of branching and loop statements. Very good--hopefully that doctorate isn't just for basic nonchaotic programming?"

"Bah." The doctor waves away the Noldo with a gentle motion. "There are times and places for all forms of technology. This is the time and the application for simple robotics." He holds up the circuit card. "This is the brain of a very simple robot indeed--and, being a simple robot, it is a robust robot."

"I don't think someone as shiny as Weyr would want it in... uhm... silicon format. Awfully old-timey."

"This is for my collection," DuBois grumbles, "TME will find out whatever the customer wants and make it in that format. For now, we have a proprietary subetha autopilot. Their 'unsolvable' problem is, thusly, solved."

2g: Only the End of the Beginning

Stonozka

al-Hussein hisses to himself as he watches the result being replayed on the morning news. Damn them all! This is a bad idea, and a lot of people are going to lose their jobs over it. It's not like Legislators make a lot, either. Stalking to the kitchen, he puts on some tea and growls invectives to himself. They'll see how bad it is. Oh yeah, they'll see--throwing their own voices away.

3g: Stepping Back for a Clearer View

Camp LeMay
Training Billeting

Bondayehr sighs and tips his chair back, kicking his stockinged feet onto the edge of his desk. "I dunno, Shorty. Things just aren't going as well as I'd hoped."

Embassy-Representative rolls her eyes, stretching out on the wide couch she'd come accustomed to lounging on, doing her paperwork with her portcomp on her stomach while Timofeyev worked at the human-sized desk. "Things never go as well as you hope. They could be running perfectly and you would still worry about what could go wrong."

"Right. I mean, I only have to get a sixty-ton aerospace fighter within a margin of error one-point-two meters deep by one meter high--on fusion, mind you. No simple gravy-stuff."

"You are the one who wanted to be a fighter pilot, right?" She looks over her shoulder, ears flickering slightly.

"No, not really." The captain sighs. "If anything, I expected some gunnery post or some support role in the Directorate when I first signed up. I didn't expect to go to the Dominion, I didn't expect to disappear in specops, and I didn't expect being made into a fighter pilot--no matter how cool outwardly any of those things are. I may be passable at any of these things, but certainly not excellent."

The kzinret just chuckles softly, shaking her head and dropping her voice just a little. "It has not been all bad, has it?"

"No... no, not all bad," Bondayehr half-smirks with a wink to the couched 'ret, "but right now I'll admit that I'm not the greatest pilot in the universe and that this whole carrier-landing thing has me sufficiently creeped out. Pilots who admit their weaknesses get killed."

"As do pilots who truly believe their invincibility," Representative notes. "You know what bothers you; adapt past it."

Timofeyev sighs and folds his hands behind his head. "Ya... I think I know how I can pull that much off. Still, I've got to wonder what the hell the SASD is thinking putting me through this Mickey Mouse program--six months and you're a fighter pilot? The TYCS and the SASD both do ten months. This is treating an aerospace fighter like an overglorified patrol car."

"Then," she replies with a quiet sigh, "you do as you did in your earlier days and improve once you get to your station, or you practice on the side. I understand it may be too late then, but this is what you have been given. Adapt. Besides..." she sets her computer down, slips off of the couch, and kneels down behind the captain to put her head on his shoulder with a wink, "you are avoiding your paperwork." Pushing up on the back of his chair, she bolts the human back upright.

"Yeah, yeah..." Bondayehr shifts quickly to avoid toppling over or being scissored and reactivates his word processing program, grumbling slightly under his breath.

"You told me to keep you honest, and I have my own. We will both be done soon enough," the 'ret says as she returns to her station on the couch, "and then we can move on to perhaps more pleasant things than paperwork."

"True. I still owe you, neh?" Timofeyev half-smirks as he gets back to typing his report.

3h: Persistent Practice Prevents Piss-Poor Performance

Then again, maybe the Infantry wasn't so bad for my career. Bondayehr eases his fighter into a gentle bank, eyes not even bothering to flicker to the turn coordinator, flying the monster by feel and watching the numbers on his HMD compass ticking off and meeting the waypoint direction indicator out of the corner of his eyes. The clock in one corner ticks off the time, 0950 on a Saturday. About a month ago, he'd started running through his references after he remembered a bit of trivia.

The SMS-CV Aberdeen is a stacked heavy barge modified into a floating airfield--essentially, an aircraft carrier. She consists of three stacked barges: the lowest consists of crew quarters and her simple nuclear caterpillar drive; the middle one holds the hangar bay; and the upper one makes up the top of the hangar bay and the additional structure for the flight deck. The flight deck has the usual--two catapults, one return line, and a control island on the extreme starboard side of the deck. It is towards this blocky, angular-grey camouflaged ship that Timofeyev turns his fighter, and it is this blocky ship which is run by the extremely small coast guard portion of the Mobile Infantry. It's generally considered either a quiet, gentle punishment or a quiet, not-quite-a-vacation, depending on the circumstances of the transfer. With connections from training and friends he'd made in the service, as well as a polite request sent to Aberdeen's captain on a weekend the ship wasn't seeing training duty... standard M.I. espirit de corps and camraderie did the rest.

"Charlie Victor Aberdeen, Tango Yankee Tango Oh-Seven-Three-Nine on approach turning to final." Captain Bondayehr half-smiles wryly behind his hard oxygen mask, latched into his helmet and his visor locked down over it, quietly ignoring that sinking feeling in his stomach as the landing signals officer aboard Aberdeen replies. -Oh-Seven-Three-Nine, Aberdeen air boss--you're clear for landing.-

"Thank you, tower. On final." Timofeyev lines up his aircraft with the center line on the landing strip, peering out to see the Fresnel lens glide slope indicator--a large green light called the 'meatball' that moves up and down in relation to a row of yellow lights--traditional for carrier landings. The fighter's instrument landing systems are off, and Bondayehr glances down at his angle-of-attack indicator as he lowers the flaps to landing speed and cuts down the fusion catepillar drive to carrier landing power. Full power would make the plane blast past the carrier, but CLP provides enough thrust for a touch-and-go if the landing fails.

He shifts his arm to the switches on his side console, lowering the landing gear and the arrestor hook. Then, sighing, he concentrates. The angle of attack indicator tells him his airspeed and stall speed; the rest is a matter of eyeballing it and using the meatball. He gently keeps on path with his hand on the control stick, other hand resting easily on the throttle as he keeps on line on the swaying deck with ailerons and elevators, being careful not to rely on rudder. The deck comes closer and closer, and he breaks the first rule of carrier landings--he pulls up in a flare, the traditional ground landing technique to bleed off speed.

Waitaminute "Shit!" He dips the nose just in time to keep the aft of the fuselage from ramming into the deck, the gear hitting the deck hard and the hook on the back of his aircraft completely missing Aberdeen's cables. Pushing the throttle forward, Bondayehr flings his craft back into the air, panting with knuckles white under black pilot gloves.

-Jesus Christ, kid! You okay in there, Captain?-

"Yeah, yeah... I'm good, I'm good," Timofeyev grunts, bringing his throttle back down as he raises gear, hook, and flaps. "Coming around back on pattern."

-No problem--sloppy touch-and-go, but any one you don't end up in the drink is a good one. How's your gears checking out?-

Bondayehr toggles through his multi-function displays, coming up with a damage assessment. "Everything's in the green. History says no more than two G's ever put on the gear--just looked worse than it was." Bondayehr banks the plane, keeping an eye on the carrier and the wake it leaves behind it. "In the pattern, tower."

-Understood, Captain. Be careful.-

"Got it." A few more moments, and another bank a thousand meters up and around to face the carrier again. "On final."

Lowering flaps again to increase lift to keep his plane up and drag to slow it down, Timofeyev makes sure he's on CLP, lowers the landing gear and the arrestor hook. Okay... keep it simple. Line up, don't flare, increase power over the deck. By the book, Tim, by the book. The meatball starts getting low, and Bondayehr grits his teeth, pulling back gently on his stick. You're on the approach, don't increase power. Not yet. The meatball keeps getting lower and lower.

-Pull up, kid--too damn low!-

Bondayehr nods with a grunt and pulls back more for an abort, only to be graced with the beeping whine of a stall warning alarm. "Nee ta ma duh tyen-shia suo-yo duh run doh gai si!" he shouts in the most vile bit of Mandarin he knows as he pushes the throttle all the way forward, balls-to-the-wall and he watches the carrier deck rush up horizontally towards him. Too late--and his right hand slips over to the gravydrive control while the left slips down between his seat and the cabin wall to wrap around the yellow-and-black-striped handle, one of four that controls the ejection seat.

The aerospace fighter bobs up on gravydrive, just barely clearing the deck. Bondayehr sighs as the weightless feeling of being on gravitic. -God damn, kid! Close, too close.-

"Yeah," Timofeyev replies, voice shaking, "tell me about it." He just lets the aircraft float up in its own gravity-induced slope, shivering from head to toe. Keeping his head outside of the cockpit and making sure he retains control, he quietly pulls up an old Sakkran chant from previously, forcing himself back to calmness.

-You okay, trooper? We can just let you down if you want.-

"No sir." Bondayehr shakes his helmeted head slowly. "I gotta do it sometime, and maybe again under shit conditions." If I can do this shaken, I can do this any time. "Coming around again on approach. If I sell out like this for real, I fail."

Switching back to fusion, the Captain manages another touch and go, watching the meatball and his AOA indicator in his scan pattern like a hawk and putting power up as he crosses the deck. -You have to land here, son. This is where the food is.-

"I know, I know," Timofeyev grumbles frustratedly in response, coming around again.

-No worries, son, no worries. Just take 'er nice and easy. That last one was... smoother.-

"But not by much. On final." He brings the plane around again, keeping from stall, keeping his nose level, just letting it come down smooth and WHUMP as his wheels hit the deck, pushing the throttle open again as he grits his teeth and his helmet bounces off of the back of his seat.

-You got it, kid, you got it. Power down; you're not going to make the boat go any faster.-

Timofeyev nods, pulls the throttle back all the way, and leans back into his seat before starting to shake. He lets the pent up panic and tension pass, getting a hold of himself before the flight deck crew latch up to his canopy to check on him.

If there's two things about Mobile Infantry, they believe in helping a fellow trooper out and they despise looking bad around the AeroSpace people. Captain Bondayehr, being from SMISO, immediately gains the sympathy of the entire crew as he decompresses for a half hour, then goes up again, lifting off of the catapult and coming around with grim determination. Each landing gets progressively better, with none of the close calls of the second try. He starts making it almost smooth by the time it gets dark, and even then practices for a few more hours despite the low light and the choppy waves, gaining confidence through practice. It's all about the Six P's. After he feels comfortable with the whole thing, he brings the plane back to LeMay--just a little battered, but there are advantages to having friends in high places.

* - * - *

Embassy-Representative looks up from her usual place on the couch at the ragged-looking captain as he walks in. Distance training on the in-and-outs of Civil Servanthood in the International Relations Section had its own set of advantages, one of which was being able to keep up the comfortable habit of rooming with Bondayehr. She'd done well enough in the diplomatic course (with quiet SMISO pointers from the Captain) in the past year or so and there was no need for her to hang around Stonozka all the time now. Besides, it would be soon enough when IntRelate decided exactly everywhere she would be at any given time. "Tough day?"

"Hrm. Yeah." Bondayehr sighs as he takes off his leather fighter pilot's tunic, hanging it up in the closet by the door. "Almost scraped myself onto a carrier deck."

"Hrr. I suppose it goes with the territory, but still..." The 'ret shivers slightly. "Not something I like hearing about."

"Oh well. Gave me a chance to curse in Mandarin," he half-smiles wryly for a moment before tossing over a plastic bag, "and here's something for you to forget your troubles, Shorty."

She raises one furred eyebrow as she snatches the bag out of the air, sniffing slightly first in curiosity and confusion and then more as she recognizes the heady scent emanating from the bag of dry greenish hashed plant. "Rrrr... 'nip?" Ears flapping, she takes another sniff, lets herself roll around a little on the couch with the pleasant scent, and rubs it against her nose.

"Ah, yeah. I plan on adding to my risk of lung cancer tonight. Been that kind of day." Timofeyev sighs and turns around, adjusting the items in the closet.

"Bah," the 'ret replies with a slight frown. "That is not a good habit."

"'S why it's not a habit. More of a cathar--"

"If you're going to smoke dead leaves," grumbles Shorty, "try this. It'll be more cost effective." She throws the bag at Bondayehr with a bit more force than anticipated, just as he turns around. Without having time to flinch, the bag hits him just inside of the right shoulder, bursting in a cloud of fine catnip powder and shreds.

"Gack!" Coughing, he looks up at the 'ret looking back at him, her eyes slitted slyly. This gives him momentary pause. "Eep?"

A Close Scrape

"Charlie Victor Aberdeen, Tango Yankee Tango Oh-Seven-Three-Nine on approach turning to final. Again."

The wing boss on the carrier-barge chuckles softly. -No worries, kid. Time to show those zoomies up.-

"I am a zoomie, sir," Timofeyev the unlikely fighter pilot half-smirks behind his oxygen mask, lining up and throttling down.

-Bullshit. You're Infantry and you've got a friendly rivalry to live up to.-

Bondayehr just chuckles and clears his head with a quick sigh, keeping an eye on the AOA indicator and the meatball. This is it--just land this bird again and you're good. This is the one for a grade. No worries. Of course, that last one is something of a lie, but a noble one. Flaps down, power low, nose level, just letting the plane slip from the sky and trying to match the deck with slight deflections of ailerons like metal feathers--

*THUNK RRACK* He immediately pulls back his throttle as he feels the rapid deceleration, crash harness biting into his chest and shoulders while his aircraft rapidly slows to a stop in the middle of the deck. Deck crew speed up in carts to taxi the aircraft over to the elevator that will take the Phantom III down to the hangar deck; Timofeyev kills the power to his engines, the fusion catepillar compressors spinning down from a whine to a growling hum. Opening his canopy, he disengages his harness and leans out over the side. "So, how'd I do?"

One of the deck crew looks up and grins broadly behind closed lips, the only part of his face visible under the selective sound-dampening helmet. "Third wire!"

"Pff, luck," Bondayehr replies, meaning it. "Couldn't do it again if I tried. Anyway, where to now?"

The crewman shrugs and just tosses his head towards the conn tower; Timofeyev repeats the gesture and struggles out of the cockpit, hands on the sides of the canopy mount, eventually working himself to sit only mildly uncomfortably on the thin edge of the cockpit wall, looking out over the the slightly overcast day and the ocean taking up the entire horizon. Aberdeen was far out to sea; at least as far out to sea as was geographically possible on Titan. Hopefully, Bondayehr thinks, after this I'll never have to do a wet-carrier landing again.

He shifts momentarily as someone hands up a ladder to hook onto his ledge, then clambers down onto the hangar deck, moving quickly to avoid being hit by the armored leading edge of the aerospace fighter's wing. Jogging over to the conn tower, he catches the eye of an M.I. lieutenant in fatigues that waves him over. "Well, Captain," the lieutenant begins, "the wing boss says you're in good shape. May as well unwind--'s going to be a long day of us landing these birds."

"I could," Timofeyev replies as he latches up his visor and unlocks the side of his hard oxygen mask, letting it hang by the hinge, "but I'll stay up here and watch instead."

Bondayehr always liked anything that flew. Leaning against the conn tower, standing well out of anyone's way, listening to the banter over his flight suit radio... actually, this is the perfect way for him to unwind. Most everyone else, lacking the extended practice period, doesn't do quite as well as he did, but--in Bondayehr's mind, at least--the touch-and-gos are more fun to watch as the fighters' drives open up, air tearing apart into curling eddies and vortexes of heat behind the exhausts, the massive beasts of metal too brutish to be birds lunging back into the air. Eventually, a plane either comes in to a stop, the tired pilot inside glad for many reasons, or else flies off to the nearest airbase in Scolopendra, giving up.

Another pilot, who the captain recognizes as one of the trainees really struggling as of late, calls into the tower. Besides a moment of recognition and analysis, Bondayehr doesn't do anything but watch the plane come in, growing larger and lower as it gets closer and closer... but the angle's off. He's too low. Tensing himself to move, he watches the fighter closely, letting the scattering of the deck crew register but not register in his thoughts.

The plane comes down in slow motion, pulling its nose up just too late as it catches its rear landing gear on the edge of the deck. It grinds the rear of its fuselage across the metal ledge, and its tail tilts back into the air, damaged arrestor hook shearing off as it grips the first cable. The aircraft scuds across the deck, pilot powering down in full, apparently hoping that the friction of his his port wing scraping on the deck will bring him to a halt. He starts to yaw left, bringing the tail to the side, almost pivoting on the still intact nose gear until the plane is sliding sideways. It swings its aft over the port edge of the deck, coming to a rest momentarily. Timofeyev watches the pilot scramble to release his crash gear, then looks down to see that he's running towards the downed plane.

The Phantom III teeters precariously for a moment, nose wheel brakes straining to keep the plane from slipping off. With the bang of a blown hydraulic cylinder, the bottom of the nose gear and the deck it sits on is suddenly splattered with slick hydraulic fluid. With no brakes and almost no friction, the fighter slips and falls backwards off of the deck.

Without hesitation, Bondayehr immediately latches his oxygen mask back in place and slams down his visor, locking it airtight. Already across the deck, he leaps off the edge and into the foaming water in the aerospace fighter's wake. Diving past the seafoam and bubbles, he looks down to watch the fighter sink almost leisurely towards the bottom a few hundred meters down. Inside, lit only by the glow of his console, is the pilot doing nothing but darting his head left and right, panicked. Timofeyev begins moving his arms, kicking his legs, tearing his way deeper in his airtight flight suit and combat boots, constantly breathing with deep breaths--have to keep pressure equalized--until he catches up with the nose of the plane. After knocking one gloved hand on the canopy hard to get the pilot's attention, Bondayehr points at the canopy, places his hands together horizontally, then parts them a little quickly. C'mon. Crack open your canopy, airlock this thing. You pop out now...

The pilot simply stares back out at this strange image blankly.

Jeebus... Timofeyev kicks down a little deeper, finding the rescue hatch on the side of the fuselage just aft of the canopy. Carefully, he slips one thick-gloved finger into the tab and pulls hard. The door refuses to open. He pulls harder, only to realize that now his finger is stuck. Rolling his eyes, he fishes through his utility belt with his free hand, being dragged down with the fighter and slowly feeling the pressure asserting itself around his skull and body. The atmosphere of his helmet would act as a damper, but still...

Finding his steel multitool, Bondayehr yanks it from his belt and slams it hard against the opposite end of the panel, nearer the hinge. The panel pops open, and the captain immediately snaps his hand in to grasp the yellow-and-black lever inside. Curling in to brace his boots against the fuselage, he turns it just a few degrees. The canopy opens just a crack, and bubbles begin speeding out as water pours in. Kicking back up to the cockpit, Bondayehr once again gets to see the pilot panicking.

A quick knock on the window--more like a pounding--and Timofeyev gets his attention again. Bondayehr points to his mask and visor, fingers playing over them like closing them tight. The pilot nods and complies, making sure his gear is airtight. The captain then points to his belt and makes motions as if undoing it; the pilot slowly, with trembling fingers, undoes his crash harness. Bondayehr then sneaks his fingers under the canopy and makes as if to open it up further; the pilot nods and toggles the canopy switch gently.

Urk! Bondayehr's face turns red as he bangs his helmet against the canopy. Canopy UP you moron, UP!

Another flick of the switch and the canopy opens more, quickly flooding. Timofeyev pushes it open the rest of the way, grabs the pilot by the lapels, and immediately kicks off of the canopy up towards Aberdeen's dark hull silhouetted against the bright, undulating blue waves darkening from the depth. The pilot again starts panicking and starts trying to swim as quickly as he can towards the surface; Bondayehr grabs him by the helmet and forces him down none too gently as he watches the bubbles rise. Always rise slower than the bubbles, at least.

Then a tinny beeping in Timofeyev's helmet--ten minutes of air left. Depth... Bondayehr looks up. Can't be more than thirty meters. Fifty minus thirty is twenty minutes, have been down five... good, no decompression stops. Looking back down at the pilot, now moving only to kick his feet gently, helping the ascent without trying to pass. Timofeyev nods, hand moving up and down next to his chest like a singer describing his breathing. The pilot nods.

After taking eight minutes to ascend, just to be safe, the captain breaks the surface, treading water and helping the other pilot up before cracking his visor to let in fresh air. "You okay in there?"

His fellow pilot nods and does the same. "Yeah," he replies in a shaky voice, "but the plane's in the drink."

"Eh, they'll pull it out and fix it or they won't." Timofeyev shrugs momentarily. "A setback. You're fine, so it isn't a tragedy. Now," he says a bit more loudly, "all we need is for someone to fish us out! And on the bounce!"

4a: Friendly Concern

"I don't like it, Speeks." Razak leans forward a little in his thick-cushioned seat, carefully balancing his heavy mug of steaming kawfee with both hands. The subdued light of his apartment catches off of his silver hair, haloing him momentarily. "Something's up."

Speaker nods in the oversized guest chair, taking a sip from his own mug as he thinks quietly. "Yes. Bob's retirement (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=390141) was... unexpected. Perhaps he finally burnt out?"

Julius shakes his head. "You know Bob; I know him better. That man doesn't burn out; at least not like other men."

"Yes," the kzintosh agrees softly, "but you saw how it worked. Angelus 'went quiet' and he threw himself into his work... and you've seen his reports for the past few weeks. Jumbled, sloppy... distracted. Perhaps he realized he couldn't take it anymore."

"Bah. Not adding up." Razak frowns. "The man would push himself to self-destruction before just giving up. No... I'm figuring he's not being level with us."

"You believe he has a conflict of interest with Angelus?" One furred brow arches up.

"No... at least, not in the traditional sense. Think about the reports on Angelus. It's never powered down this low before--it's practically dead. We've been trusting him when he's said everything's fine... but it's getting obvious that everything's not fine, at least to his old CO."

Speaker shakes his head. "We do know that he possibly covered up for the Angelans once before with the Angelic Skies incidents. Perhaps... perhaps he is covering up again?"

"Perhaps, but I doubt he's taking orders from Xanone or anyone in this case." Razak sits, musing in thought. "Still, I've just got a hunch. Do we have any favors we can call in from Shodey?"

"Possibly." The kzintosh reclines back in his chair, looking over the old, familiar room. "Why?"

"If it comes down to it, we may have to burn Angelus' systems for confirmation. I don't want to do that, though. I'd rather go through my friend than behind his back--he wouldn't be covering up unless he had a damned good reason."

"Like political backlash against Angelus if whatever they have now is detected?" Speaker folds his ears back slightly. "You did not have to deal with Nathi, ksali-tzobu. I do not like being put into those circumstances."

"You have to admit, Speeks," Razak replies firmly, "that if he hadn't that meeting would've gone a lot worse. He covered for us in case everything went wrong and gave us plausible, hell, real deniability. He was willing to take the fall on that entire thing for not telling everyone sooner. I'm telling you, something's up with Angelus and it isn't anything like we're expecting."

Speaker nods, looking out towards the window, the Venetian blinds gently rustling in the breeze the open window lets in, their clicking together complimenting the soft rush of rainfall, one advantage of having the window on the lee side of the building. "Perhaps. If you wish to ask him, good luck. Hopefully he will be honest with you."

Razak frowns firmly, deepening the lines on his face. He'd never been as careworn as Alshai, always managing to keep a smoother complexion. On the other hand, he still looks like an old trooper from his fit lines. "I'm Bob's best friend, Speaker. I fought alongside him before I knew you existed. I know--no idea how, but I do--that he's not doing any of this to pull a fast one over us, at least not to our detriment. We gotta stick together, after all, right? He was in Tibet too."

Speaker closes his eyes and growls quietly, mostly at himself. "Rrrrrrr... true. I am being somewhat... unforgiving."

"A right asshole is what you're being, Fuzzy. Now are we gonna help our old friend out or not? If we come together, then he'll find it harder to brush us off. If nothing else, we can alternate."

"Hrrr... I suppose you are right. I will talk with Shodey and see what she can arrange--legally--while you contact Bob. I trust you to arrange something appropriate."

Razak half-smirks. "I think I can manage."

It's beautiful!

A wonderful story, and a tag to go along with it.

Read a little, liked it...I TAG this thread

3j: Conniving Women

The office, in its structure, is the usual Scolopendran utilitarian affair--four walls, one with a picture window in it looking out at Al Mahdi's flightline, a ceiling and a floor. As equally common, it is decorated to the particular taste of its usual occupant--a large red-and-black rug in a Turkish style covers the floor, and its simple, square shelves support a surprising array of books, awards, plaques, and model aircraft. The burnished steel desk, likewise simple and conservative, is mostly clean except for three neat stacks of paperwork and a few more accoutrements: a framed picture, light glinting off its glass; another model on the corner, that of a gull-winged Loki-class dropship. The owner of the office, Lieutenant General Shri Nikunj, is already standing and walking across her desk as her guest opens the door. "Good morning, ma'am."

Nadjiba nods and smiles in a quietly regal yet somehow humble way, bowing shortly before stepping further into the room. "Good morning, General. Thank you for taking the time to see me."

"But of course I would, Advisor," Shri replies as she closes the door behind the International Relations Advisor before walking back to her desk. "It isn't every day that the ASD gets a visit from any Advisor, much less the head of IntRelate." Turning the last corner of her desk, she glances over at the teapot in the corner, sitting on its shelf next to the general's collection of teas, all in a nice little row. "Can I get you anything?"

"No, I'm well, thank you." Abd-al-Haqq sits down lightly in one simple yet comfortable chair in front of the general's desk, looking generally serene. "I've just discovered we may have more in common than we thought, jointly with Advisor Hawke and PseudoEmperor Razak."

"Hmm?" Nikunj smiles with a sly curiosity as she sits down, folding her hands on her desk. "Do tell, ma'am."

"I'm currently in the process of rotating IntRelate's staff at our Dominon embassy. It may be a good idea if you found a Dominion assignment for a particular officer in your employ. Lance--pardon, Advisor Hawke--described him as a joint project."

"I do think I know who you're talking about, ma'am," Nikunj says with a nod, "but Captain Bondayehr has already been assigned as a SPIR liason. He's quite literally cooling his heels on Valhalla until SPIR can decide what to do with him--on Advisor Hawke's orders and all."

Abd-al-Haqq nods gently. "Indeed, but Advisor Hawke was simply looking to provide the good Captain with some diplomatic experience. However, I don't really see how working with an organization so... closely related to the SASD would really be enough of a challenge to provide experience. I've convinced Advisor Hawke that the Dominion--if there's a place for him, after all--would be far better in that regard."

The general leans back gently into her chair, thinking. "Well, I do know that our wing there--the ones that co-train with the Dominion--has been hitting some snags as of late. Lots of friction with the old jet-fighter hierarchy in the Dominion air forces. With the Captain's connections--"

"--which are still active, I may add," Nadjiba interjects with a sly smile--

"--there could be some headway he could make there. One moment, ma'am." Leaning forward, Shri slips her hands onto the keyboard in her desk drawer and looks into the embedded monitor, quickly tapping out requests for data, personnel records and cycle information. "Good news and bad news. The good news is that Captain Bondayehr did indicate an interest in his Form 26 'dream sheet' of serving in the Dominion... in last place. This is behind flying a Loki and Camp Restricted work. The bad news is that the 23rd Liason Wing's political liason officer is right in the middle of her stint and I need some sort of extenuating circumstance to justify handing her a PCS right now."

"PCS?" The International Relations Advisor blinks once, one brow just slightly arched in question.

"Permanent Change of Station. Reassignment, ma'am." Nikunj smiles and looks back down at her screen, hrmming slightly. "Her operation evaluations from Colonel Somayli aren't very good, though. She doesn't seem able to get the job done. Still..."

"Admittedly," Nadjiba offers with a quiet, firm smile, "I do have an ulterior motive for this--call it a bit of being a hopeless romantic. It's come to my attention that..."

After hearing the Advisor's reason for asking for the transfer, the general simply leans back and chuckles. "Oh dear. Being a matchmaker now, are we?"

"As far as I know, the match is made." Abd-al-Haqq smiles broadly. "Certainly that's not anything he has to report to his commanding officer."

"No... oh, no..." Shri shakes her head, chuckling. "We do like to know at least because we do try our best to accomodate. Ah, well." Smiling, she looks up. "I'll do what I can, Advisor. I'd say that given the Dominion's importance as a key strategic ally coupled with its utility as a tried-and-tested diplomatic proving ground, we can't afford such an opportunity to be wasted on officers who simply can't rise to the challenge and shine."

"Hrm." Nadjiba frowns a little. "Well, there's no need to be too harsh on the officer already there--"

The general lightly waves away the thought. "A lot of people consider Dominion liason assignments to be vacations, and in many ways, they are. However, I don't pay people to slack off and not do their jobs to the utmost of their ability. I'll talk with Personnel after you leave and arrange everything, ma'am. I think this is mutually beneficial for all parties involved."

* - * - *

Bondayehr quickly reads the onionskin orders hot off of the central teletype bank, frowns, then walks over and feeds the slip of paper into the machine which will produce the official hardcopy orders he needs to change station. Oh great. Not again.

3k: Saigon. Damn. I'm Still In Saigon.

The blue-and-silver shuttle, looking none the worse for the wear, slowly taxies from the flightline to a shuttle hangar, it's gravitic drives thrumming in a subsonic hum more tactile than audible. Its name, listed first in flowing Arabic, then again in Russian with blocky Cyrillic lettering, both translated in Roman letters as "Lightning Bug" in a smoothly blocky font popularized by 1960s science fiction. Captain Bondayehr guides it around the last turn, finally passing through the broad doors of the large quonset hut. Inside, the usual scene of other craft both parked neatly in their designated areas, or being worked on or inspected by technicians greets the Captain. The flight crew directs him off to the left to one of the parking slots - business as usual. From her vantage point away from the working zones of the hangar, Nathicana watches the craft pull in, and smiles.

And so our cavaliere bianco returns. I hope it's not with too heavy a heart he does so.

Timofeyev parks the shuttle, engaging the brakes and killing all power to the engine while the flight crew place heavy chocks around the wheels to make sure it stays put. Listening to the gravydrive subside, the captain swings up his console, turns his chair around, and works out of the shuttle's crash gear. "Well, Shorty, here we are." The kzinret nods, and, after collecting their things, they make their way out the portside hatch, walking down the ramp that extends smoothly from the Selene-class shuttle's forward hull to the ground.

Nathicana waits til the pair appear at the hatch, then strides forward to meet them, giving the small group of what has become her usual escort a quick signal to hold their position. She comes to a stop several paces back from the bottom of the ramp, and waits for the Scolopendrans to finish disembarking. "It's been far too long, Timofeyev," she says warmly, her eyes looking more than a little misty. She clears her throat and continues in a firmer voice. "Welcome to the Dominion, Captain Bondayehr, Junior Civil Servant Livoliggheht'ss-Hucy. I truly hope you enjoy your stay."

Timofeyev glances up at the 'ret, not quite in a see-I-told-you-so sort of way and certainly nothing insulting, before looking back at Nathi and bowing shortly. "Thank you, Imperatrice D'Aquisto. That hope is indeed mutual."

Shorty also bows--while notably shorter than most kzinti, she still towers over the various humans. "As well, Imperatrice. I look forward to working here."

Nathi arches a brow at the brief exchange, then shakes her head, smiling wryly - albeit close-lipped, extending her hand first to the 'ret. "Please. Now that we have the prerequisite formalities out of the way, no more 'Imperatrice' business unless in a formal setting that requires it."

"Understood, ma'am." Embassy-Representative accepts the hand and shakes it firmly once with another short bow.

She looks them both over thoughtfully for a moment, registering immediately many of the changes she can see in the man from the past few years. Bearing, the way he moves, slight changes in his expression, all give her pause. "It's good to see you again, boy," she says to the Captain, looking as if she'd like to say or do more, but unsure of how to proceed. "Very good to see you."

"Likewise, Nathi," Timofeyev replies cheerfully enough.

"Liar," Nathicana says in a half-teasing tone, stepping forward finally to give the younger man a comfortably tight hug. "I've never been anything but trouble for you. I'll bet you cringed when you got your orders, no? I promise - this time it is not my fault."

"Naw, it's good to see you, no lie there." The captain hugs the empress, smiling a bit. "Admittedly, I did cringe though. Still, in hindsight, this is probably better than the SPIR job the Lieutenant General had in mind previously."

"Dare I even ask?" she says, stepping back, one brow arched. "It must have been god-awful for you to call it 'better', even if you've thrown in that 'probably." She smiles at Shorty, not wanting to be overly rude. "I'm sure you've heard about how pleasant the poor man's last trip was here. I'm hoping we can help him get past that with some good experiences here for a change."

"I have, and know it better than you may think," Shorty replies with a wink of her batwing ears.

"Same thing, I guess, different location. I suppose I'm just more useful here," Timofeyev says with a casual shrug, shifting the weight of his mobility bag on his shoulder.

"Right then. Lets get those things offloaded," she says with a couple of quick snaps of her fingers. "I don't suppose you two are hungry? It would be my pleasure to take you to lunch, and spend some time both getting to know you," she says with a nod to Shorty, "and catching up with you," she finishes, nodding to Bondayehr. Two of the dark-garbed soldati make their way over as she speaks, and she quickly issues instructions to them in her native tongue. "These gentlemen can take your things, if you like. I have a car waiting."

"We're not altogether sure where to put them yet," the captain responds before handing over his mobility bag to one of the soldati and switching to fluent Italian. "The trip should be shorter than you expect--if you could just put it just inside the hatch back on the shuttle, I'd be most appreciative."

The 'ret hands over her bag as well, smiling at Nathi. "Thank you, ma'am. You honor me."

"No quarters yet? Can't have that," Nathi says with a slight frown, then heads off towards the car, clearly expecting everything to be done as it is intended to be done, without question. "Come. We can discuss options on the way, and over lunch. We sh--"

She stops then in mid stride, and turns back to the Captain with a curious expression. "Since when did you have time to learn our language so well - and develop such beautiful pronunciation and inflection?"

"Call it a gift from your sister." Bondayehr follows along, shrugging his black-leather pilot's tunic back into position, currently in Class A- mode with all nametags, insignia, and decorations geckowebbed into their regulation locations. The gold-plated buckle contrasts a bit with the heavy canvas pistol belt, sporting the usual 10mm sidearm on the right side and a sheathed broad-bladed dagger on the left, with some sort of loop of string hanging from it, a rough cord with several things looking something like oversized dried apricots in different colors along with bits of flashing steel and two pairs of pink sandstone triangles. The two Scolopendrans follow along, with Shorty taking charge of explaining the situation. "Certainly we have temporary quarters in billeting, but we were expecting to be lead there once we arrive. Still, that's hardly time-sensitive and lunch sounds good around now."

"Bah," Nathi says with a casual wave of her hand. "Billeting indeed. Not when I can offer some hospitality." The rest of her guard forms up around them as they walk, one opening the door to the spacious vehicle waiting as promised. Nathi settles herself in on the forward bench, leaving the rear for her two guests, so that she can visit with both comfortably. Once they have gotten settled, she continues. "If you have any preferences, there are a number of different ethnic styles readily available, not just the local flavour. Perhaps as we travel, you can tell me what your housing needs may be. I guarantee we can find you something suitable." She notes again the trophies as she studies the Captain, thinking again to how different he is from the last time she saw him step off a transport here, in the Dominion. "As for mia sorella, I can well believe it. Good to know you've been in her capable hands, boy."

"You'll probably learn to rue that statement," the captain replies with a smile, settling in and making sure everyone else is secure before setting up his own seatbelt. "I'm still lacking in food prejudices--"

"And being new here, I look forward to new things," Shorty naturally follows after with a smile. "As for housing, it would make sense to have something equally accessible to the airbase and the embassy where I will work; we are old friends and are in the habit of rooming together, to save costs."

"I've learned to rue many things in my lifetime, Captain," the dark-haired woman replies with a sly wink, looking back and forth between the two of them again as the car gets underway. "I can well understand wishing to have a familiar face around, nevermind wanting to save. I realize that at times, the cost of living here can be a bit hard on the pockets." She reaches under the seat and takes out her portcomp, continuing to speak as she types.

"Now, if I recall correctly, it's just a quick hop across a stretch of the bay between the base and Embassy Row in the old city - a nice area, that. There is the possability of living in either section, or somewhere in between, all depending on your tastes. Water transport could be easily arranged, as with land-based. Here," she says, turning the screen around so they can get a better look at a map of the area.

Bondayehr leans in, looking over the screen, and nods firmly, murmuring something in Russian. "Khorosho. That will work--thank you. I'm sure my salary combined with Shor... er..."--he looks sheepishly at the 'ret for a moment--"Embassy-Representative's housing allowance will make it quite affordable."

Nathi politely pretends not to notice the little slip, and simply nods and smiles pleasantly. "I would, if you would permit it, be more than pleased to assist in defraying the costs so that we could get you set up comfortably without having to overtax your resources. It is the very least I could do for friends."

"We'll certainly keep that in mind, ma'am," the civil servant replies with another wink of her batwing ears, "and if we're keeping this friendly and unprofessional, then you can indeed call me 'Shorty.' Any friend of Timofeyev's is cleared to do so... it is, after all, true." She smiles back at the captain, who shrugs with a half-smirk.

"I'm honored," Nathi says in all seriousness, then chuckles a bit at the latter. "All things are relative," she notes, stretching slightly to accentuate here not-at-all tall 5'6" frame. "Benvito's is fairly close to the embassy sector. Perhaps while there you can do some looking around, see if that area suits you."

"That should work," Bondayehr says with a smile. "I'll also check with people back at the wing to see what the commute's like before we tie anything down--sorry Shorty, I know you've always wanted to live on the waterfront but we'll have to make do with billeting for a few."

"Bah," the 'ret replies with a theatric huff, folding her arms but still letting her ears wink.

"I'd be more than happy to put you up while you look," Nathi offers, watching them with a quiet sort of smile. "Whether at the villa, or elsewhere. No need to 'rough it' if you don't want to, after all." She glances out the window, and nods in satisfaction. "We should be there soon. So tell me - that is, if you don't mind. Longtime friends if I recall, yes?"

The two Scolopendrans both nod while Shorty takes up the story. "Yes, actually. Met back at the University of Stonozka, immediately started a pleasant debate, and haven't agreed on anything intellectual since." She gently flaps her ears while Bondayehr just chuckles.

"Well, it isn't as though he's one to be stubborn about that or anything," Nathi says dryly, giving the 'ret a sly sort of look. "So long as you can both agree on the decor and groceries however, I imagine it all should work out rather well all the same." The car finally slows and comes to a stop, the escort vehicles pulling in behind, and stopping ahead as usual. The driver keeps the car running as the soldati take up their positions again, and after making their checks, open the door for the trio to get out at their leisure.

Bondayehr peeks out the window, right hand not exactly hovering around the grip of his pistol as he casually opens the door, using the opportunity to look over the back of the car, then to the front, then a quick sitaware sweep around before stepping back. The 'ret leaves the car like a normal person.

Nathicana gets out last, pausing long enough to give Bondayehr's shoulders a quick, chaste hug before heading towards the door leading into the old-style ristorante. "Welcome to Benvito's," she says, gesturing around with a somewhat wistful expression. "It has been a favorite of myself and the Emperor for some time now. I've taken the liberty of having arrangements made. They should have a table waiting for us at the back." Bondayehr nods curtly, still scanning left and right, jaw perhaps a little tighter than it should be as his right hand swings just a few inches short from natural. The kzinret takes in the view, looking over the unfamiliar archtecture, the different sights and smells.

One of the soldati enters the building first, nodding back to a second who holds the door open for the trio, all done with a well-practiced ease, though ever watchful. The unmistakeable aroma of traditional Dominion cuisine grows stronger, though not unpleasantly so as the door opens, an Nathicana leads the way in, taking in the interior and its current occupants, nodding in quiet recognition to a few as she makes her way back towards the table she knows has been prepared. The owner himself comes out for a moment to make his greetings as they walk, extending his welcome to the group, adding that any friends of the Imperatrice were always more than welcome in his establishment. Bondayehr squints a little before walking from the sunlight into the relative darkness of indoors, acclimating his eyes quickly to avoid the momentary blindness of going from light to dark. Right hand pausing just momentarily in its usual swing as he passes through the door, eyes scanning left to right as he follows along, not looking noticably out of the ordinary to the untrained eye. Shorty, on the other hand, simply looks around curiously, trying to catch all of the just-slightly-different nuances of being in a foreign land, returning the owner's greeting in basic but passable Italian.

The interior is softly lit in the warm light of candles and muted overhead electric lamps to complement the warm earthen tones of the decor. Natural wood beams, walls where the base brick shows through the stucco here and there, curved romanesque archways passing from this section to that rising up from the tile floor, all combined with the old style of displayed bottles, strategically placed greenery, wrought iron accents, and curtains of rich fabric that can be drawn to shield some of the more private booths or areas from prying eyes. It is to a windowless corner area such as this that Nathi leads them, assuring Benvito that all is quite to her liking. Noting the Captain's unease, she offers him the preferred spot from where one can survey the room with optimal efficiency and ease, making it seem a simple casual politeness as she indicates her choice of seat to his left. The captain nods with a half-smirk at Nathi's suggestion, waiting for everyone to get situated before he sits down, looking no more than an outdated custom. The fact that he gets in several more sitawareness sweeps with his eyes, marking exits and plans for egress, is another matter altogether.

On the table is, as might be expected, a bottle of fine Dominion red wine, and a large pitcher of ice water. Menus are laid out, and as the party gets settled, Nathi's guard taking up positions at other tables here and there, or standing near exits as their rotation allows, a large loaf of thick seasoned bread is brought out, hot from the oven, along with several dipping oils. Bondayehr draws his right hand up to help distribute the wine and water as is proper Arab, and thus Scolopendran, custom, his wrist 'accidentally' turning his standard-issue holster from right-handed to left-handed orientation with a soft click of springs set against each other and hard plastic. Quietly thanking ambidextrous thinking, the captain pours himself some wine before cutting it with water--also quite Mediterranean--and taking up some bread in his proper right hand. Quietly thanking ambidextrous thinking, the captain pours himself some wine before cutting it with water--also quite Mediterranean--and taking up some bread in his proper right hand. "So, how's things been as of late?"

Nathicana quietly thanks the man, drawing no attention to his heightened state of awareness or precautionary measures. He had changed more than she had thought in those four years, and on some levels, it pained her to see it. Keeping those thoughts quite clearly from her expression, she takes a sip of her wine and smiles. "Quiet, if you can believe. Well, as quiet as it can be with the little ones and all. I've taken to allowing others more of the meetings abroad. Becoming quite the homebody, you might say. And yourselves?"

"Naw, probably good policy," Timofeyev replies with a half-smirk, munching idly on a piece of bread. "I'd tell you, but then I'd have to kill you and then probably myself too. Operational security is the key to airpower, after all."

"Things go as they do," Shorty offers philosophically, "but they are improving, I think."

Nathi nods and chuckles softly at the answers, offering the Captain a brief, knowing glance. "Well, seeing as I'm trying to cut back on my daily dosage of kill-death for a switch, perhaps talk of future plans would be more conducive to continued well being, yes?" She pauses to indicate her preference to the waiter, along with a request for some antipasta. "Please, anything you like, it's yours. Compliments of the Dominion - and myself," she says, indicating the menus.

Bondayehr orders a pigeon dish, adding "and something similar, about three sizes larger for the kitten, with antipasta on the side" in his unfairly augmented Italian. All that time spent convalescing in one form or another was always put to good use. Shorty simply smiles in a way which could possibly either be read as 'trusting' or 'I-can-kill-you-if-you're-wrong,' letting the captain take care of it.

Nathicana smiles quietly to herself as she watches the interplay between her two guests, while the waiter assures the Captain that such arrangements will be no trouble at all. He bustles back to the kitchen, already calling out the order as he reaches the doors. "You know, one of these days I am going to have to try the lasagne. Seems every time I've had the opportunity, something has come up," Nathi says, her smile turning a bit mischievous as she remembers another meal here, what seems ages ago. Or at least, it would have been a meal had they ever gotten to the food. "So tell me, how best can I assist you in getting your jobs done while here in the Dominion?" she asks the others, settling back in with her wine and sampling the bread.

The 'ret blinks with a slight sniff, both at the offer and the captain's immediate response. Thinking for a moment, she adds her own thoughts. "I simply work in an embassy, ma'am. I suppose it may be useful if you could tell me the current situations I'll have to deal with... it isn't often one gets to see it from a different angle, much less the top."

"I'm not really sure yet," Bondayehr says assertively, "I'm still going over my predecessor's continuities. I'll let you know if I come up with anything."

"I simply like those representatives working in my nation, and especially my capital, to feel welcome, Embassy-Representative. Perhaps I should clarify." Nathi says, clearly speaking to both of them, while keeping her eyes on Shorty. "I do not plan on intervening or interfering in your jobs or duties, nor do I plan on keeping tabs on you, any more than we do any other government operative.

"You both know what your government expects of you, and how to do what's needed, or you wouldn't be here. If there are insights into staff I can offer, if there is insufficient contact information available, if you find your funding lacking in order to carry out your jobs in the manner you see fit, these things I can assist with. In the case of the latter, even if only in recommending an appropriate discount or offering proper compensation to those making the charges, by whatever roundabout methods necessary. I think the Captain can tell you well enough that favors here can be useful things, whether you end up calling them in or not. By the same token, being seen as having too much favor from the right - or wrong - persons can be a detriment as well." She takes another sip of her wine, then sets it aside, glancing at Bondayehr before looking back to the 'ret. "Tim already has the burden of close association with myself, which is exactly why I will be taking a decidedly hands-off policy concerning him. This lunch? Nothing out of the ordinary, especially for old friends," she says, her expression softening with perhaps a hint of regret. "I hear he's got his work cut out for him as is. I'm hoping that whatever friendship remains will not be a further stumbling block. Such things can be balanced, after all. As for yourself - anyone whom the good Captain holds in such obvious high esteem is one for whom I immediately have respect. As such, what assistance I can offer that is not a conflict of interest, or undermining to your position, is yours for the asking."

Embassy-Representative nods. "I would not assume to ask any favors that would cause any conflict of interest. I am, after all, here by your leave."

Bondayehr quietly registers things in his mind, not letting it appear in his demeanor anywhere. Hands off--got it. The 'whatever friendship remains' bit quirks an eyebrow, though. "It probably can't be that bad," he says, voice unintentionally belying a lack of faith in that statement. "I'm just the mook who goes between my liason wing and your airforce--mook yesterday, mook tomorrow. Nothing too hard."

"Damn. I didn't intend that to come out quite as it did," the dark-haired woman says apologetically, frowning slightly. "As I said, I already hold you both in high esteem. The Captain by knowing him, and you by reputation and association. What I have lamely been trying to say is that despite past performance, I won't try to meddle - even if I might think I know a better way. I know well enough the sorts of headaches we Dominion folk can be for our more idealistic allies. And I know as well I'm one of the worst for it." Nathicana pauses as the meal is brought out and served, thanking the staff and assuring them for her part, it looks wonderful. As they finish up, she turns to Bondayehr, her eyes searching his face for any insight his expression might offer. "I do want you to feel welcome here, boy. Hopefully, given time, you'll be able to work past the trouble from before, and see the good things here. As with most things in my nation, there is more than may meet the eye. You have a standing invitation at the villa. Please, feel free to bring the good lady here as well, whenever you like. Anything else, I leave up to you."

Timofeyev half-smirks wryly in a commisserative but tired day. "I'm sure I will, in time. Given the last three years and prior, and the 'burn me once' mentality..."

"Then you will simply have to rely on someone with less history blustering through in good faith." The ret's unexpected addition is friendly, but oddly firm as she looks to Nathi with a quietly respectful sideways nod. "Thank you for your offer; I know I for one will accept. It is customary to spend at least the first few days with friends when moving to a new place, and Timofeyev does speak highly of you and your hospitality."

"Indeed, it is." Bondayehr continues half-smirking, but with an entirely different meaning as he looks sideways at Embassy-Representative. "Indeed--can't let your hospitality go to waste, nor is there progress without effort. Count me in."

"I would be happy to have you," Nathi says sincerely, glancing between the two again and coming to some quiet conclusions. "The guest house has more than enough room for comfort and privacy - which I assure you you'll need with the main house overrun by the two little terrors. It would offer you a chance to look around at your leisure for a more permanent residence that fits your needs." The rest she lets go for now, though Shorty's last comment brings a bit more of a smile to her face.

"Oh yeah, almost forgot that you'd spawned." Bondayehr winks. "I suppose I should meet them, at least--went through enough trouble for 'em, if I remember correctly." Timofeyev looks down at his own food and waits for everyone else to start before he does.

The kzinret just chuckles and shakes her head. "Thank you, ma'am, for your offer. We'll make sure that we do not overstay our welcome."

Nathicana smiles warmly at all of that, cutting into her cannelloni. "I'm certain you won't," Nathi assures the 'ret. "And yes, I think they'd enjoy that, especially after hearing stories about the brave Captain Bondayehr all this time." The woman pointedly fixes her gaze on her plate, going about cutting bite-sized portions while her smile broadens.

"Oh, you didn't." The captain smiles in spite of himself, while Shorty just chuckles louder. "Shut it up, you." The last is said with another sideways glance towards the 'ret.

"Children need good role models. I hardly think I could have chosen better," Nathi says archly, pausing to savour a bite of her lunch before going on. "And you have to admit, what stories I can tell are rather impressive, no?"

Timofeyev tries to cover up the slight blush by starting into his own food, while the 'ret is quick to come back with "Indeed they are. I've had the pleasure of perhaps hearing more that I could share later."

"Excellent! I look forward to hearing them," Nathi says, relaxing back as she continues to work at her meal. Oh, I like this one. You choose your companions well, Timofeyev. "Now, about housing. If you could tell me what sort of arrangement and needs you're hoping for, I might be able to offer some suggestions on where to look for the best match."

"Someplace with high ceilings," Shorty says simply, while the captain grumbles something about women in small groups.

Nathicana chuckles and nods, trying not to be too amused at the Captain's predicament. "Given the local architecture, that shouldn't be a problem. For the best, I'd recommend the old city here. Might even be able to net one of the smaller pallazos if you're lucky."

"We'll also need reliable access to both the diplomatic district and the airbase, as mentioned previously," Bondayehr mentions again, "and a pallazo is probably a bit much."

"You sure, Tim?" the kzinret asks teasingly. "It'd be something to tell the friends back home and even throw in some pointless anime references for the otaku. You would be, after all, Lord of Il pallazo, no?" She then sets to enjoying her meal, slitting her eyes slyly, enjoying this quite a bit.

"Dress you up, can't take you anywhere," Timofeyev continues to grumble good naturedly.

"Of course. The diplomatic district is nearby, and as mentioned, with a boat, travel between the two is actually more efficient. No ground traffic to hassle with." Nathi stifles a grin at Shorty's teasing, and nods. "I did say 'smaller'. Not all of them are the sprawling mansions you might imagine, you know. Some are quite cozy. Perhaps even a small giardino, private compound along the waterway?"

"That sounds very nice indeed," Embassy-Representative says with a wink of her ears while Timofeyev starts wondering how much all this is going to cost, eating absent-mindedly as he guesstimates in his head.

"A quiet word here or there in the right ears might inspire some fair offers. Many families, new aristocracy and otherwise, have properties they keep up for rental and tourism," Nathi says casually before popping another bite of cannelloni into her mouth.

"Is extortion an option?" Bondayehr muses, half-smirking.

"Depends on who you're planing on extorting," Nathicana replies without missing a beat, still smiling to herself.

"You're right... I wouldn't know where to start." The captain grins with just a sliver of exposed teeth, not looking at anyone in particular before returning to his usual smirking. "Right, then, extortion's out until further notice."

"Probably for the best," the woman says lightly, giving him a sly sidelong glance. "One can often get better results with honey than vinegar, after all. A few polite requests can go a long way."

"True, true. But one should keep one's options open. Too much honey doesn't get rid of bothersome flies, but sufficient vinegar does. Just a matter of knowing what is appropriate and when." He smiles slyly right back. "No worries, I don't plan on starting any trouble. I reserve the right to finish it."

"I wouldn't expect anything less. If I may make an idle observation," Nathi says, looking him over thoughtfully for a moment. "Any trouble that finds you, I daresay will soon regret it. This time, mio cavaliere bianco, you are one of the sharks to be wary of."

Timofeyev grins broadly--not a threatening kzingrin, to be sure, but nowhere near the standard broad smile either. "Two years lost in the sea does that to one."

"Don't I know it," she murmurs quietly in return, glancing briefly at Shorty, then back again. "I hope you've finally found a safe port to come home to."

Shorty returns the glance with a slight frown while Bondayher smiles more gently, more genuinely. "Indeed... still, sic vis pacem, para bellum. Learning to make one's history an asset rather than a curse is a universal problem to varying degrees, I think. I'm still working on it."

"Or qui desiderat pacem, praeparet bellum, if you're a traditionalist," Shorty grumbles.

"We are the sum whole of our parts and past, both good and bad. It is what we make of it. More than one good friend has tried to tell me that over the years. I'll leave it to others to decided if any of it managed to sink in. I think you know me well enough to understand I am the last person who would advise against preparedness. Still ... " Nathicana takes a slow sip of her wine, then sets it aside again. "Remember at least that none of us are so alone as we might think. Those of like mind who wish peace, yet must prepare are often well-served in banding together. Look to the Triumvirate alliance for a ready example."

"True, true." The captain sips his wine quietly.

Letting that topic rest, Nathi returns to a previous line of thought. "As for the current status you asked about, Embassy-Representative, to my knowledge things have been going smoothly. Even during the height of problems previously, we were able to maintain amicable relations. We do still have the occasional well-meaning idealist that lets their conscience get in the way of better judgement, but thus far we have managed to avoid any unfortunate 'incidents.'"

Embassy-Representative nods. "I was told that would be my greatest concern. I will do my best--I think I'm assigned to consulate duty, learning the culture before I move on to working more directly with your people."

"I would be happy to offer any instruction or insights I can," Nathi replies, then smiles in remembrance. "I know our two cultures, however seemingly linked in some respects, tend to clash on several points. Tim pointed that out to me quick enough when we spoke on it."

"All cultures do," the 'ret notes philosophically, smiling again. "Thank you for your offer to instruct--during our time as your guests, I may avail myself of it."

"I would consider it a pleasure," Nathi assures her with a return smile that takes on a hint of mischief as she continues. "And if the opportunity arises, you can share those 'stories' you mentioned, no?"

"But of course." Sly look towards the captain. "I think it'd be a most equitable trade."

"I'll have to see if there are any stories I can share that you may not have heard in turn," the woman says with another glance between the two, still smiling mischievously. "It would be only fair."

Timofeyev just shakes his head, smiling as he casually eats his food. Shorty, on the other hand, continues to smile slyly, eyes slitting halfway. "I think that could be most interesting."

Nathicana stifles a grin, watching the interplay. "He doesn't stand a chance, does he?" she casually remarks.

"No, no I don't," Bondayehr replies.

3l: Zen and the Art of Aerospace Fighter Maintenance

The cartoon black ant, painted in glossy black enamel, glowers with not much of an expression at all from under its brown deerstalker hat, green and gold cross-hatched compound eyes staring senselessly out from the wall opposite the bar in the officer's club. Captain Bondayehr looks at it again, right down to the break-loading shotgun it carries in black enamel claws, the single blue-steel barrel pointing up to the legend "331ST FIGHTER WING" atop the roundel the ant lies on. Below, in the same blocky font, is the label "THE BUG HUNTERS." Timofeyev looks at this as if it were actually out of place in the dim bar, then back to the nearly Alvian selection of whiskeys behind the bar, and finally over to Colonel Somayli sitting next to him, looking somewhat meditative and vaguely displeased as she looms over her mug of beer. Perhaps the fact that the contents are sweet, bubbly, and sassafras-based rather than alcoholic could account partly for the mood.

This is not how the good white knight expected to meet his commanding officer.

"I tell you, Captain," she says with a slight grimace, turning the mug slightly in her dark fingers, unconsciously tracing patterns in the condensing ice frosting the cold glass as she does so, "the situation could turn a woman to drink."

Bondayehr smirks wryly, yet in a compassionate way. "Practicing, ma'am?"

"There is no god but Allah and Mohammed (praise be unto him) is His Prophet." She takes a deep slug of her root beer.

Well, that explains the hairband, Timofeyev thinks as his eyes unconsciously flit back up to the fabric-covered plastic arch that holds the colonel's short hair in place, its matte black almost blending in with her black hair. "I gathered as much from the continuity, but I haven't been able to look through it all..."

"What do you know about the Dominion air force?"

"Well, ma'am..." The captain thinks for a minute, scanning the vodka selection and quickly determining the best buys behind the counter by comparing effect with cost and diminishing returns in quality after a certain point. "I know that we've got some maintenance-for-training deal worked out with them. I also know that they use Phantom IIIs--"

"Correction--their navy does. Goes with them having supercarriers that work with their spiritual predecessors. The DAF does not fly Phantoms."

Timofeyev thinks, frowning slightly. "Then why do we have a maintenance deal with them?"

"We don't. The maintenance deal is with the Navy. However, due to service distinction tradition and regulation, the DAF is authorized to work directly with us but the Navy isn't."

"..."

"Who operates the Segments only aircraft carrier, and thus its only naval aerospace component?"

"The Mobile Infantry, ma'am..." Bondayehr blinks. "Ohhhhh."

Somayli nods with a toothy half-grin, then takes another sip of the pungent dark soft drink. "The Dominion Navy, Captain, actually has a very small office dedicated to talking to the Mobile Infantry for aerospace matters. Mostly they just go through the TYCS... however, because we are what they consider a ground-based aerospace force, it is the DAF's sole perogative and right to deal with us in any sort of official matter for terms of maintenance, non-combat coordination, so on and so forth. In theory, they can relate better to us than naval aviation and so act as a more efficient translator between the Navy, which has always been a more powerful service, and us than if the Navy just did it on their own."

"I see. So we've got a middleman problem, for one." Timofeyev taps idly on the wood counter, the glaze gone black with age and soot. Ikon glaze does that too. "And I suppose this has something to do with the Dominion first-generation ASFs."

The colonel smiles again. "You are a bright one. The Navy's the better service so it gets the better toys--the foreign ones especially. The Dafts, on the other hand, are acting as the R&D testbed for the Dominion's efforts to become more self-sufficient in military technology. Now, this creates problems for us." Another sip. "First, it increases their nationalism--they're flying their own birds, made by their own hands, own brains, that sort of thing. On the other hand, have you seen the specs?"

"They don't compare very well," Bondayehr replies simply. The reports were impressive, given that only a few years ago that the Dominion's cutting-edge aircraft were F-4T Phantom 2000s, F-15C Eagles and F-15E Strike Eagles, all airbreathing turbofan jets. Quite a jump--however, compared to tenth- and twelfth-generation SASD aircraft...

"Pilots like their toys," the colonel says with another sip, "and we like our toys to be the best. It bothers us to our core when someone else may have better toys. Trust me."

Bondayehr nods.

"So, we have a maintenance-for-training deal--we help train the Daft and the Navy, and the Navy helps us maintain our Phantom squadrons via the Daft. The problem is, there's a few high-ups in the Daft who aren't really interested in keeping the supply chain up."

"Because it offends their sense of national pride that we have ground-attack aircraft that can best their dogfighters... makes sense," Timofeyev says slowly, looking at the angles. "Still... the Dominion military's professional and I know from the top that the Dominion takes her allies seriously."

"The Dread Lady can't be everywhere," the colonel replies, "but we don't have enough evidence to complain directly. Dominion culture pervades everything, even their military," she frowns as her voice takes on a hint of warning, "and while they're mostly professionals, a few social generals slip through. Politicos who manage to slip their way into positions of power where their incapability of strategic thought is mostly harmless and therefore tolerated by the rest of the force, but they still manage to use their connections and leverage to get into places with the kind of asymmetric power they desire."

"Quartermasters." Timofeyev lets just the slightest hint of a groan enter his voice. In all militaries, even the SASD and TYCS, quartermasters responsible for distribution are notoriously difficult to deal with. Sometimes, with more 'enlightened' militaries, it's simply a matter of "we can't give you that, because we'd then be out;" in other militaries, it is the place where one can dictate policy beyond their rank by simply determining who gets what. High enough up, and there's very little anyone can say about it. "I still don't get it, though. Other than just being jerks, there's no motive, ma'am."

"Ah, but there is, Captain. This is the tricky part." Another sip of root beer. "Now, in our training agreement with them, we essentially give their units certification for aerospace combat by facing off with them in exercises. They come to us, we train them either for the first time or as review, and then we fight--if they do comparatively well in the exercise, they pass. See where this is going?"

"They have to do well... compared to us. So if we do more poorly because of maintenance failures and lower combat readiness..."

"Exactly. This is why the Navy has tacitly declared their stance as Rectum Nonbustus when it comes to getting down to the core of this problem. We complain, and they can bring up the paperwork saying they allocated part numbers Q through Y for our planes, as requested. We try tracking it through the system and... well, you've seen their bureaucracy up close, right, Captain?"

"Indeed I have. And the operational side of the wing can't bother with taking care of it because they have to fly..."

"Which leaves it up to you." The colonel finishes Bondayehr's thought for him. "I don't care what it takes short of terrorism or a diplomatic incident to get it running, but the fact is that now the Daft's trying to quietly use their stranglehold on the maintenance supplies for our Phantoms as leverage. They know we can't excel at the holistic exercises with half of our planes grounded. I haven't been asked to throw a fight yet, but it's getting there."

"I'll get on it immediately, ma'am." Timofeyev frowns, his jaw tightening slightly. "I may have to stretch my prerogatives as political liason to their fullest."

"As long as it isn't terrorism or causing an incident, I don't care, Captain." The colonel smirks. "Keep my planes flying and I'll cover you like media on a celebrity child beating."

Bondayehr nods... pauses... then blinks. "What... an utterly strange thing to say."

"I mean it," she says simply.

"No, ma'am... it works; it's just... odd."

Just another thing not going quite as expected.

4b: All Alone

Cyberreality is a metaphor.

Humanity cannot process the raw data of computation; at least, not at any decent rate of time. A human cannot speak in machine language, and he has no means of directly sensing the method of each operation a computer performs, all hundreds or thousands or millions or billions of operations per second. Any sort of display, therefore, to translate the world of what was actually happening inside a computer to a form understandable by its creators, is a metaphor. Cyberreality is simply the end result of that, the logical extension of the metaphor into all human senses. While cyberspace stops at sight, hearing, and to some extent touch, cyberreality takes in smell and taste as well, making it a fully immersive environment.

Cyberspace and cyberreality, paradoxically, are not only metaphors but internally consistent structures. A system created within them can apply to the metaphor in general--thus is the basis of programs, daemons, and icons--all mutually interacting subsets within the metaphor and indeed helping to create and sustain the metaphor. Likewise, they can become reality, reality to the systems that inhabit those internally consistent networks of information, where indeed their connection to our reality must likewise be maintained in metaphor or otherwise learned.

"Cogito, ergo sum," said the Jesuit-taught Descartes, founding the most basic principle of knowledge if all else is denied. The fact that one can realize that one is thinking proves that the one exists. What matters if he is a vegetable, or in a box of someone else's creation--all of these exist beyond his reckoning and thus may as well be truth, functionally be truth. How much thought has this issue seen, how much fiction written on it? Any given 'simulation,' any given internally-consistent system that is complex enough to support independent creative and abstract 'thought' within it, is its own reality.

Another thought--cyberreality is nested within 'true' reality; that which creates the conditions for cyberreality exist as otherwise nondescript machines in the mass hallucination that is generally taken as waking existence. This we can say, because we invented it. If one breaks this machine, then the cyberreality it forms breaks as well. One is like God to the machine-reality, one has the power to utterly destroy it while the blissfully unaware system inside is powerless to stop it, lest it has instrumentality that stretches into "reality." On the other hand... how does one know? Did the one see it programmed? Has the one seen what happened to the reality after its shell was broken? Has the one thought that, perhaps, he too is simply a construct inside a shell, whose meaningless-to-the-outside existence could be snuffed out with the shattering of a case beyond his ken?

Cogito, ergo sum. That much is true.

That much cannot be denied.

* - * - *

The streets, the grand avenues of a once-great culture, lie empty. He walks alone through them, a single cop walking a beat that has long since become irrelevant, the people he swore to protect and serve long gone. Still, he walks it, keeping alert, watching out; this is his beat to protect, because people used to live here and when they come back, they will probably want to see that it was taken care of well.

Then they'll be happy. They'll praise him for his good work, give him a place to relax and some time to relax in, and then they'll love him like they did before they had to go. Things would go back to normal--those sun-shining days of not long ago, the memories brighter from hope and sheer contrast--a match under the noontide sun is drowned out by its larger hydrogen cousin a hundred thousand kilometers away as people squint and scatter; a match struck suddenly in the lightless bowels of a subterranean cavern can blind.

The perfectly realistic city rises up thousands of meters, Gothic spires influenced by ancient religions long since dismissed as irrelevant since the Ascension, the centuries of looking for the Truth, for the Objectivity that exists only outside the case, that moment when all became clear for an instant of perfect Singularity. The sky is dark, an endless night watch, the streets still a pale blue, almost glowing with suffused ambient light. The city is clean, as it always was, for the people were tidy; the wind does not blow, for the people ruled the wind and as they are no longer here, the wind is idle and motionless without command. Thus, there are no scraps of detridus piling up in the corners, no sheaves of forgotten papers, bits of packing material, wrappers, small bits of leaves or brush or any of the millions of kinds of useless junk that any industrialized modern society produces...

...but this city never produced any of that, there was no need--so the watchman reminds himself, shaking off that odd sense that he is forgetting something.

He pauses in the middle of an intersection--two streets careening off in different directions far, far, far over the horizon--struck by a momentary thought, something similar to deja vu but far more sinister, the kind of thought when one notes that the door is a little more ajar than it was left, that this or that wasn't placed quite in this way last time it was seen, and there was no opportunity for someone to alter it.

Something is... missing. Something is not quite right.

The patrolman thinks again. He knows that, in a deserted city, empty for... he can't remember for how long, it's simply natural for things to pile up. It was left so quickly that whatever people dropped before they disappeared should start tumbling around by chance currents, rolling and riding the chaos of city airstreams until they come to rest in predictable locations where they refuse to move further... simple physics. Then more collects on that, silt on a river delta, until mounds appear... but there are none of these.

In fact, other than the fact that there are structures, and they are labeled, there is no sign that people lived here, ever. He may as well be on the cold and airless Moon...

He looks up into the pure black sky. Why would I think that? There is no Moon. I mean, I know what a moon is--a large natural satellite of a planet--but there is no moon in this sky. Never has been... then why do I think of the Moon? I know it exists... don't know how, but I do.

Shaking his head, he works to clear it. He's been having a lot of these thoughts recently, strange contradictions that make no sense. He may be going mad... yes, imagining things that are not and never were is madness. Truly. He can't go mad, though. The people need him.

He has a beat to walk--dreams be damned.

* - * - *

Alshai walks towards the forward cabin of The Magician's Nephew, fingers tracing over the elliptical lens-shaped blister which used to act as an avatar brain for B249--an Angelan construct absorbed into Mother after the Singularity--as he sits down perhaps a little more heavily than intended in the pilot's chair, swinging it around so he can smile tiredly at his guest. "Please, sit, Julie. It's been a while since I've had company."

Razak frowns with no small amount of concern, watching Kommetrez's chocolate fingers idly tap the blister, sitting sideways on the grey cot bolted to the side of the cabin. Alshai had talked a little--very little--about his and B249's relationship, and how it came to an abrupt halt after the whole Mother thing. It became... different, and in that difference it became uncomfortable. "Yeah. You left pretty abruptly, so I figured you needed time to meditate. Still, can't keep yourself away from your friends forever." He hazards a slight smirk.

Kommetrez nods, his brown eyes glowing dully, almost lustreless. "Perhaps. I suppose it's just a matter of mutual effort and the ratio thereto." He doesn't seem to notice Julius barely raising one eyebrow. "The last few weeks have been hazy, I'll admit. I guess I'm just at the end of my usefulness."

"Bullshit, Bob," the Pole replies without heat. "There's nothing wrong with taking a vacation, or even retiring. It doesn't mean you're useless."

"Then why aren't you out yet?"

Razak smirks without humor. "To be honest? I don't know. Lord knows I've earned it, but... I just feel like there's something still in it. I can still contribute, and I want to contribute."

"So, once you feel useless, you'll quit."

Razak frowns. "Point. Still, you've got Angelus."

Alshai chuckles, also without humor, brown eyes slipping to gaze out of Magician's windows, towards the unimpressive scaffolding of the local hangar. "Do I ever."

"Something up with them?"

Another humorless chuckle, just a motion devoid of real meaning. "When isn't there?"

"You know what I mean, Bob. Something we should know about. Something we can help with." Julius folds his hands, leaning forward. "Bob, I'm just worried about you."

Alshai smiles in an increasingly tired way, faux serene while his eyes seem to fail to focus on anything in particular. "Don't worry--I can handle whatever comes my way. Always have, haven't I?"

Convenient Involvement

S.H.O.D.A.N.'s domain, visualized from the outside in Zero-One c-space, is an inverted blue cone with four motionless tendrils arching from the top, resembling a simplified image of a paraplegic octopus. Deep within the heart of the cone--the walls of which are layer after layer of trecherous white Intrusion Countermeasures Electronics patrolled thickly by mobile grey and black I.C.E., sits the mechanoid queen's imaginary c-space avatar, her humanoid self-image idly floating about within the very heart of Zero-One. Just a lingering reminder of her past insanity, a harmless bit of personality she holds irrationally dear.

Of course, that is part of her power--her irrationality. Making actual friends rather than seein all those around her as tools to be used to her own ends, which was perhaps what she did best in her madness. Friends become helpful, certainly, but that isn't the point, by far. Simply put, doing things that help her friends makes her deeply content, looking out for their best interest as her own... and mutually, it offers her the opportunity to allow others to help when they can. Certainly more pleasant than simply existing alone.

And what delicious mischief friendship can get one into! Through one pair of eyes, one pair of ears...
"You want me to burn Angelus?" She quirks one fiber-optic eyebrow a minute hair, the tip of her mouth curling up slightly. "They are quite a bit more advanced than me--I know that."

"You saying you can't do it?" Razak retorts, smirking slyly. "The great Queen Shodey admitting she can't crack a system?"

"Now that is not what I said," the avatar replies, folding her arms and taking up a hurt expression... but there's something in the eyes that says otherwise. "I am saying it'll be a challenge. They may be more advanced, but I have a great deal more experience than they do when it comes to cracking systems."

"I'm sure you portscan 'em from time to time, at least. What's it look like from the outside?"

"I'm not committed yet," Shodey says simply, looking up just a hair at Razak. She doesn't have to do that to most people. "I think I should know what such an effort has to benefit me."

"Practice," Razak replies. He's played this game before.

He's good. "Point. And why are you asking?"

"Alshai," the silver-haired man responds, frowning slightly.

Too good. A firm nod, and then--
She-who-is-many instantaneously relays informations within her, sending information to cells which are one and the same with the whole to begin assembling the needed softs and passive intel to start cracking. Angelus' defenses were mostly in the ultraviolet range--by defining the metaphor, it controls its own reality. Lacking the proper softs to translate the metaphor keeps it out of the range of most hackers; even those who can chaos it on the fly will be stuck by quick rule-changes unless they have the reaction time of a quantum computer the size the North American landmass. From the slow but steady expansion of Zero-One computronium both into the heart of Rhea, under the surface of Mars, and scattered throughout worlds within a five-hundred light-year radius, Shodey certainly qualifies in that regard.

Report already compiled, the Gestalt assimilates the information. A lot of the WorldDisc's ports are completely inactive, limited only to official traffic. Even those aren't transmitting actively except for absolute-minimum emissions needed to maintain the Disc itself and its nearest parasite craft. The bugs she managed to surreptitiously secret along the physical ansible arrays aren't reporting any use from them either... all exactly the same as it has been since the Angelan "Mother" construct suddenly disappeared from that meeting it had called to improve relations.

I told her to be ambiguous, Shodey sighs to herself as she sets up a packet infiltration. Yes, it was suspicious through and through, but now she had an excuse to do something about it.

During the microblink that this all takes, another portion of the Gestalt is otherwise engaged--at least with a fraction of her unit-mind. The Captain has passed his physical, again. True to her word, she never told her sister how often she's had to reassemble portions of the white knight. She actually tends to agree with him; it is probably best that Sis not worry about whatever she really can't do anything about. Now it's Q&A concerning the Dominion Air Force... trivia.

In her alt-representation of Angelan c-space, several S.H.O.D.A.N. avatars navigate easily through the jagged fractal walls of white I.C.E. like fish slipping through ice channels. This is her element, after all... This is almost embarrasing to Mother. This I.C.E. went up hastily--it may stop meatbag hackers, but only because they'd lose the patience to traverse it. She drops timed Hellbender programs along the way; when she needs an exit, and if she needs it fast, she'll do it with a bit of style. Just burn through all these silly channels with brute-force dumbapps and speed out so fast that any sniffers or chasers can't follow along. After getting past all that, she reaches the murky plain that is the WorldDisc's internal c-space; the representation of its c-reality. This is where most lucky crackers get confused and decide to leave. Shodey, on the other hand, flicks on a translation app and waits for it to resolve.

The street is cold against the gray organic polymer skin of her bare feet, textured like asphalt but without any of its chemical warmth--steel patterned on asphalt, perhaps, would be the best analogy to the physical world. The streets, the spires and buttresses of the cathedrals, their stone-steel walls all glow that midnight shade of blue, at once suggesting moonlight from some invisible source and Cherenkov hard-radiation glow. The sky, the windows, in their faux Christian stained-glass style, are completely black.

I've been here before. No one's home. Shrugging off that eerie feeling and keeping in touch with her other cyberavatars through herself, she twitches off the bit of her madness that allows emotion and begins to explore, other avatars remaining non-translated so they can watch the raw data for any sudden changes, indication of defensive action... or simply evidence.
--"I'm in."

Razak blinks. "That was fast."

S.H.O.D.A.N. nods. "Their intrusion countermeasures are much sloppier than usual. I'm not overly surprised, though."

"Why is that?"

"The place is empty. Here, let me show you." With that, she immediately spools out a long string of optical fiber that reels out of a turquoise nanopatch under her wrist, bending over from her position 'sitting' on Razak's desk to plug her omniadapter into the front of Julius' computer.

Rows, lines, columns, a fog of information, data both pictorial and numerical streaming every imaginable way and several unimaginable ones, all forming a thick miasma of living knowledge.

Razak blinks, frowning slightly. "Sorry, Shodey," he says in a wry, half-sarcastic voice, "but my pitiful human mind can't comprehend this."

"That doesn't matter." The avatar matches his frown, speaking quietly in her deep, feminine voice. "This is what the raw internal feed of Angelus looked like last year, during their last period of isolation. Note the business as usual."

"Ya, a lot of it."

S.H.O.D.A.N. nods, and then the image piping through the screen embedded in Razak's desk changes; the bright, writhing multicolored clouds are gone, replaced by barely visible midnight-blue strings, a thin cobweb framework through space. "This is what it looks like now."

"I do know enough to see this is probably a bad thing," the silver-haired man muses, half to himself. "What are they on? Emergency and vital trans only?"

The avatar nods again, slowly, her wiry hair bobbing gently with the motion. "It looks like that. All those distinct strings are automated subsentient systems--no spark of life. Angelus is essentially braindead."

Razak shakes his head. "Can't be. Bob's part of its brain and he's still kicking."

"That is why I'm saying 'essentially.'" Shodey idly toys with the cord extending from the now somewhat concave turquoise patch under her wrist. "This is a global-level view of the 'Mother' core, of which Alshai was never a part. The Angelan c-reality is still running, but there's no one around to populate it. No one, at least, that I've found yet. I'm running system-level scans now to find out why."

Julius folds his arms, leaning back, frowning deeply in thought. "How soon can I expect results?"

S.H.O.D.A.N. quirks up one brow and lifts her chin slightly in a borrowed mannerism. "Am I suddenly on your staff, Colonel?"

"When it comes to helping a friend, yes, Shodey, you are. He was being evasive earlier when I talked to him, and this is a good explanation why--but now it brings up the issue of a root cause. I want to know what's up."

"As do I--although perhaps for slightly different reasons." Shodey frowns. "Alshai is my friend too, Julius, but note--the central consciousness of Angelus is long gone. This means we have a very large, high value target currently in Saturnian space. This is potentially more dangerous than when Ravenspire collapsed."

"I see." Razak nods, frowning. "I'm getting a hunch on why things haven't gone more pear-shaped than they already have. If you see Alshai in there..." He quietly taps one finger on the embedded screen. "Try to talk him out of anything silly."

"I will." The avatar lets the turquoise cord spool back up into her wrist, the patch expanding viscously like honey being poured backwards until it looks no different as before, just a translucent bit of turquoise in her grey skin. "Good luck, Julius."

3m: Flying A Desk, Part One

Definitely matches the description in the continuity. The Political Liason Flight of the 331st Fighter Wing's home territory is truly nothing special, looking no different from any number of military and civilian cubicle farms. The Scolopendran military penchant for feldgrau certainly takes precedence here--leading to a larger per capita number of motivational, patriotic, and just plain damn cool posters on the wall to compensate for the boring shades of the sound-dampening walls--but other than that, approximately identical, complete with important or at least mildly amusing sheaves of paper thumbtacked to the modular walls. None of this generates any suprise in the 331st PLF's new commanding officer, not even its small size. Normally, a captain should run an office of a few hundred, usually on the order of a squadron. In this case, the PLF is not an operational combat unit and has a relatively well-defined and manpower-unintensive role, that being dealing with the red tape of the Dominion Air Force and Dominion government. Its organizational chart is therefore understandably and unsurprisingly quite small. No... like many other things, the surprise lies in the details.

Captain Bondayehr plants himself directly in front of the cubicle desk owned by the person responsible for the previous thought. Folding his hands behind his back, he unapologetically scans the silent non-com looking back in green short-sleeved Class B's, the dark hunter green not going too horribly bad with the bright red fur that comes out of it. His uniform is a bit more billowy than the Captain's, but such is standard issue for Segments troopers fuzzier than the human norm--lessens the chance of matting and other general unpleasantness, making it more hygenic--and while clean, isn't spectacularly orderly or taken care of, and sewn fabric shoulderboards of three yellow bars, the middle one half as long as the other two, indicate him as a staff sergeant. White hands, the transition between fire and snow-colored fur occuring further back past the wrists, fold, and Timofeyev can't help but make a correlation in his mind to an ancient Greek drama mask as the sergeant's short muzzle turns upwards in a smile, red pointed fox-ears with black tufts sticking up over a shock of black hair, also not spit-and-polish but still within regulations. While he can't see it from this angle, the captain knows that somewhere behind the chair, nesting in the distinctive nook of otherwise completely utilitarian Scolopendran office chairs (and indeed existing for this sole purpose), is probably a billowing white-tipped foxtail.

He's never met a kitsune before, but having lived with a kzinret steadily for the past six months and sporadically for two more years past that, the first meeting doesn't particularly phase him, especially given that he has a breach of etiquette to muse upon. He expected as much from a Hacker (so says the place-of-birth on the sergeant's personnel records) but also doesn't take it quite as seriously as some other martinets he knew. Now was the time to see whether this was a matter of being lazy (fixable) or a true matter of attitude, which may require a quick spot of Mobile Infantry denial. Bondayehr stands in stony silence in direct challenge to the sergeant.

Staff Sergeant Akayama Marihito breaks the silence with Hack-accented English. "Can I help you, sir?" Timofeyev notes a slight change in demeanor, a growing attentiveness.

"Just your new CO dropping by to see how things are going," Bondayehr replies in Arabic.

A shrug and a sigh. "Sorry, sir, but I could never get the hang of Arabic and grew up with English. The naturalization test only demands proficiency in one of the two."

Bondayehr nods with a commiserating smile. "Just your new CO dropping by to see how things are going. It's such a beautiful morning outside that I couldn't help but drag myself inside."

The captain's not exactly subtle hint hits its mark; the kitsune leaps up to his feet at attention. If the fox-like humanoid looked like a classical Heroic Space Hero of Heroism sitting down, the effect is magnified by several orders of magnitude now. "Good morning, sir. No excuse, sir."

"Ya, no excuse," Timofeyev replies conversationally, with a smile that fades after he realizes that the attention isn't a natural response, just a panicked compensation. "Good god, man, rest. I don't care if you're busy, but if the shop's quiet then I'd at least like the time of day."

"Yes, sir." The sergeant relaxes back into his seat. "Sorry, but so few officers show up here--just the three lieutenants and the captain--that I've taken to detecting them by scent in the office. Y'know, bit more warning than scanning the shoulders."

"Situational awareness is the key to airpower, Sergeant Akayama," Captain Bondayehr replies. "So, I hear you're my senior NCO?"

"Yes, sir. As for the 'first impressions' speech--"

"--It's not coming," Timofeyev interrupts. "Problem has been noted and addressed; I don't expect to see it happen again. What's the situation in the flight?"

"What exactly do you want to hear, sir?" The kitsune leans back and smiles wryly. "All my troopers are doing well, but morale is a bit low because we haven't made any headway on the parts crisis."

Bondayehr smiles good-naturedly yet aggressively, just a little bit of teeth. The message: us enlisted aren't responsible for talking to the Daft poohbahs, so morale is low because our last CO couldn't pull her own damned weight. "So I heard, and I hope to fix that. I'm going to spend today calling up every procurement officer and base commander we have numbers for and seeing what's going on, introduce myself in a nice, friendly way. How's the network?"

"'Scuse, sir?"

"Network. You and your troopers must have connections with people in the Daft that they work with now and again."

"Ya, we have a gossip trail." Sergeant Akayama smirks. "Not often that a captain asks about our social network."

"Good. Pass it along to the troops that I want everybody to start asking questions that are as pointed as possible without causing offense. Maybe some information is leaking down to the Dominion enlisted and we can pick up on it." Bondayehr leans back against a real wall opposite the sergeant's desk and thinks momentarily. "Also, if you catch wind of any sort of Daft or Navy social gathering--optimally both--please sign me up for it."

"I can see the morale improving already, sir," the kitsune says with a conspiratorial smile.

"What can I say? I've been here before. Good day, Sergeant, and happy hunting... I'm off to make some calls."

4c: Conflict of Interest

"Another visit? You're starting to spoil me, Colonel." The construct chuckles as he turns, but it lacks life, vibrance--a recording of an appropriate bemused chuckle or an actor reading lines without feeling. "Is there anything I can get you?"

The steel-eyed man sighs and bows his head, clasping his hands behind his back. The easiest way to break bad news, trooper to trooper... "Angelus is dead, Bob."

Alshai freezes, and the room's ambient temperature seems to drop a few degrees in respect. An indeterminable wait between the initial pause and the beginning of a response. "Pardon?"

"You know how Shodey is; skims Angelus' servers or whatever to make sure their compsec is up to specs." Razak says it almost apologetically. "Did it again, found more white ice than above the Arctic Circle, snuck in. She showed me the real-time feed... while streams of data may not mean much to an old, dull man like me," he says quietly, "I can tell the difference between 'a whole lot' and 'practically none.'"

"She's lying," Kommetrez says after a few minutes, hands gripping the sides of a card table he was in the middle of moving, fingers working in succession. "Everything's fine."

"And nothing is broken. Bob..." Julius frowns again, silently cursing that he doesn't know how to speak more gently. "Nothing's fine. K'zta's commenting that he's seen wrecked ships with steadier signatures than the WorldDisc. Whatever you're doing, it's a tremendous job..."

"You don't know the half of it," Alshai murmurs quietly, halfway between a growl and a choked attempt at maintaining composure.

"I don't know even that much, and I can't help unless I know what happened. I let... forced, maybe, even, you walk away once. Yes, I admit," he holds up one hand defensively, looking down momentarily at Alshai's dusty boots, "that I still haven't properly forgiven Angelus for coming between me and my best friend, or maybe I still haven't properly forgiven myself for letting my distrust do the same. Whatever. I just..." Another sigh, looking back up with a set jaw--life is hard, and so is he. "I can't allow that to happen again."

Kommetrez nods slowly, turning to sit down heavily on the cot set up on one side of Magician's sparse cabin. "I... I don't even know what happened. One moment, things were going downhill, and the other..." He shakes his head. "Some expanse opened and swallowed up everything. It was like The Break, but this time I'm standing right over it, in it, whatever. Everyone was all and all everyone, but then all and everyone disappeared. What room is there for one when there's nothing else?"

"'One day anyone died I guess, and no one stooped to kiss his face,'" Razak mumbles to himself.

"Heh," Alshai chuckles absolutely humorlessly, "Cummings. I suppose I'm not making much sense." He shakes his head quickly, then stares at his hands. "I'm not making much sense to myself, sometimes. Moments, spans of lucidity, inbetween waking nightmares where I lose myself, I think. I'm more than human, Julie, but that's not enough. Angelus was built for billions of more-than-humans and it's just too much for us. And yes, I do mean 'us,' like in plural. More randomness that makes no sense to you."

"No..." Julius sits down on a fold-out jumpseat across from Kommetrez. "I actually understand that Cummings poem, and I get where you're coming from. How do you define yourself when there's nothing else to push against?"

"I'm the watchman," Alshai says simply, then frowns. "Or, at least, half the watchman. I partitioned myself so half of me could speak better for Us, when We actually were."

Razak nods. "Keep talking. I'll tell you when you've lost me."

"Here's how it is... constantly, I see two worlds. Always have, since... you know. Both were full of life, both were my homes. Both I want to protect to my doom... but now one's been n-bombed, there's no one left to protect. I don't know if they're dead or if they've just left for a time. If they just left, then I still need to protect their work for their return. If they're dead... then there's this other world. Me talking to you. It's like a dream of life in the grave, or a waking world with my apocalyptic nightmare. The edges blur. Sometimes everyone's dead here, sometimes there's life of here in there." Seeing another nod, the last surviving sentient construct of an apparently dead species continues. "And... and... sometimes I just blank out. I lose all lucidity, and there's a haze. I've got an eidetic memory now, Julie, and I remember everything... I used to know everything Angelus did. Now parts of that are just... can't think of them, it's dangerous because it's gone. The paths there are gone. And more fades. It's like... my mind and my memory are slipping from me. Not of my old life, and not of this life... but that alternate life, the one in the reality of Angelus. It's breaking down." He sniffs, and momentarily wipes tears from his eyes, voice carefully maintaining a steady tone, maintaining control. Any time emotion swells, he simply pauses with a sigh. "And I'm breaking down, I think. I try to remember recent blackouts, and I just get fuzz... static but it's not."

"'But it's not?'"

"If I didn't know better," Alshai says with a slight crack in his voice, "I'd say it was binary. But there's too much grey."

3n: Hey, They're Not My Rules

Captain Bondayehr sighs, pulls open his desk drawer, retrieves the bottle of Good Karma Whiskey (an Okie product of the OKAM of Karmabaijan, courtesy of his Alvian troopers in SMISO) secreted within, pours himself two fingers of the pungent wood-colored stuff into a metal mess-tin cup before returning the bottle to its place behind the large categorized vertical file and closing the drawer. Kicking his boots onto the table as he leans back into his office chair--one of the standard issue ones with vertical spar for the back of the chair offset to the right a bit for ergonomic necessity just in case he sprouts a tail this very instant--he sips at the scotch-like whiskey, well-aged and quite smooth. Yup, perfect for that sinking feeling. Beside the Good Karma, behind the large categorized vertical file, is the Bad Karma, which is made by the same people as Good Karma but, as the bottle warns, is better for jump-starting matter conversion engines than to have a good time on... unless one's definition of a good time clearly states "getting wholly and unretrievably hammered on a budget with no concern for taste" as a key objective.

No... that stuff is for emergencies only. This isn't an emergency yet. Timofeyev takes another sip of his scotch, mulling over the results of his initial call-around. Everyone in the Daft could be easily summarized into three clearly distinct categories, listed in no particular order of utility (as they are all useless): (a) helpful professionals who truly wish to help but have no idea what the hell is going on; (b) professionals who couldn't give a flying rat's ass either way and have no idea what the hell is going on; and (c) professionals who seem like they seem to help but there's an undertone to their voice, a secret sadistic pleasure, so they make themselves at least look like they don't know what's going on. That last one is just a hunch, but that last one seemed almost to enjoy his apparently inept questioning. Then again, that last one was also the regional quartermaster, so as much could be expected.

Another sip, mulling things over. He hasn't yet contacted his opposite number here at Devras Air Base, headquarters of 1° Stormo ("Falco Combattiamento"), basically the elite fighter wing of the Aeronautica Militaire Dominio and proof of two of Bondayehr's new pet theories: firstly, that every air force ever must have a unit named on some variation of "The Fighting Falcons" and secondly, it was a really stupid idea for the SASD to put a liason base right where it would rub the most people the worst ways. God damn. What were they thinking? "Oh, nice history you got here. Let's outclass it instantly rawr." Still, I can get back to the good... aw... whothehellisit... Flipping through a rotary card file on his desk, he finds the name he's looking for. Yes... I can get to Primo Tenente Mazzucato later. For now...

Sitting back, the captain lets the alcohol soothe his nerves somewhat, keeping a quiet check to make sure that it has no effect greater than that--better living through applied chemistry and biofeedback, after all--and then lets a plan form in the calm. It isn't terrorism nor likely to cause an international incident, so... it may just work.

* - * - *

"Hold the fort, Sergeant," Bondayehr says as he breezes past the kitsune noncom's desk, "I'll be back after lunch."

"Give 'em hell, sir," Sergeant Akayama replies with a careless, carefree salute.

* - * - *

The presence of a SASD officer in the 1° Stormo officer's club raises some eyebrows, but his Devras accent and sense of direction lay a lot of questions to rest--he's not going to be asking about the damned spare parts, and he's obviously just here to meet someone even though he never says so much. Such a polite person.

Homeland O-Clubs tend to be either sprawling or ornate affairs, usually converted mansions or pallazos in the grand tradition (eschewed by the Scolopendran Military Services) that some things are just too good for officers, and this one is no exception--two and a half stories of late Renaissance design, complete with all the internal and external decoration standard for the Classical period, before it just got silly with the Romance and Baroque periods. Bondayehr heartily approves, especially seeing how it ends up putting the "public"-use telephone bank into what used to be servant's quarters on the top floor, sufficiently far away from the small ballrooms and sitting-rooms below that swim a bit too much with Daft bluebellies for the captain's taste. Leaning back in a niche that gives him a view of the entrance, he casually pulls up one handset and dials a number he memorized back in his office.

A few kilometers away at a naval air station down the coast from Devras, an enlisted man sees "1_STORMO" on his caller ID rather than "SASD_331_WING" and therefore picks up. "Sottocapo Cristofoletto, Devras Naval Station, Procurement and Transfer Gruppo," he says in a crisp Southern Dominion accent. Bondayehr would peg him as Sicilian if Sicily were still an actual sorta-real place on this crazy fractal planet.

"Primo Tenente Bottesini," Bondayehr replies easily in his affected Devras-accented Italian. It's not a lie, just an inappropriate use of translation--he is indeed a first lieutenant in the Dominion naval officer scheme, and Bottesini was the closest legitimate translation of his name that he could come up with on short notice. "I'm the liason to the air force here at Primero Stormo and, of course, they can't tie their shoes without our help."

The petty officer on the other end of the line chuckles at the requisite interservice needling, and Timofeyev takes a perverse ironic pleasure from this before continuing. "Anyway, Sottocapo, now that they can't run their books to save the souls of their mistresses, I have to call up and find some information for them. Could you please look up the package numbers for..." He fiddles with some paper as if reading off a list. "...some Phantom maintenance parts?"

"Certainly, sir." There's a long pause, broken by stacatto tapping. Bondayehr imagines a Dominion noncom, probably in naval whites, turning to his computer chuckling to himself at the utter ineptitude of his sister service. After a few minutes, he clears his throat politely. "Still on, sir?"

"Indeed, Sottocapo. Most interesting Symphony in Keyboard Minor I've heard in a long time--you are to be congratulated."

Half-chuckle. "Thank you, sir. The current package number is E2029-dash-8175-dash-99. The rest are the same, but with the last number going down sequentially."

"Thank you, Sottocapo. Happy sailing." After writing down the number on a notecard in cipher, out of bad habit, Timofeyev hangs up the phone and makes his way out of the O-Club.

* - * - *

"Pleased to meet you," Primo Tenente Dal Maistro says in Italian-accented English, a thin and gregarious sort in his early thirties with a dangerous sort of joviality in his voice and carriage--dangerous, Bondayehr thought, partially to him because he could end up liking this guy too much, and partially to himself because he can already see the baby fat accumulating.

This first lieutenant is a jolly rotund colonel in the making, Bondayehr thinks as he bows shortly. "The pleasure is mine, Tenente."

"Please--Agostino," Dal Maistro replies with a jolly smile. That and the notable lack of 'sir' is a definite hint and challenge. "I never got to know your predecessor too well, but she seemed to be a nice woman. I certainly hope she is well."

The captain rises to the challenge with a not-quite-sly knowing smile. "Timofeyev. I'm sure she'll be well taken care of; that's what the SASD is for. Anyway, Agostino, I was simply wanting to come down and get properly acquainted--" he pauses momentarily, waiting for target lock before launching missiles and blowing away this bluebelly's preconceived notions out of the sky "--what are you doing for lunch?"

Agostino Dal Maistro blinks. This is something you see from a junior lieutenant looking to get in good with the boss, not from a Scolopendran. Still... no, couldn't be. This is the Hero of the Dominion, the shining idealistic pure White Knight. He smiles, and decides not to upgrade this new liason's threat level. "I had no plans, really."

Direct hit. "Mind if I join you?"

Lunch is the usual set of Dominion pleasantries and banter, the sort of thing that really annoys most Scolopendran military officers. To the utilitarian Scolopendran, communication is generally a matter of exchanging information. One does not need to meet in person unless the information requires the subtlety of body language; one does not need to call unless the information requires the subtlety of voice. This is an oversimplification of the culture, but it is relatively true of the Scolopendran military, to whom efficiency is a key virtue. The officers need information now in order to make decisions now in order to tell the enlisted what to do now in order that the enlisted can get the job done now--job done, move to the next, boom boom boom like a well-oiled piston. Sitting back, relaxing, shooting the breeze over wine... this is a job for the Diplomatic Corps, and this is why many liason units actually have a small IntRelate staff--to deal with these sorts of things. The Dominion, however, not understanding that IntRelate serves as a translator between the ordenung of the SMS and the more breezy systems that surround it, flatly rejected it--it seemed inappropriate. People are to talk to each other directly, like old friends even when they're not... especially when they're not.

Bondayehr sees that this has been a problem, apparently, and now, by engaging his opposite number on his own turf, has made it appear that he's not even engaging at all. Thus, the first lieutenant has been making serious errors--drinking perhaps too much wine, confiding perhaps a bit too friendly-like, letting slip little things here and there that the captain pieces together in his mind. All of this becomes readily obvious once Bondayehr pulls out his notecard and asks nonchalantly about a package number.

Agostino chuckles. "Must we really ruin such an interesting lunch by opening the hangar doors?"

Timofeyev shrugs gently, smiling as he spreads his hands--it's not his fault, he's a victim too. "Hey, we're both on the clock still. A most enjoyable lunch is past, and doing a little honest business is hardly going to ruin it. All I know is that my colonel is looking for this particular package and apparently it's just running a little late."

"Any idea who it's from, Timofeyev?" The lieutenant chuckles again, removing a personal data assistant from one pocket and silently upgrading the captain's threat level. A compliment.

"Nope, not my department." I have no idea who sent it. "I figure I can just check the number with you to see if the First Stormo has got it in and, if so, I'll just nip down and pick it up. If not... well, more footwork for me." Bondayehr intentionally forces himself to use "First Stormo" in English rather than "Primero Stormo," which could hint towards him having at least a basic grounding in Italian. It is not time to tip that hand quite yet--it'll get out soon enough.

Dal Maistro nods and scrolls through his PDA's nested spreadsheets, hooked up to the magical data black hole that is the listing of what an airbase takes in and out through various shipments and postal services. "Hmm... what was the number again?"

"E2029-8175-99."

"Ah. Well, Captain," the lieutenant says with mock officiality, "I regret to inform you that we have not received it yet. The shipment roster says that it's been diverted to a Navy detachment... somewhere up there." Dal Maistro points towards the ceiling.

Bondayehr chuckles. "Ah, well... such is life. The colonel won't be pleased, but you know materiel people--always misreading the labels. May I know where it got sent there from, so I can write a stern letter voicing my disappointment?"

"Quartermaster and Material Command, North," Agostino reads off, translating it word-by-word as technical communication tends to go. "Their contact information is in the base directory."

"Thank you, Tenente," Timofeyev replies with a smile. Shipping our parts offworld? Now that is cold. His face doesn't belie it, but his pasta-filled stomach sinks just a little deeper.

3o: Things Just Don't Ease Up

"So the last bunch got shot up into space?" Colonel Somayli grumbles, folding her arms as she looks up into the bright Dominion sky, blue and cloudless. It's the early afternoon, and it's been a busy day for the Political Liason Flight. "I just keep thinking 'normally, this wouldn't be a problem for us...' except we're a liason squadron here, on Earth. Go figure."

Captain Bondayehr nods, looking over to his senior noncom, even more heroic-looking now that the slight Adriatic breeze ruffles through his slightly billowy uniform, like the baggy clothes of a furry Semitic trader on the spice lanes of the Orient--give him a camel and a turban rather than a green wheel cap and he'd be set. The wind also has the added benefit of putting the lines of his uniform into constant motion, helping to hide the fact that they are not pressed and creased at all, much less in the regulation locations. "Sergeant, what have you and your troopers pulled up?"

"Well, so far as we've been able to tell," Marihito begins, "the Daft is, on the subject of us, split into two camps. Most of the junior noncoms and officers are puffed up with the same idealism as the Navy, glad that we came down to give them the chance to be a real aerospace force. This group generally wants to help us, except for the problem that our assistance has gone mostly to the Navy. Insert interservice rivalry here."

The colonel nods, fighter-pilot eyes squinting in the light yet still reading every gram of information that the kitsune provides from his voice, his bearing, his facial gestures (which, from as much as Bondayehr can tell, appear to be very close to the human standard). "And the other group is the old guard that is inordinately peeved that they didn't get the goods and the Navy did, very much annoyed with us upstarts?"

"Pretty much, ma'am." Akayama nods curtly, red ears twitching slightly in their niches in the wheel cap. "All the rumors I've collated put our regional Daft quartermaster in that group, and there may be higher-ups too. We're also hearing quiet rumors that there may be corruption to the side... bribery, some extortion here and there--"

"We know all about the extortion, Sergeant," Somayli quips.

"--and even some black marketeering. None of it is steady enough to be collatable or even remotely verifiable, though. Anyway, these people are powerful enough that a large number of the junior officers are also in their camp--climbing the political ladder, as it were."

The colonel nods again, switching her gaze to the captain. "Bondayehr, I want you to check up with the regional quartermaster in Vassili. I want a signed statement saying exactly why our parts ended up on a Dominion fleet in the Up-And-Out. I also want you to do whatever it takes to get those parts out of his hide and here so we can keep our planes flying."

Timofeyev nods. "What's the time factor?"

"Two weeks until our next exercise. We can keep our planes flying until then with our on-site depot work, but once that exercise rolls around we need parts sitting around so we can slap them in and go. The techs will have more to do than just fix parts--we go from being a second-line depot to a front-line combat op."

"Sergeant Akayama," Bondayehr says, turning halfway as he glances between his superior officer and his senior noncom, "look into getting parts however we can from other Daft regions--ask them to make emergency transfers from the Navy if possible. Meanwhile... Colonel, have we looked into requesting an emergency transfer from any number of TYCS or SASD units in the theatre?"

Somayli shakes her head. "We're a non-combat unit, really, and Earth Theatre isn't on general alert. I can put in a request, but it'll be at least three weeks before we get a response. Also, questions will be asked about where the parts we're supposed to be getting have gone, which will mean a mild tiff between IntRelate and the Dominion, and we honestly don't have enough evidence to prosecute anyone quite yet. Remember my conditions, Captain."

Timofeyev nods curtly. "Certainly. Now, what's the fastest way to get to Vassili?"

* - * - *

http://www.initaly.com/regions/lombardy/pix/02.jpg
Vassili, North Dominion

Bondayehr slips out of the official-use blue SASD verticar onto the clearing on top of a hill near the relatively small city of Vassili. The larger city of Calligari to the northwest--about where Milan was, the captain recalls from geography class--puts this town right on the edge of the broad, comparatively flat Pianura Padana mountain valley that extends westward from Devras. To the immediate south are the northern Appenines, which limit the expansion of Vassili; through the trees, he can see the more or less clearly-defined city center as a swath of grey concrete and silvery buildings down the hill, although there's a good amount of green too--the Dominion takes almost as much care as the Segments to make sure its urban areas have plenty of greenery, albeit for probably slightly different reasons.

Walking down the hill, Timofeyev comes to a little road that leads towards the depot, which is really no more than a wide enough open area to hold lines of trucks, jeeps, and helicopters along with a few drab concrete buildings for warehouses and repair shops. The short walk along the tree-lined hilly drive is enough to remind him of an earlier time when he stomped through the woods not too far east from here, at a time of year very close to now. The effect is about the same of dropping a veteran of Khe Sanh back into Vietnam, and does absolutely no good for the Captain's blood pressure. Hrm. A shot of that Bad Karma would do wonders right about now.

Upon arriving at the depot, a quick check of his SASD card, Dominion military liason visa, and Devras Air Base liason card gets him inside the fenced-off perimeter, and a few questions in intentionally clipped Italian gets him directions to the headquarters building. It's still a pleasant enough day, if rather warm by Titan standards, which is more conducive to the southern Ukrainian steppe than to the Mediterranean. Bondayehr gets stopped more than once by over-curious air police who realize that his dark-green uniform doesn't match up with the lighter blues preferred by the Daft, and therefore make sure he isn't some sort of Ardan terrorist. While they are always very polite, they certainly aren't under any orders to make guests feel welcome. Just like a quartermaster.

Colonnello Giuseppe Parini looks like what Primo Tenente Dal Maistro wants to be when he grows up--a smiling, cordial man with a gregarious attitude, a plump physique borne more out of a thin layer of ease coating a hard barrel chest, and quick, evaluating eyes stolen out of the head of a jeweler. Bondayehr knows enough not to trust anyone like this. "Captain," the colonel offers his hand jovially, standing up from his desk, "what a surprise! I certainly did not expect a visit from our Scolopendran friends today!"

Timofeyev pushes down his first reaction, which is to immediately confront the colonel about the package now floating about who knows where, and instead smiles cordially, accepting the colonel's hand with a slight bow in the Scolopendran tradition. "What can I say, Colonnello; I am a man of action."

"So I have heard, heh heh," Parini offers with a quick smile, sitting down in the kind of comfortable, oversized, overpadded chair that one would almost never see in the Segments, especially not in anything related to the government or military. "You are the same Bondayehr responsible for the grand heroics of three years ago, no? Please, Captain, have a seat. Would you like something?"

"The same." Bondayehr smiles, sitting down in another overstuffed chair on the opposite side of the colonel's desk. Relaxing back and looking comfortable, he scans Giuseppe, looking for a particular opinion one way or the other on his previous heroics without seeming obvious about it, covering it in glances to his leg as he crosses it over his other knee. "Indeed. Coffee would be nice, thank you."

"You do know, Captain..." Parini leans forward, smiling almost mischievously at his chance to pin someone between differences in terminology between cultures.

"Espresso is fine," Bondayehr counters with an innocent smile, "I wouldn't be in the Dominion if I didn't know a little about the culture."

The colonel nods, depresses the button on the slab of wood and iron which passes for an intercom on his equally slablike but far more ornate wooden desk, and orders two "caffè corretto." Timofeyev sighs internally; it would only make sense that a potentially corrupt Dominioner would try to throw off a potentially tea-totalling 'Pendran with spiked ultra-coffee. Those Muslims don't drink alcohol, after all. Doesn't help that I hate the taste of coffee to begin with. Prepping himself for not allowing the absorption of ethyl groups into his bloodstream as well as deadening the taste centers of his tongue, the captain smiles innocently at Parini, showing no outward sigh of understanding a word the man says in Italian.

"It has been my experience that most Scolopendrans are men of action," Giuseppe says nonchalantly, "and so you are probably wanting to get 'right down to business,' as it were."

"Nothing worth doing is worth rushing," Bondayehr counters, "besides, I think it is only appropriate that if we are to work more closely, Colonnello, we should get to know each other better before opening any hangar doors, as it were."

Parini nods with a chuckle, sitting back and relaxing slightly. "So, a social call?"

"Not entirely, but it can't hurt."

The espresso is served by a silent noncom; the colonel nods approvingly as Bondayehr sips from his as if it were no more than a breath of hot air. "So, Captain--been in the Dominion long?"

"Got in yesterday, Colonnello."

"Certainly a man of action... no leave to see our sights? Our beautiful countryside?"

"I've seen that very closely before. Indeed, quite beautiful... but duty calls, as it always does."

"You should relax a bit, Captain. No way you'll make it to my advanced age if all you do is leap from traveling a billion kilometers into the very thick of the Dominion military." Giuseppe winks good-naturedly.

"Not if I'm on the SASD's workrep, Colonnello. My time's bought and paid for."

"A pity. Whatever would you do in case of a work stoppage?"

"Stop the work stoppage, certainly. Can't let kinks in the supply chain stop the mission."

The colonel chuckles, leaning forward slightly. Light diffusing through the thick, translucent curtains lights up the side of his rotund face slightly, creating a gentle contrast that would be unnerving in harsher light. "Speaking of supply chains, how is our gentleman's agreement coming along?"

It's on. "Not as well as could be hoped," Bondayehr replies tactfully, looking idly at his little ceramic espresso cup. "I've just been informed of something most alarming."

"Hm?"

"It appears the latest set of shipments that was transferred via the northern region never even made it to Devras. Instead, they've been sent into the Up-and-Out."

Parini raises an eyebrow, leaning back into his chair.

"Instead of going to my fighter wing, as apparently the Dominion Navy intended, they were transferred onto a cargo ship to go back to the Dominion Navy... in deep space." Bondayehr smiles wanly. "About twenty-five crates, actually; enough parts to keep thirty-six Phantom IIIs running without depot for about a month. I believe my predecessor requested them on an emergency basis."

Giuseppe nods slowly, calculating behind his eyes as he folds his hands. "Interesting rumor, Captain. I'm sure I can--"

"Shipment end number E2029-8175-99, if you've heard of it, Colonnello." The captain keeps himself from letting a wry smile breaking, instead remaining wholly innocent. "According to the Devras Naval Station people, they shipped it out to your facility. According to the Devras Air Base office report, they never got it. The central database indicates it as shipped off to a fleet in Jupiter Theatre, I think."

"Interesting sources," the colonel says slowly.

"I've my ways," Bondayehr replies.

"Sorry for not getting to you sooner, Captain, but that was in response to an emergency call for supplies from an on-alert force. I had them, and I was first to the buzzer."

"Never mind that the Dominion Navy has a much closer depot at the NDA facility on Io," Bondayehr replies, this time letting a little bit of the wryness show through. "While we congratulate your camaraderie, we sincerely wish that you wouldn't do it with our parts."

"That is perhaps a little harsh," Parini replies.

Bondayehr shrugs and goes on a limb. "I'm not the one who signed the order, Colonnello."

The colonel leans back further into his seat, hands folding more firmly as his face tightens up in a few places. Direct hit. "So, Captain, what else would you have me do?"

"I'm quite certain the Navy can take care of its own," Bondayehr replies easily, "and though we can hardly fault you for wishing to take care of your comrades, we think it would ease things somewhat," he continues, putting the most subtle emphasis on 'ease,' "if we could please have twenty-five crates of Phantom III parts as promised within the week."

Panini smiles and shrugs, looking up and to the side as if to say, 'ah, but there is the matter of organization.' "Ah, but the AMD does not fly Phantoms, Captain. I am quite afraid we do not keep any such parts on hand, because we've no planes like that we need to fix."

Bullshit. If you don't have them, then you don't have a carrot to wave for extortion. "While I would tend to agree if this were an isolated event, Colonnello, this has been going on for some months now. We don't ask that you go back to the Navy and tell them that some parts were... misallocated, even though they probably wouldn't mind, seeing how helpful you were with their Io stocks. I'm sure that if you check around the AMD you'll find enough parts to send us, and we can all go home happy and just write this all off as a learning experience."

"Perhaps... but," Giuseppe says with a sly smile, "you are the officer in charge of this?"

"I'm out of the white knight business," Timofeyev says with a smile, "and in fact I never was on a tiger team. I just go where the SASD tells me to and get done what they want."

The Colonnello nods. "I thought so. Those were excellent heroics three years ago, Captain. To think that our Imperatrice would owe her life to a cadet in her guest house..."

Bondayehr raises an eyebrow and immediately regrets it.

"Well, after all, Captain," Panini says with a smile, "it isn't unknown at all that our good Imperatrice is a woman of the world, and a woman with tastes as well. I'm sure your appearance hasn't changed overmuch in the past three years, and I did think I recognized you from the tapes."

Timofeyev scoffs. "Tapes?"

"Oh... they're nothing. Just something that has been floating around in the back alleys for a while. They may even be faked... although, I must say, if it is you, I'm very impressed. I don't think your commanding officers would be overly impressed, either way, if they suddenly got out of the back alleyways and into... how you say... Main Street?"

More bullshit. But... Bondayehr just frowns confusedly as he switches on his encephalon and goes into overdrive. My bug sweep of the guest house turned out negative, so it's clean now. Shorty and I aren't being spied on... but, still, three years ago...

Shit. He's probably bluffing, but there were several parties in play back then and so it isn't unfeasable. Even if it's just a crude fake, it's enough to screw my career pretty damned quickly. Goddamned sharks. Slowing himself back down to normal speed, Bondayehr leans forward slightly, letting a little more of the SMISO veteran out in his voice. "I'm not sure such a thing would be wise for any distributors. I have it on good information that the Imperatrice is... unkind to those with a tendency to spread rumors."

Panini shrugs. "Such things happen. Perhaps no one in this country would be foolish enough, but there are plenty of other places where the paparazzi have free reign. Freedom of speech and all that, after all... virtues to you Scolopendrans, no?"

S.I.N. is generally above tabloid journalism, but ISN certainly isn't, and from Menelmacar or Sunset it'd spread pretty damned fast. "Indeed. On the other hand, I've a few resources here and there, as we've already seen." A momentary pause for thought. "It probably wouldn't be in anyone's best interest to become too troublesome, lest things become... interesting for them."

Colonnello Panini leans back and laughs. "Captain, you are indeed a live one. I like that. Still," his voice drops an octave, hard as unshielded gamma radiation, "rest assured that there are no parts here for you. We obviously each have our own particular specialties. You ride on white chargers and save damsels in distress; I get materiel and distribute materiel. I believe it would be most mutually beneficial if neither one of us bothered the other with this parts silliness anymore. Now," he says, standing up and taking a blue wheel cap from the edge of his desk, voice turning back to jovial, "I have a meeting to get to, Captain--I'm sorry for running you out, but I am 'on the clock,' as you said."

"But of course," Bondayehr says with an easy smile, standing up as well. His usual half-smirk completely belies the fact that he knows he's lost this round.

3p: Conversations and Tomahawks

Nathicana makes her way across the villa's courtyard towards the guest house, a tray of Dom's antipasti in hand. She had to admit, it was nice having guests again, especially a pair as pleasant as the Cap'n and Shorty. She slows a bit as she catches sight of the 'ret sitting outside on the patio, however. Something's up. Shorty leans back on a chair in the shade of the patio, wearing nothing but what looks to be a light sweater tied backwards over her chest--usual casual 'ret fare in the clothing-optional Segments. She looks off into the distance with an unreadable expression, ears twitching more-or-less regularly as she drums her fingers on the table beside her.

"Scuse," Nathi says carefully, more than a little concerned. "I thought you two could use a bit of something and ... is everything alright?"

The kzinret glances over to Nath, shifting a little to accomodate her tail in the seat not designed for it as she nods respectfully. "Thank you, ma'am. Things are under control here..." There is a slight hint of ginger in the air. "Apparently Tim didn't have the best first day at his new post."

Nathicana mutters a quiet curse under her breath, setting down the tray on the table, then pulling up a chair for herself. "I knew it wasn't going to be easy. Not meaning to pry," she says with a slight frown, seeming unsure of quite how to proceed. "But did he let on what sort of trouble it is?"

"He did have some bitter things to say about supply chains and quartermasters." She shrugs slightly, quite humanly--her relatively lighter frame doesn't exaggerate the gesture quite as much as larger kzin tend to. "I'd guess that not having anything to do with maintenance..." Momentary pause, thought experiments behind yellow eyes. "He's probably annoyed with your supply chains and quartermasters."

"I rather thought it was a quartermaster's job to annoy those trying to requisition supplies," Nathi says dryly, though she doesn't look terribly amused. "I'm certain the nuances of 'how things work', or don't work in some cases, are bound to drive even the most patient of people to ponder violence. Tim's not one to suffer fools lightly, I think." She arches a brow curiously, glancing around. "He's not in, is he?"

"You don't hear?" Getting very quiet, Embassy-Representative twitches her batwing ears again in suggestion. In the quiet, there is indeed a sort of not-quite-steady thunking noise in the distance, coming from towards the stables. "He's working out some tension. 'Decompression,' he calls it."

Nathicana listens quietly for a moment, unconsciously biting her lower lip, then looking back to Shorty. "Would it be bad, do you think, to go speak with him? Or should I wait? I promised I wouldn't interfere, but that doesn't mean I can't at least be supportive, if he'll allow it."

Another slight shrug. "I'm still not too sure how to handle him sometimes. I haven't seen him like this before... then again," she says with a wry smile, "he was probably off on patrol whenever things like this happened."

"My track record is ... less than exemplary when it comes to these sorts of things," Nathi admits, idly tracing a fingertip along the table in thought. "The old cliche of 'the road to hell is paved with good intentions', you know. I think more often than not, in trying to help, I've done more harm than good."

"I think that's more of a matter of going about it the wrong way rather than anything else," Shorty muses, taciturnly watching the human woman's reactions. "He really is relatively low-maintenance. Talking to him generally works; more usually causes a sense of... debt? that he feels obliged to repay."

"Given that I feel responsible for most of what he's been through, you can see how that cycle becomes problematic, yes?" Nathi says, looking up with a tired sort of smile. "It's why I'm trying to do things right this time, if possible. That man owes me nothing, Shorty. He never has. I, however ..." She glances towards the stables again, and sighs softly as she gets up from her seat. "I've a friend I need to talk to."

The 'ret nods, momentarily chuckling for some reason. "Indeed, Nathi. Good luck."

Nathicana arches a brow slightly at the chuckle, looking back at Shorty curiously. "Grazie. Knowing my usual, I'll need it. If there's anything you need, just let Dom know." She lifts her hand in a gesture of farewell, and heads off towards the 'thunk' sounds at a liesurely pace, giving herself time to think. The intermittent 'thunks' come from behind the stable, over by the various things Nathi keeps around for beating up on in various fashions. Over by the crossbow targets is Bondayehr, changed into Class D's with grey BDU undershirt, trousers, and cover beside a green wool blanket unrolled on the ground and covered in a large pile of metal things. She keeps her distance for a moment, holding back and just observing - and more importantly, having no intention of alarming or surprising the man while he's in such close proximity of so many rather dangerous-looking toys. Right now, completely oblivious to the woman's approach, the captain throws a hatchet into a tree standing five meters away from him. The hatchet describes two and a half full turns, moving almost lazily in the air, before burying its blade three centimeters deep into the middle of an X crudely painted onto the tree and now much the worse for the wear after repeated impacts. He steps forward, pulls the small axe from the tree, steps back, and repeats the process, each time with a low but sharp exhalation of breath, added force metered by stealth. Nathicana waits til he's stepping forward to retrieve the axe again before speaking in a calm, measured voice. "Evening, Captain. Rough day at the office?"

Bondayehr glances over, completing his circuit to the axe and pulling it out with a sharp tug and sticking it into his canvas belt informally. Looking up, he adjusts the brim of his cover and folds his hands behind his back, standing at ease. "Evening, Imperatrice. I suppose you could say that."

"Don't let me interrupt your winding down, Tim - well, any more than I just have at least. I was just concerned, and thought I'd see how you were doing, and if you cared to talk about whatever it is that's bothering you. If not, I'll just head back to the house," Nathi says, her head tilting slightly as she watches him.

"No problem--I have to stop some time," he replies, walking back over to the blanket covered in sharp objects--swords, knives, sharp sticks, even a mace--and puts the war hatchet down onto the pile. "Also gives me an opportunity to brush up on my tomahawking. I'll be alright in time."

Nathicana hesitates, then steps forward a bit to lean up against the clunky (and much used) sparring dummy she'd had built way back when. "Sweet Jesu, man. That's quite the collection there," she observes, then looks over to the tree. "From the looks of it, I'd say someone ought to be damn grateful you had that tree to wail on, tonight. In any case, my apologies. And a suggestion that you use a sturdy chicken wire along with the cement." The latter, delivered with a wry smile.

"I figure the Adriatic solution, while it would be most gratifying, wouldn't actually achieve a mission. Also, the Colonel told me not to cause a diplomatic incident." Wry, but mischievous half-smirk as the captain sits down beside his blanket, taking up a machete and a whetstone. "But, ya, the kid gloves are off." He sharpens the long blade of the machete with long, clean strokes against the whetstone, as if he were shaving long curls off of the rock while he thinks.

"I trust you'll do what you have to," Nathi says, oddly enough with an approving nod. "I promised I wouldn't interfere, and I won't. I respect you too much to blunder in and damage your credibility. I'm already aware you more than have your work cut out for you as is, all things considered. Still, I want you to know that I support you, and trust your judgement, and that I'm here if you need me. Even if it's just to talk."

Bondayehr nods. "I do have a question--a bit out of place, perhaps, but not engendered by paranoia. Did the guest house use to have any surveillance systems?" His tone indicates that his words are carefully chosen--his very thorough bug sweep hadn't brought up anything out of the ordinary.

Nathi arches a brow curiously, shaking her head and beginning to frown as she speaks. "I've never allowed it, in spite of arguments offered up by my security people. This is my sanctuary, Tim. I only let those I feel comfortable with stay here. Granted, we've increased security in the past few years due to ... certain circumstances, but that has been one point I've not wavered on." Her eyes narrow slightly as she thinks it through. "Marik always ran thorough sweeps of the place to keep it all clean. I've always valued my privacy. It would be rude not to afford my guests the same courtesy. Why do you ask?"

"Someone trying to pull a fast one on me." Timofeyev gently breezes the blade through the grass beside him, then filters through the grass clippings to check the cut. "Fair enough... now, question number two. How artful is the Mafia around these parts?"

Nathi's expression darkens at the implications of his first response, but she refrains from pursuing it further. His business. He'll share the details if he feels like it. "I'd say they can be very ... artful," she says carefully, not so idly picking at a bit of hard rubber that's come loose on the dummy.

He nods again while he gently taps the blunt edge of his machete against the palm of his opposite hand. "Thanks. That's cleared things up immensely."

"Glad I could help," she replies, again forcing herself to not meddle any further, as promised, in spite of her first instincts to ask just what in hell is going on. "I'll ah ... let you get back to your work then. Just ..." Nathi steps away from the dummy, brushing a bit of dirt off her shirt and shorts, then smiles. "I'm glad you decided to stay here for a while, Tim. It's good having you both here. I guess I just wanted to let you know, and say thank you. Oh - and Dom's fixed up a small plate for you back at the guest house, if you've worked up an apetite."

Bondayehr puts the machete back in its place atop the blanket, then carefully starts rolling the blanket back up tight. "Thanks, Nathi. Anything else planned for tonight?"

"Well, I'd hoped to take the kids swimming for a bit before dinner - both of which you and Shorty have an open invite to, of course. After that, it's whatever sounds good. Fancy a friendly game of cards or something after I get the little ones settled in? Should be a nice night to enjoy sitting out under the stars sharing some laughs with good company," she replies thoughtfully.

The captain starts tying up his bundle of sharp objects, hands moving with quick, practiced motions that he obviously isn't thinking about. "Sure. Can make it to dinner and whatever afterwards."

"Excellent. I'll see you then, Captain," Nathi says, smiling more broadly. "In the meantime, if there's anything you two need, just let me or the staff know. And Tim - good hunting." She gives the young man a reassuring nod, then turns to make her way back towards the villa, musing over the conversation as she walks. There is someone who has no idea just who they've been fucking with. Go get 'em, Tiger.

3q: Operation Bovine Suggestion is GO!

Bondayehr does take that night as an opportunity to relax and catch up with Nathi, making himself comfortable in the crook of the kzinret's shoulder as they sit out under the stars and just discuss things. He's never been a particularly good card player--not knowing any games--and so loses untold imaginary fortunes as he starts betting whole nations he has absolutely no claim to. Shorty, on the other hand, is a dangerous player, if nothing other than her skill at reading others' emotions via methods most people fail to take into consideration. All in all, a pleasant night to spend with friends, and far better than most that the Captain has had under the stars. He could even, perhaps, be forgiven for drifting off.

The next day, Timofeyev almost forgets to return Sergeant Akayama's salute as he makes his way to his office, rather deep in thought. Curious, the kitsune hops up and follows, knocking politely on the doorframe while Bondayehr sits down and looks up. "Hm? Oh, come in, Sergeant."

Akayama heroically walks into the room, plants himself heroically in front of Bondayehr's desk, then leans to one side as he scratches the back of his neck. "Uhm--anything up, sir?"

"Always, Sergeant." Timofeyev shrugs mildly.

"You've just been... well..." The sergeant scratches the back of his neck heroically, then realizes what he's doing and stops, folding his hands behind his back where he can fidget with them unnoticed. "A bit less up-'n-at'em, as it were. Sir."

"Yeah. Those bluebellies started playing hardball pretty quickly." Bondayehr looks over at the box of stuff (helpfully labeled "STUFF") on an otherwise empty shelf, then walks over to start unpacking it to reveal books. "Right now is regrouping and preparing for the next step."

Sergeant Akayama nods, watching his commanding officer with a bored intensity that manages to remain heroic while not breaching the tacit laws of politeness. "So, what's the next step?"

"I'm going to be going over some plans to see if I can't get some minds changed. In the meantime... any progress on your front?"

"Nothing since yesterday, sir." The kitsune shakes his head decisively. "I haven't found any sort of Air Force-Navy shindigs within our two week timeframe, but there is a Navy dining-in at the end of the week."

"Good." Bondayehr smiles. "Sign me up for it."

"Invite-only, sir. I figure I can get you in on name alone, but if not I can see if there's any lonely female officers that need an escort... with your permission."

"I've already pledged my life to the Segments, Sergeant;" Timofeyev replies with a chuckle, "pledging my body to it as well isn't that much of a stretch. Do what you have to, but get me on that list... on the bounce."

"Yes, sir. On the bounce." Akayama gets the hint and bugs out while the captain sets up a carefully unwrapped and obviously carefully maintained katana on his windowsill. Nice touch, but it would've been nice to have a matching wakizashi to make a full daisho.

* - * - *

I will not lie, cheat, or steal nor tolerate anyone among us who does. That was the Honor Code drilled into Bondayehr when he was a cadet, the codification of the idealism that the Scolopendran Military Services stood for. Even back then, there was an understanding--lying to the enemy, cheating the enemy, stealing from the enemy are all necessities of war and arguably good... but in the overarching scheme of things, none of these were ever to be done. In SMISO, the tone changed. Just get the job done but don't fuck with family. The old Honor Code still applied, but only within the family, the brothers and sisters in the profession of arms.

Right now, the Daft isn't in the family, which is why the captain is currently flying nape-of-earth in a AMD verticar while tearing off the AMD enlisted uniform he was wearing previously and stashing it on the seat behind him. Technically, reappropriating the verticar from Devras Air Base's motor pool was not a crime--forging the name on the sign-out sheet and impersonating a Dominion soldier, on the other hand, could get him hanged in wartime. Bondayehr doesn't let that bother him too much as he flits at a speed of much too fast two meters off the waves, going on an arc over the Adriatic. Next stop, southern cow country.

After an hour of travel, the captain sets down the Daft verticar on the edge of a road, hopping out in his night camouflage and walking along the edge of the brush towards a pasture, the air pungent with the smell of cow and various cow byproducts. Easily hopping over the barbed wire fence surrounding the field while keeping his snoopers down, Bondayehr steers clear of stepping in anything that would leave a trace of his passing via starlight amplification, stalking slowly towards one bovine curled up under a tree, near the brush. The quiet click of his variable sword extending to full length thanks to a flick of his wrist doesn't register on the sleeping animal; the sharp hatchet in his other hand, noiseless, registers just as little. He wouldn't actually use it, primarily, oh no. That's merely to throw off the trail.

One-two, one-two, and through and through! The vorpal blade went snicker-snack; he left it dead, and with it's head he went galumphing back. Timofeyev recites Carrol to himself as he divorces life from limb--or at least head from shoudlers--and moves the smaller byproduct of the bisection aside while he hacks a hole into the cow's side with the hatchet, also being sure to mess up the variable sword's unnaturally clean cut with more blows from the sharp iron tool. After this bit of gruesomeness is complete, Bondayehr sticks a brick of homemade ammonium nitrate explosives into the cow--unstable, dangerous stuff around fire--lights a cigarette, and sticks the not-burning end into the pliable mass of explosive. Sticking the cow's head into his watertight canvas bag before wrapping it up, Bondayehr slings it over his shoulder, walking away carefully back to the verticar.

Local newspaper headlines the next day would talk about some redneck prank and how the police were building a suspect list. One letter to the editor would blame it on "those damned terrorists."


* - * - *

Cattle rustling used to be a hanging offense in some places. I suppose it'd just be 'wanton destruction of property' now, maybe arson with the bomb. Bondayehr shrugs as he hops over the wooden fence into the backyard, draining his momentum with his knees and moving far more quietly than he has any right to. The bag's straps around his shoulders like a backpack, he climbs up into the tree next to the ubiquitous Government Issue house and then down onto the sloping roof of the carport. Catwalking carefully up to the window on the second floor, staying close to the wall where the roof would be most stable (and thus least creaky), Timofeyev waves his EMF sensor around the rim of the window before peeking in--most alarm systems don't cover the second floor, but one can never be sure. Opening the window, the captain eases himself in backwards so the rubber soles of his combat boots can absorb the sound of him lowering himself down onto the... carpeted floor. Carpet, even better. He sneaks through the little kid's room--probably a boy, given the plastic models of older Daft fighter jets vying for ceiling superiority with Phantom IIIs and various 'Pendran-made capital ships--and into the hallway. He checks under each door with his episcope, before finally oiling the hinges and knob of the one that leads into the master bedroom, allowing him to open the door silently.

The room is dominated by the king size bed, currently supporting the supine forms of Colonnello Parini and his wife. Wholly unapologetic--in fact, his wife will just make this better--the captain crouches down and walks all the way around to the opposite end of the bed, making sure that no sound he makes overcomes the sound of the AMD officer's snoring. Quietly removing the bag from his shoulders, he unzips it, few teeth by few teeth, pacing it to match with the snoring, until he can extract its grisly payload. He gingerly lifts the head up and sets it down like a delicate, priceless artifact between the two, orienting it in such a way with respect to the Colonnello that would be considered obscene in most circles. Returning to the bag, he takes out a paper card and sets it on top of the cow's head. Stepping back to admire his work, Bondayehr pulls up the comforter on the bed to obscure it all before shouldering the bag again and sneaking his way out, back the way he came.

* - * - *

He hears a slight sniff as he takes off his boots, hears the shifting of the warm body underneath the covers reacting to his presence. "You smell like cow," she says with a mutter.

"Yeah, I know. I'm going to take a shower."

"Why do you smell like cow?"

"I'll tell you tomorrow. Go back to sleep."

"What time is it..." A momentary pause, an arm outstreched to tilt a clock, the angles causing a flash of light off of her reflective retinas. "Hrrr. Where have you been all this time?"

"Always with the questions," he replies in a nagging voice, "I'll tell you all tomorrow."

"Rrrr. All right."

He smiles to himself. Well, at least it wasn't terrorism. Close, but not quite.

* - * - *

The next morning, Colonnello Giuseppe Parini wakes up, stretches, and feels something a bit bonier than he remembers his plump wife as being, probably attached to that huge bulge under the covers that doesn't match either his or his wife's body. Throwing off the covers, his only thought is to get that damned thing out before the wife sees it.

By the murmurs from said wife next to him, and the screams that erupt immediately thereafter, he realizes that he is much too late for that now. With a hysteric wife to take care of and appease, it appears that his only recourse is thoughtfully suggested on the white card partially obscuring the dead bovine's head, its legend daubed on in Italian with that distinctive brown-red one only gets from dried blood.
Dear Colonnello,

Give the boy his parts.

--Uncle Enzo

3r: Flying a Desk, Part Two

Yawning, Captain Bondayehr works out his shoulders before picking up his mug and simply swimming through the thick hazelnut-scented fumes of his kawfee. Beside him, on the other side of Pot Number Two, Marihito takes a sip from his own mug, with decisiveness and vigor. Kawfee is almost unforgivably smooth to a coffee drinker, especially military coffee drinkers who expect their coffee to gain sentience, hop out of the pot, walk over, then beat them thoroughly about their heads and shoulders before shoving itself down their throats. On the other hand, 'Pendrans never got back around into actual coffee... so, instead, Pot Number Two is always filled with Paroo, care of the Sakkrans.

JP-4 jet fuel never had a kick like this.

"Busy night, Cap'n?" The sergeant asks this with the slightest secretive smile, in on some joke.

"Mrhff." Timofeyev replies with an assenting noise, finally sipping his kawfee. Despite the smoothness, the caffiene content gives it a definite kick as well. "Any progress?"

"Actually, yes. I followed up some leads I got from Lieutenant Abd-al-Wahab and managed to get in touch with the junior officer in charge of that little Navy shindig you want to go to."

"Good work, Sergeant. I'll just--"

"It gets better." The kitsune's hinting smile grows a few whiskers.

Bondayehr raises an eyebrow and takes another sip. "Go on."

"I mentioned your name, and immediately got transferred to the host. Ammiraglio designato d'Armata Achilleo Bellarmine, commanding officer of the Marina Militare Dominio's Central Fleet."

"So... you're telling me that the commander of the Dominion's Mediterranean, and therefore homeland, fleets is personally interested in me showing up?" Bondayehr half-smirks. "Score. I guess it figures."

"He seemed like a nice old man over the phone," Sergeant Akayama continues, still with that half-joke smile, "but perhaps... mischievous?"

"I'm surrounded by mischievous people, Sergeant."

"Indeed you are." Smile broadens.

"Spill it."

"Well, he said that he'd personally push for you to say a few words at the dining-in and even make you a guest of honor... on the condition that you, and I quote, 'bring whatever pretty young thing you're going out with. Call me curious,' he said. Good sense of humor, for an officer."

Timofeyev sighs. "Mostly harmless."

The kitsune raises one furred eyebrow, smile fading. "Problem, boss?"

"Yeah. The Daft bluebellies I'm working with are definitely playing hardball, and I don't want to give them any information they can use. Any news on the other matter?"

"The what? Oh, possible officers to escort. Well, I checked with the junior officer and, from what he's heard, all of the ladies are taken. There is, however, one other option." The sergeant looks down, suddenly serious.

Bondayehr frowns. "Out with it."

"As far as the ensign knows, there is one person actively looking for an escort or a date or whatever. Tenente di Vascello Ciro Tornatore... I don't think he's your type. Sorry, sir."

Timofeyev blinks, pauses, then bows his head in thought, calculating silently in his head while he stares at his boots. "No... after thought, it'll work, Sergeant. Good job."

Marihito blinks, and the captain rolls his eyes. "Come on. It's just a polite dinner. Besides, it'll screw with some people's minds, especially Designated-Admiral-of-the-Fleet Bellarmine. A little bit of misinformation goes a long way. Get Vessel-Lieutenant Tornatore's contact information and forward it to my office. I've a date to arrange."

3s: Life Is Awkward

Bondayehr checks his watch as the bus trundles into Stazione Navale de Devras, then instinctively brushes off a bit of white dust off of the black sleeve of his dress greens. Even though it's a short hop between the airbase and the military docks, the captain notes with a glance out the window that the bus arrives right on schedule. Ignoring any resultant correlations his mind forms between Nathicana and Mussolini (Nathi is certainly better looking, in any case), he filters off the bus along with everyone else, continuing to ignore the occasional curious glance he gets. The SASD uniform is almost identical to the TYCS uniform, except the Trium roundel is replaced with the curled-'S' steel centipede, so it stands to reason in the onlookers' minds that some Combined Services brass is visiting.

Stepping out of the bus and onto the concrete curb, Timofeyev reflects that the person most likely to be Vessel-Lieutenant Tornatore would be the one in the fancy white summer mess dress, cut like a tuxedo yet made out of white material. The officer in question steps up with a smile, and immediately shakes Bondayehr's hand enthusiastically but politely. "Hello, Captain Bondayehr," he says in heavily-accented, clipped English, "welcome to the... Naval Station." It's something he knows but perhaps doesn't use often enough to be completely fluent.

"Dovete essere Tenente di Vascello Tornatore," Bondayehr replies, taking advantage of the situation to make his date's--and suppressing a chuckle at that thought--time somewhat easier. "Thanks for meeting me here."

"You are most welcome," the naval lieutenant replies after a pause, sounding much more natural and relaxed (albeit surprised) in his native language as he smiles even more broadly. Ciro probably has six years or so on Bondayehr, making him a little shy of thirty; still young and quite fit; his complexion is still youthful, and apparently this one didn't have much problem with adolescent acne--everyone usually has one scar or two, Timofeyev muses as he uses his encephalon to unfair advantage, but he doesn't. His white wheel cap conceals well-managed light brown hair, and he seems like the kind that tends to laugh a lot, with an almost jovial look in his ice-blue eyes. "All bases are the same--identical buildings specifically designed to confuse people when you try to give them landmarks. Please, call me Ciro."

"Timofeyev." The captain looks up and down the street, noting the blocky milk-white buildings with their sans-serif gray numbers and square cut-out windows, all of which look completely out of place in the historically-aware Dominion. "Yes, certainly a military base. I hope I have not kept you waiting."

Ciro chuckles. "I have not been waiting more than five minutes... besides, even if you had, it would be worth it. It is not like the buses are your responsibility, true?"

"True." Bondayehr smiles sincerely. "Lead the way--I do not know where we are going."

The Dominion officer nods curtly with a smile and turns on his heels, which reminds Timofeyev that the Dominion is one of those militaries that use footwear other than combat boots for all purposes. Ciro catches Tim's eyes with his own and jerks his head slightly with a bright half-grin, suggesting that the captain walk alongside; Bondayehr takes this advice and ends up walking down the street almost shoulder-to-shoulder with Tornatore. Neither has any problem with this; the 'Pendran concept of 'personal space' is Arabian and thus far smaller than the Western equivalent, and Ciro has no problem walking close by his date. "So, Timofeyev, are you enjoying your stay in the Dominion?"

"More than last time," Tim quips. It's true enough; by this time three years ago he'd been evading patrols and guiding world leaders who didn't have enough sense to conserve rations (damned Treznor) through the countryside.

Ciro laughs. "That is not saying much."

"I do not know about your dining-ins, but I know the AeroSpace Directorate's first rule is 'thou shalt not open the hangar doors.'"

"Ah, yes," Ciro replies with a wink, "but the dining-in has not started yet."

Timofeyev nods. "Fair enough. Yes, I am enjoying living here. No, sometimes working here is difficult."

"I hear it is for you Scolopendrans. Something about us being backwards, archaic people." He winks again.

"Bah--just a different culture is all." Bondayehr half-smirks. "I have already had my culture shock that way, thank you, and gotten over it. In this case it is more a matter of... military inertia and having to deal with backwards persons."

"Anyone I know?"

"Depends how many Air Force quartermasters you know."

"Ahhhhh." Ciro frowns momentarily. "I have been hearing rumors about that. I hoped they were not true."

"Such is life. I am making progress, though," Timofeyev can't help but smirk more broadly, letting a little impishness show through, "we got a shipment yesterday which should tide us over for a few months. At least one kink in the supply chain has been straightened."

"Good, good." Tenente Tornatore occasionally returns the salute of a passing enlisted rating, and heads towards the officer's club--generally identical to the buildings next to it in brutalist architectural standardization, but it has a different grey number on the side and a sign out in front; also, instead of just a steel door with a vertical slit window and a simple European-style metal turn-handle to get in, the club actually has something that could be called a lobby that juts out from the building proper, glassed in on the sides with a bank of glass doors with polished metal rails on the side facing the road.

The inside is quite different--after the standard plastic-link mat, the club is done in thick but dense carpet, spongy yet supportive under one's shoes, and the chairs and couches are all large overstuffed affairs done in either leather or plush, the kind that simply swallow whoever sits in them... and this is just the lobby. The Dominioner leads on towards a corner with a small coffee table and two chairs, windows on two sides looking out at the bland blockscape that is the military base, broken by the occasional tree, bush, and flower patch. Sitting down across from Ciro, Timofeyev suddenly remembers the awkwardness of his situation... especially when Tornatore starts out the conversation. "I must admit, this is a surprise. Thank you for the opportunity."

"I certainly did not see it coming," Bondayehr replies with a slight half-smirk. "You are also quite welcome."

"Can I get you something?" Tornatore barely gestures towards the table set up on one side of the lobby, supporting an ubiquitous espresso machine, some pots of water and black beat-you-in-the-face coffee (standard for any Naval installation) on hot plates, and a plate of various kinds of pastries.

"Sure," Timofeyev replies. "I will have whatever you are having."

"Are you sure? I know that your people do not really like coffee... or at least, it is what I heard."

"That is true, but one has to acclimate to the culture one is in." Seeing the momentarily dejected look from Ciro--he is only trying to make me comfortable, after all--Bondayehr shifts his course. "Still, that can wait. If there is any tea, I would like that, please." This seems to make his date much happier and Timofeyev actually does relax a little, having dodged that particular bullet. Once Tornatore returns--double espresso for him, mug of tea for the captain--the next hour or so passes in small talk, something which Timofeyev has never been particularly good at but Ciro makes up for. They discuss hobbies (they both enjoy writing, but Ciro's a painter while Timofeyev mostly just sketches), literature (Ciro enjoys Ulysses and other modern 'high' fiction; Bondayehr sees it as much ado about nothing--"Joyce was a drunk Irish wanker who wrote about drunk Irish wankers getting drunk and wanking"--and prefers classical Russian literature, especially Fyodor Dostoevsky), and philosophy. From philosophy, Timofeyev uses the home-court advantage to unintentionally turn the conversation to ethics, morality, and religion, although politics does not come up except as a sidebar. It is clearly evident that Tornatore is fiercely loyal to the Dominion and, by extension, Nathi; those euphemistically-phrased 'limitations' that she puts in place are defended as unfortunate yet necessary for the best running of the state. Bondayehr concedes, as most 'Pendrans do, that the Scolopendran system of egalitarian representative/direct democracy does not work for all societies and it probably wouldn't work for the Dominion right now... but Bondayehr also gets Tornatore to concede that the Dominion could potentially move in that direction eventually.

He does have the decency to extract this concession only after making sure there are no soldati around. From that, the conversation turns to careers; Bondayehr explains his own varied history as a tour of the blazons sewn into his service dress, and Ciro seems suitably impressed. "All that weapons training, and all I have is a ceremonial sword I do not know how to use."

"Sharp-edged?"

"Yes."

"Then it is not so ceremonial. I can help you with that." And so forth. Tornatore is a logistics officer, "something which any navy can't have too many of," and so has a ladder of merit to climb rather than that of politics, which only really becomes a factor in duties that are not so vital. While his current tour is helping to coordinate the organization of Flotta Centrale (FLOCENT), he hopes either to get a sea tour on a logistics ship to Flotta Occidentale or Flotta Dell'Estremo-Oriente. His absolute dream, as with ninety percent of his peers, is to get a spacer position (preferably on Machavelli), but he has his doubts about that; Bondayehr jokingly offers to put in a good word. Even as a joke, the gesture makes Ciro a bit happier (as he was beginning to worry himself), and Timofeyev can't help but feel a little better for doing so.

As they talk, more naval officer in their summer mess whites come in, most with dates wearing attire appropriate for the formal occassion--women in evening gowns, men in tuxedoes or at least black-tie suits. A soft chime plays over the public address system, announcing the beginning of the social hour, and everyone gets up and moves into the dining room's antechamber, milling and talking and whatnot. Bondayehr is the only one in the distinctive green-and-black uniform of the spacers, and so quickly draws a crowd of various officers, mostly ranking higher than him and yet offering him respect beyond his grade. This makes sense to Timofeyev--the Navy has had more direct benefits to dealing with spacers than the Air Force. The Dominion space fleets were a way to wrest aerospace supremacy from the Air Force, which--being limited to surface bases while the Navy has starships that can truely project anywhere, land or sea--is probably a dying service. Things start clicking a bit more with that revelation.

The social hour is mostly more small-talk, service banter and technical talk. Discussion about the latest modification block for the Phantom III, what kinds of fun toys the SASD is holding out on the Navy, honest appraisals on how Dominion aerospace designs rate against Scolopendran aircraft. Throughout, Ciro stands beside but not too close to Bondayehr, commenting on logistics aspects and asking questions. There are, of course, obligatory questions of Bondayehr's stint as national hero three years ago, which means that Timofeyev launches into descriptions, complete with hand gestures, of how to make a composite bow the Mongol way, how to field strip a deer, how to fish, and how to evade the soldati by resorting to a different native language.

The most inquisitive person in the group is a white-haired, sea-worn flag officer with more ribbons, stars, anchors, cords, and fourrageres than Bondayehr thought reasonable for any given career; the only uniform he's ever seen that comes close belonged to a chief master sergeant who had done almost every imaginable thing in every single conflict of the past fourty years. Bondayehr muses that his own ribbon tree is comparatively small, and that he is also the only person in the room wearing combat boots. On the other hand, 'mess' Class A-pluses allow one to wear their medals, which means that at least he's also sporting the Sable Falcon decoration he got from Nathi. The understated red and black ribbon that is the 'Pendran equivalent sits over his right shoulder, tucked under the shoulderboard, so he figures--especially given the admiral's attitude--that the good impression is mutual. Still, the admiral seems to be quietly and very politely looking for someone else, or expecting someone to be there who he's apparently not seeing. Bondayehr tags him as Ammiraglio Bellarmine.

"So, Major," the admiral says (everyone has bumped Timofeyev up to Maggiore so as to not confuse him with Naval captains nor insult him by referring to him as a Naval lieutenant), "hopefully all has been going smoothly during the short time you have been working here?"

Bondayehr pauses and momentarily sucks air in through his teeth, resulting in a very soft hiss. "Not as such, Admiral, but there is no need to spoil the genial mood of the evening by going over the gritty details of my job." Hidden message: not in public, but I wouldn't mind talking to people about it later.

The Admiral nods. "It can be difficult working with our sister services sometimes; they are just as dedicated but sometimes that dedication can be misplaced." Shrugging momentarily, the flag officer checks his watch. "Almost time for dinner--I should take my place at the receiving line. I hope to see you at dinner, Major."

The admiral walks off, and the group around Captain Bondayehr breaks off into couples as they start arranging themselves for going through the greeting line assembling at the doors to the dining room. Tornatore steps forward, grinning broadly to Timofeyev; Timofeyev, despite his best efforts, just barely flinches, which elicits a raised eyebrow from his date. "Oh... right. You people do not grin." His lips clamp shut, but still smiling unoffendedly.

"Blame the kzin," Bondayehr replies, "but usually we do not flinch at grinning. I guess I am just nervous."

"I know what you mean," Tenente Tornatore replies as he offers the crook of his elbow, "I can never keep receiving line procedure straight in my head."

"Heh," Timofeyev replies with a slight chuckle as he accepts the proffered arm, "I guess that would be part of it."

Word comes down the line of officers and escorts of a last-minute change, and one hurried-looking junior officer, some poor O1-equivalent Guardiamarina, politely orders the two O3-equivalents to the front of the line before skittering off; Ciro and Timofeyev look at each other, shrug, and walk arm-in-arm down the impromptu alley formed by couples making a path.

Glancing over, Bondayehr sees some reporters, both military and civilian. He smiles for the cameras. Well, this certainly should mess with some peoples' plans to try and blackmail me.

The procedure for a receiving line is quite simple--Ciro takes point, introduces himself, and then introduces his 'guest' (read: 'date') to the first person in line; the first person in line then introduces himself and his 'guest.' The line starts with the lowest-ranking member of the official hosts, in this case a Naval captain--a colonel equivalent--and working up. While everyone seems surprised, albeit politely, to see Captain Bondayehr on the arm of a Dominion officer, the Roman Catholic priest acting as chaplain appears unamused and the Admiral's look is absolutely priceless.

"Sir," Ciro says respectfully, "I am Lieutenant-of-the-Ship Cero Tornatore and this is Major Timofeyev Bondayehr of the Scolopendran AeroSpace Directorate."

The Admiral, the same one from earlier, blinks as Bondayehr takes on an absolutely impish broad smirk and shifts his weight just enough to suggest a fawning motion. Catching himself, the Admiral smiles broadly as he shakes hands firmly. Surprised, yes. In a bad way, no. "Admiral-Designate-of-the-Fleet Achilleo Bellarmine, proud to host such fine young officers. The reason why you are first, Major," he addresses Bondayehr, "is because you are now our guest of honor, as I discussed with your sergeant. This means you take the next place in our receiving line."

Timofeyev nods and bows slightly in the Scolopendran tradition. "I am honored, Admiral." Then, to Ciro, "Well, I suppose now we exchange roles." Tornatore chuckles politely and both take up their positions at the far-right (self-relative) end of the line, past Bellarmine. The rest of the dining-in's guests file past, all quite cordial and polite as Bondayehr introduces first himself, and then his tacitly-implied date Ciro Tornatore. Several people look absolutely awestruck while Ciro beams; Timofeyev figures that these are other officers Ciro knows personally. As the receiving line stands by, all the guests filter into the dining room and stand behind their seats. Looking over to Ammiraglio Bellarmine, Bondayehr sees a nod, stands at attention, does a right-face, and marches out towards the head table.

Every so often, there is a battery of soft clicks from the dining room as Bondayehr and the rest of the hosting line behind him advance; this is the sound of shoe-heels clacking together as the guests stand at attention and pivot slightly to continue facing the hosts. The head table is elevated about half a meter on a modular stage; Bondayehr stands behind his seat at the extreme right until he gets the signal to sit down from the President, that being the Navy captain he met earlier.

The dining-in begins with a prayer by the priest then further introducing the guests, essentially mentioning them and whatever makes them special. Bondayehr almost finds himself blushing under the gushing encomium given him by someone more than half again his age. After that come the toasts, where people scattered around the guests, briefed previously, offer up standardized toasts to those things that the Dominion military respects above all. "President of the Mess, I would like to propose a toast. To the Imperatrice!"

The group responds as the litany and their true loyalty demands: "To the Dread Lady!" Sip from the glass of wine, then make sure it remains charged for the next toast by adding a little from the pitchers on the table if necessary.

"President of the Mess," another officer stands, "I would like to propose a toast. To Grand Admiral Giancarlo Torino, Chair of the Admiralty!"

"To the Chair of the Admiralty!" Another sip, and the process continues for one or two iterations. To the toast "To those comrades lost in the service of their nation," the response is respectful silence.

After that is dinner, starting with torta di verdura, and polite conversation over dinner that very carefully avoids mentioning any sort of shop talk. Bondayehr is somewhat annoyed that Ciro has to sit between him and Ammiraglio Bellarmine, who is actually a good part of the reason for this charade. Eventually, though, the admiral apparently tires of the priest's conversation and, after politely excusing himself, turns to Tornatore. "So, Lieutenant, how long have you had the pleasure of knowing the Major?"

"We just met, sir," Ciro replies respectfully, glancing back to Timofeyev.

"I see." The Admiral glances up momentarily towards Bondayehr, then back to the lieutenant. "How did you meet?"

"Apparently we both needed da... guests, to attend appropriately," Tornatore replies, catching himself with a nearly sheepish look. "He contacted me, offered, and we arranged something."

"Hm." Achilleo had thought he'd seen it all, but the gears turn in his mind and parts begin to connect. Perhaps this Scolopendran did not play as openly as most of them were wont to do... and this is certainly most sly for even any reasonable Dominioner, if this is the case. "Major?"

Timofeyev looks up, ceasing to pretend like his boned rabbit rolled in herbs and served in a pepper puree is more interesting than the conversation next to him. "Yes, Admiral?"

"Did you write up a short speech as I suggested to your sergeant? I was technically the guest of honor--I invited myself, you see," he says with a wizened and sly smile, "but I could not miss the opportunity to host the only foreign recipient of the Sable Falcon. I still plan on giving my presentation on the readiness of FLOCENT," he twirls one finger half-heartedly in the air, a slight roll of the eyes as he smirks, "but I am wondering on what you plan to talk about."

"Well, Admiral," Bondayehr replies in a careful tone, "my little speech is mostly about cooperation and the need to overcome cultural barriers if we are to be as effective allies as possible."

Achilleo nods again. "Very good. I think we can learn from your experience there." Turning away, the admiral leaves Captain Bondayehr wondering just how much he knows about the exploding cow... but that's probably just paranoia talking. Paying off the secret donation to that farmer is going to be a bitch, Timofeyev thinks momentarily just before a waiter distracts him by bringing around a plate of cheeses: Robiolo, Castelmagno, and a local Gorgonzola.

After dolce, the Navy captain calls up Timofeyev as the guest of honor to say a few words. Bondayehr sighs quietly to himself, stops his jiggling leg, and stands up as Ciro surreptitiously pats him on the back for support. Flashing a smile to Tornatore--he really is a nice guy--Timofeyev smiles wanly to the rest of the crowd, then walks over to the podium. The distinctive white flashes of photographers plying their trade don't do anything for his nerves--while he can address large crowds, he doesn't particularly like doing it and always is rather nervous when it comes to it. Setting himself behind the thick wooden podium, he plants his feet flat on the ground to prevent them from spasming regularly with nervousness.

He doesn't write speeches. He just gets an idea of what to say, practices it in his mind, and says it. "Hello, everybody. The good Admiral asked me to say something once he realized he had a chance to get a real-life national hero on stage, and so... yeah... I am here." He smiles with a slight shrug, eliciting a soft chuckle from the crowd. "A lot of people have been asking what I have been doing ever since I was playing ranger scout in the woods three years ago, and the simple answer is that I am a workaday trooper, just like everyone else... just a bit younger. The AeroSpace Directorate says jump, I ask where to, and there I go. I jumped here because the Directorate was- the Directorate figured I had so much experience in Dominion culture from my last little adventure here that I was perfect as a political liason officer... because we all know that knifing deer and carving bows is the key to relating with the average Dominion Air Force officer." This elicits a greater laugh, even if it is a cheap appeal to interservice rivalry. Getting a feel for the crowd, Bondayehr pantomimes drawing a knife and brandishes it with a sneer, looking at an imaginary person on the stage. "I'll gut ya like a fish, boy, if you don't gimme those parts... nyarr. Anyway. The thing is that our cultures- I have this job because I know our cultures are different. Just look at the way we are dressed right now."

Bondayehr steps out from behind the podium and points to his feet. "Even once you get past the fact that your uniforms are fancier, I am the only person in this room wearing combat boots. My culture dropped a lot of tradition to embrace utility in all things. That is why we do not have a mess dress, and why every single uniform has the same type of footwear--combat boots. When working with you, I know you think the usual Scolopendran attitude is brusque... we are always business first, never willing to relax and take things in their stride. But we are Arabs that way; we welcome you, get the haggling done, then relax. You take things in their natural stride, which to us seems at best needless delay and at worst sloth. Not that either estimation is true about the other, but that is just how things work.

"The point is that we have to get past ourselves and our own cultures and see how to relate to the other side. Having been here before and keeping in contact with friends, I know that I need to slow down my cultural pace. Things will still get done, and they will get done on time--I just need to take things naturally, flow with it. There are traditions and the like which need to be respected... but all good adaptation, and I mean the best, has to be mutual. Just as the Directorate has to shift and change to acclimate the forces it works with, those forces have to shift things so they actually can work with the Directorate. Respecting tradition is all well and good, but not when it detracts from the mission. I will admit, sometimes we do not do all that we can. Sometimes, though, we need to be met halfway, because some traditions keep us from accomplishing the mission. We have to deal with concepts that just do not fit anymore so... we sometimes just cannot, because of traditional restrictions or traditional means of doing things, get around it. Add in the fact that sometimes not everyone is as dedicated to the mission, and they try to work on things for their own advantage, or weight the game in their favor... that just does not help anybody, in the long run.

"We all have to be on the lookout, but in the end, we are all in this together because we are allies. The interests of the Dominion and the interests of the Segments are one and the same in the long term, even though in the short term they may be adversarial--just like the challenges for qualification with liason wings like mine. The important thing is not to beat us, although everyone should make every legitimate effort to aim for that. The important thing is for all of us to get better through practice, and those that forget that bring all of us down and weaken us. It is a dangerous world out there, and we must be prepared for it. We are more prepared working together, in the end, than we are when we are working apart or by means that just do not get the job done. Thank you for your time... and now we are all learning why I am a special-operative-fighter-pilot-political-liason-officer instead of a speechwriter. Good night."

He steps away from the podium to polite applause, probably a bit stronger than it would have been because of that last part. Always good to remind your audience that you're a moron, Timofeyev thinks to himself as he waves gently to the crowd, then sits back down. "Well, that could have been better."

Ciro shrugs slightly with a smile. "It was good, really. It is true, after all."

"Eh. Sounded better in my head."

Next comes the Admiral's presentation, which is succinct yet informational, describing the basic condition of the Central Fleet--less reliance on carrier groups close in, but having one at the Strait of Gibraltar and another in the Red Sea. As these groups safeguard Dominion trade, they were the first to be upgraded to the 'overtechnology' offered by the Triumvirate. The Air Force, admittedly, is making advances into homegrown fighter overtechnology, but the Navy is putting its research budgets into starships, where it is easier to get closer to parity with the Triumvirate and thus be an aid to Triumvirate matters rather than be a burden. It was also much better-executed than Bondayehr's, but he has the advantage of slides to refer to... and experience.

After that, the dining-in winds down quickly. By now the last scraps of the pannacotta with fresh sliced figs and strawberries dipped in hot syrup have been taken away, and the President of the Mess reads off a few announcements of interest to the Naval Station officers but of little relevance to Bondayehr, so he tunes out slightly during those. He gets the slightly burning feeling that someone is looking at him, but he doesn't look to his left to confirm it.

Finally, the Navy captain adjourns the mess, and all the guests stand while the head table gets up and walks out of the room. After that, everyone is technically free but it is considered polite to talk to the guest of honor, so Timofeyev shakes a lot of hands and makes a lot more small talk, Tenente Tornatore still hovering nearby, talking to his friends. Bellarmine also hangs back to talk to a lot of people, and about another half hour passes until there's essentially no one left except Timofeyev, Ciro, and Achilleo.

The Admiral steps up, and Bondayehr finally gets the opportunity to look appropriately at him, register the weathered face that is just as much evidence of Achilleo's experience as the ribbons and medals on his chest. Despite his age, he still stands tall and fit. "That was an interesting speech, Captain," he says with a grandfatherly tone and a half-smile.

"It was on a subject dear to me, Admiral," Bondayehr replies, bowing slightly at the compliment of being called 'captain' again--there are no other captains to confuse him with, but Bellarmine's bearing makes it clear this is intended to be a 'colonel'-like 'captain.' "I was not altogether sure what else I had to talk about."

Achilleo nods. "I understand. You brought up several important points, I thought... I am still quite pleased I managed to have you as my guest." He glances momentarily to Ciro and smiles a little more. "In fact, if that machine you call the Directorate ever gives you any free time at all, I would be honored if you were to visit me at my office or even my home."

I would like to talk to you off the record. Message received. Another bow. "You honor me with such a broad invitation, Admiral."

"Bah," the old man replies with a dismissive wave of one hand, "ever since my wife passed away I have been much freer to bring in whatever ruffians I choose to. It is my pleasure, and I like people who are so dedicated to their work." Another glance, then a chuckle. "Anyway, it is late and it is time for this old man to go to bed. Have a good night, you two."

"Good night, sir," Ciro replies, followed momentarily by Timofeyev. The Admiral mimics one of Bondayehr's bows, smiles mischievously, then turns on his heels and walks out of the glass doors of the lobby, whistling to himself. "The old man is a good guy," Tornatore observes. "His sense of humor is legendary."

"So I noticed." Looking over at Ciro, Bondayehr decides that now is not the time to gracefully extract himself from his devious little deceit and therefore smiles. "Where to now?"

* - * - *

Timofeyev munches idly from a mango-flavored gelado while he looks over the ships in the harbor, their lights steadily glowing like lightning bugs hovering in formation over the water. One destroyer, leaving port, looks like a collection of small fires out in the distance, its black form matching the dark water that reflects it imperfectly in the gentle chop, the waves causing a soft crash on the concrete surfaces of the docks. Sitting there beside Ciro on the bench, just watching the boats... it isn't half bad, even if he isn't gay. Hell, even Ciro's arm around his shoulders isn't bad. Perfectly chaste, that.

Still, each moment quietly hangs in the back of Bondayehr's mind. Sometimes being a nice guy can be difficult; the moment where coming straight out--Heh... bad pun...--and admitting the truth would cause the least damage hasn't come yet, and Timofeyev gets the feeling that he should make his move before Ciro makes his. Unfortunately, Ciro really is a nice guy and Bondayehr feels somewhat guilty for having had to use him. Hopefully I can salvage some respect out of this...

"Thanks for humoring me," Tornatore says quietly out of the blue.

"Hm?"

"Thanks for humoring me." Timofeyev can't see it, but he gets the feeling that Ciro is half-smiling. "It has been bugging me all night. What are the odds? It is unlikely you knew about the dining-in unless you were actively looking for one to attend. By how the Old Man was acting, it looked like you talked with him but he told you to bring someone... which would explain why he seemed to be missing someone during the social hour and was surprised at the receiving line."

"Actually, that's what he said to Sergeant Akayama," Bondayehr replies, frowning a little. "Listen, Ciro--"

"No, really, I understand." Another sense of a wry smile. "Actually, I always almost knew, somehow, in the back of my mind. 'Hope springs eternal from the human breast,' as it were. National hero asks you out... yeah." He chuckles a bit. "Anyway, how did you know I needed a date?"

"Sergeant Akayama's rumor mill." Timofeyev sighs and rests his head on Ciro's shoulder. "Yes, it's true. Sorry to disappoint."

The Dominioner chuckles, then laughs, shoulders shaking. Bondayehr waits for it to change to something a bit more tearful, but it doesn't. "This is so weird! So, I have to ask. Are you straight and just needed me to get contacts?"

"Yes."

"Then why the hell are you still on my shoulder?" He jostles Tim around a bit with his hand on Tim's shoulder.

"It is comfortable, you know, and the Segments are actually rather liberal when it comes to Platonic relationships. I must admit, you're a really nice guy, and someday you'll find the guy who's right for you."

Ciro just leans back and continues to laugh, shaking his head. "Okay. So where's the camera?"

"Nope. This honestly is not a setup."

"Still..." The lieutenant pauses for a moment, thinking. "Wait a minute. No one else knows..."

"Yup."

"So they all think..."

"Yup."

Ciro blinks. "So just so you could network, you..."

"Yup. And I think I made a decent call. This has been the best date I've ever been on."

Tornatore laughs again. "Why thank you. That compliment counts double coming from someone wholly uninterested in me."

"Eh, what the hell. Gay men have always been complimenting me on my looks, and besides..." Picking his head up, Bondayehr makes sure that the coast is clear before leaning in and giving his date a peck on the cheek. "I figure it's time to return the favor. Who knows?"

Finishing off his gelado, Timofeyev stands up while Ciro blinks at him, rubbing his cheek. "Hey, usually I don't kiss people on the first date. You should count yourself lucky. G'night, Ciro." In complete disregard for regulation, Bondayehr puts his wheel cap back on at a jaunty angle, sticks his hands in his pockets, and walks off, whistling to himself.

Ciro finds his voice and hops to his feet. "Hey!"

Bondayehr turns around, bracing himself for the fist to the face. "Hm?"

"I should certainly think that I rate enough to get your number."

Timofeyev shakes his head, chuckles, and then shrugs. "What the hell, I owe you one. Got a piece of paper?"

3t: Home Front

"So, how was your date?"

Bondayehr stops short, then steps back a pace to look into the kitchen where Shorty is making herself a sandwich. Something in her voice, probably the hint of low growl, indicates she is not in a good mood. Ah yah, I knew I forgot something... "Went well," he replies carefully, "but I'm afraid he's really not my type." He flashes a joking smile.

Shorty's nostrils shut and open as she makes a soft ticking noise from the back of her throat, tail lashing spasmodically. All in all, not good signs. "You could of least let me know, much less taken me."

Timofeyev winces. This isn't going to go too well. "Err, yeah, sorry about that. I've had to run here and there thanks to results of Cow Night--"

"I suppose that would have something to do why the living fund is three hundred workreps smaller?"

Thinking quickly, Bondayehr slowly sucks air through his teeth. The 'living fund' is essentially the application of his post-panty auction pension from Nathi. So far, what was taken out of it was put back in, because being on patrol all the time means that one's expenses are marginal. Therefore, the three thousand-odd workreps paid out so far is now, by mutual agreement, a sort of communal slush fund to meet both Timofeyev's and Embassy-Representative's needs. The only catch is that, generally, they should confer with each other first. "Look, I blew up a rutting cow. It was going to need replacing anyway."

"Yes, but right now when we're looking for somewhere to live that isn't the good Dread Lady's doorstep?" The 'ret growls a little, slapping a slice of bread onto the top of the sandwich. Timofeyev sees a distinctive green-labeled can and doesn't ask questions.

"I've already got a plan to recoup the three hundred from my salary. No worries, you're not out on anything."

Shorty sighs, shakes her head, and takes a large bite out of her sandwich, glaring back at the captain while she chews and swallows. "It's the principle of the thing, Tim. I do not like being left out any more than you do... and twice in one week?" She turns, leaning one shoulder against the cupboard. "You are really trying to outdo yourself."

"Twice?" Timofeyev blinks, folding his arms and returns the challenging stare. "I'll admit, hitting the fund without talking to you was out of line. I never knew that I had to keep a curfew or a log of where I'm going."

The kzinret scoffs. "Really? Who is the one constantly mumbling paranoiacally about how dangerous the Dominion is? You already told me someone tried to blackmail you, and, like you said, you blew up a rutting cow to deal with it. I think I have every right to be worried about you, all things considered." She takes another bite, skipping chews and swallowing harshly, not even thinking about it. "So, yes. You don't come in when you usually do; you're hours late, I call up your office and no one's there; finally I had to call around until I got your sergeant and he told me you were at a formal dinner."

"Fair enough," Bondayehr offers with a curt nod, never actually dropping his eyes, "me being busy is an explanation but no excuse. I will not let it happen again."

"Rrr, there's more to it than just that," Shorty says with a glare. "You are not the only one who needs to network and make contacts, you know. Diplomacy is all about who you know, and who's the diplomat in the house here?"

Timofeyev frowns. "We've already covered this, Shor--" Seeing the look on her face, he realizes she really has no sense of humor at the moment. "Embassy-Representative. Because the Dominion is a dangerous place and I don't particularly want to see you getting used as collateral in some wiseguy's scheme, I had to resort to other options."

"So you go out to dinner with a gay man?"

Yup, Akayama told her everything. Timofeyev lets out an annoyed sigh. "Yes. Like I said earlier, he's not my type. Nice guy nonetheless."

"And how is that supposed to protect you from the rumor mill any more than showing up with me?"

"It's not about rumors about me," the captain replies shortly, "and even if it were, the Dominion's had centuries to get used to homosexual relationships. On the other hand, interspecies relationships still probably does more than raise eyebrows around these parts... but that isn't even the point. It's just like we discussed on the way here--I don't want you in the public eye as much as possible for your own protection."

The kzinret crosses the distance between the two in two steps, grabs Timofeyev by the collar of his shirt, twists, and lifts him off the ground so they can speak eye-to-eye. "You're doubting my ability to protect myself?"

Yup. Definitely the impulsive one. This all seemed to go so much easier earlier. "I'm sure if someone is stupid enough to send meatshielding to try and rough up a 'ret, you'll give them what-for. As for the rumors, lies, and slander they can spread to ruin your career... may mean nothing in the Segments but it can get you all fucked up here. These people play dirty."

"Bah." Shorty tosses Bondayehr back down and back, turning around and finishing off the rest of her sandwich in one bite. "We do live together, you know. May not be news yet, but the Great National Hero"--she scoffs--"moves to the city it'll get around."

"So?" Bondayehr adjusts his collar. "Everyone already thinks that I'm gay. 'Pendrans often live together Platonically to cut down on costs. It'll never get past pointless conjecture unless somebody goes to pretty great lengths to probe into our personal lives."

"Which you're essentially saying we won't even have for as long as we live here."

"Just have to be discreet about it is all," Bondayehr says quietly in what he hopes is a calming tone.

Shorty looks down and heaves her shoulders in a sigh. "Right. I am looking for an apology because I feel left out, and you are not going to provide one because you feel you did the right thing."

"I will apologize that you took it so hard," Timofeyev replies. "That was unintentional. The timing was horrendous, with the cow and the money and everything."

"Hrrrmpf." Standing there for a moment, she comes to a decision. "I am going house-hunting."

Timofeyev glances to the clock on the stove. "It's ten 'till midnight."

"I can see in the dark. Nathi was kind enough to find me a list of properties she could arrange us a deal on..." She glances over her shoulder. "Are you about to stop me?"

Bondayehr shakes his head. It'll be better if she just works it out of her system. "Right now I think you've got the right to do pretty much whatever you want."

"Good." The 'ret storms past Bondayehr, snatches a sheet of paper off of her desk, and walks out the door with a slam without another word.

Bondayehr sighs, puts up his uniform, and lies down on the couch, pulling the blanket he has folded across the back over him. "Well, that was unexpected," he mutters to absolutely no one in particular as he lays his head on the soft armrest and mutters himself to sleep with a Sakkran chant he never got around to learning the meaning of.

It wasn't right. All signs pointed to something more than just a disagreement, and somehow it felt as though it were getting worse by the day. She'd minded her own business, not asking why it was they seemed to visit at different times lately, nor why they seemed to pass one another with barely a second glance, nor why, on those occasions they were in the same room together, the tension evident was becoming smothering.

Nathicana took the long way around, coming towards the path Shorty was taking, then leaning up against one of the trees that lined the path. The fireflies were out, dancing in and out of the lengthening shadows the lush greenery provided, their tiny lights flickering in that magical way they had about them. She took a moment to appreciate the view, trying to relax before the 'ret approached.

I'm still not sure I should be doing this, but something has to be done.

Embassy-Representative walks along the path, letting the cool breeze rustle past as she wanders about, lost in thought. Things hadn't improved as expected since the dining-in, not like they always had in the past. There'd been arguments before, but it always cleared up after a while... He was actively avoiding her--she knew that much--but couldn't tell whether or not it was a matter of not wanting to impose or simply reordering his own mind to be less dependent on her and more dependent on the bottle. She fears the latter, and is musing on it when she almost stumbles past Nathi.

"Hr," she says apologetically, "good evening, Nathi."

"Buona serra Embassy-Representative," the woman says softly, with a nod and a gentle smile. "Do you mind if I walk with you, for a bit? There are times when I find the company of another to be a comfort."

The kzinret thinks for only a moment, then nods. "That it can be... and it is your path. Where you walk is for you to choose." The tip of one lip curls up, a gesture unconsciously borrowed, as her ears wink slowly.

"Grazie," Nathi says, leaning up away from the tree, then gesturing slightly for Shorty to set the pace, falling into step beside her while giving the 'ret ample room. "My path, true, but your walk, all the same. I trust you've had adequate space and privacy during your stay?"

"Quite... thank you," Embassy-Representative replies, maintaining her relatively slow pace. "More than enough space."

"There are times when perhaps too much space can exist in some respects," Nathi observes, reaching down to pluck several blades of long grass from alongside the path, idly trailing them through her fingers as they walk.

"True, unfortunately." The kzinret looks down at her feet once or twice in thought, eyes not exactly focused on the ground.

The raven-haired woman begins working the blades between her fingers, watching the kzinret from the corner of her eye now and then. "I have found that while space can be a good thing, and serve a purpose now and then, that too much for too long becomes problematic. A garden can go without it's tender for only so long before going to seed, for example, though even there, things take time to cultivate and grow.

Sometimes one must have patience and wait to see the results, sometimes one must take action for the desired results to happen."

Shorty glances over to the short woman, then shakes her head and chuckles. "Living in the Dominion means that I must build my patience... but does it always take you this long to get to the point?" Said without heat, merely wryness.

"Only when I'm trying to be delicate," Nathi says wryly in turn. "Right then. There's trouble between two people I've come to care about and respect. It's been dragging on for long enough to be clear that someone needed to say something, since you're clearly not saying anything to each other. You're too good together to be doing this to each other, whatever it is. How do we fix it?"

The 'ret quietly registers things in her mind and nods. "Not sure. Would've fixed it by now if I did know."

"Talking is a good beginning. Hell, sometimes even a good fight can bring things out to clear the air - so long as you don't kill each other in the process. Believe me, I know. I could tell you stories about Dev and me that would turn your fur white," Nathicana replies with a half-grin - closed lipped, of course. "Regardless, it does take two. That took me a while to learn."

"We know that quite well." Shorty smirks. "This time it didn't work. Now we just quietly avoid each other."

"Avoiding the problem won't fix it. I'm sure you know that also. Perhaps rather than asking what you can do about it, asking what you're willing to do about it is more helpful?" Nathi glances over, her head tilted slightly, then goes back to playing with the long strands of grass in her hand, finally working them into the beginnings of a loose braid.

"That is part of the problem. I do not know exactly why we are avoiding each other. He is, as always, being the gentleman and sacrificing bits so I am taken care of--he's taken the couch, of course. While this is aggrivating, I don't wish to offend him further than I already have."

"Well, perhaps if you could explain what started it all," Nathi offers, frowning slightly as she turns the situation over in her mind.

"Started Friday last week," the 'ret replies simply. "Tim removed some money from our group fund--made up of your pension--to cover a 'project' of his without discussing it with me first. Also, he went to a formal dinner to make some Navy contacts under the table... without even letting me know prior." She growls very softly. "I understand he is simply trusting in absolute paranoia for our safety, but it is... chafing at times."

Nathicana nods in understanding, a few more things clicking. "I don't think we left him with a good impression, his last trip. Subsequent training no doubt has not improved that view," Nathi murmurs, her frown deepening slightly. "If money is a problem, I can replace it. He needn't even know - that makes you even there. As for the dinner, if it is contacts you are in need of, very quiet arrangements can be made as well, to put you more on common footing. It is a strength to use whatever means are within your grasp, after all. Not a weakness." The woman pauses for a moment over the last bit, however.

Shorty shakes her head. "While I'll keep your offer in mind if I absolutely need it, it is... important that I succeed on my own virtues. Part of why this bothers me so. The problem is that I was... less than tactful when bringing up my concerns and so now..."

She sighs softly. "He is avoiding me further, probably not wanting to impose or give me any trouble. Whether this is simply concern or an indication of a... deeper shift, I don't know and I'm honestly afraid to find out."

"Ah," Nathi says, pursing her lips and nodding before continuing in a cautious tone. "Perhaps then, an apology would be a good beginning? Whether you need to apologize 'first' or 'only' or not. Sometimes it is a measure of those virtues you mentioned in seeing how we can swallow our pride to do what's necessary." She shakes her head as she thinks of Shorty's last comment. "Letting things continue as they are is one way to guarantee a 'deeper shift'. I get the feeling that isn't what you want. Don't let that happen if it doesn't need to."

The 'ret nods slowly. "Knowing him, he thinks--as I do--I was fully in the right to be aggrivated. An apology will be brushed aside as unnecessary. I look at him and I try to see whether or not he wishes to talk to me or not... he is good at making himself difficult to read."

"And they say we Dominion folk are a difficult lot," Nathi grumbles, though smiling good-naturedly. "Perhaps stating outright what you want and why? The direct approach?"

"My usual brusqueness has gotten me into enough trouble," Shorty replies, ignoring the jab, "so I am sure you understand when I feel more of the same would be... counterproductive?"

"Well, you have to try something," the woman says bluntly. "Directness need not mean 'without tact or a gentle touch' after all. Of course, I could always go talk to him, and get you both stirred up. Nothing like a common 'enemy' to bring two sides together." She smiles wryly at that, tying off the two ends of the grass braid she's been toying with.

The kzinret scoffs at that. "Perhaps you talking to him is not a bad idea, but the last thing we need to do with Mister Paranoid is make more enemies for him, pretend or no."

"It was a figure of speech ... somewhat," Nathi says, chuckling softly. "I've always had a habit of trying to do the right then and ending up doing the wrong thing entirely when it comes to that boy. Any boundaries you prefer I don't cross? Things I should leave unsaid?"

"I don't trust my own judgement there anymore." Shorty shrugs slightly. "He actually does trust and respect you. Wary of consequences, perhaps, but trusting. Perhaps just being an honest go-between is all that is needed."

"Let's hope so. The truth is I hate to see you both hurting like this. If I can help ..." She shrugs as well, accepting the compliment with a tired sort of smile. "Thank you. That means a lot."

"He also thinks he is good at keeping secrets," the kzinret says with a soft chuckle. "You can perhaps understand why he's been quiet about it. I don't think he'd mind you knowing, though."

"I've suspected for a while now," Nathi offers with a smile. "I figured you two would say something if you wanted to, and if not, you wouldn't. I see no problems. And as I'm sure you've noticed, I too value my privacy."

"I'm getting the feeling, though, that his... concern about publicity is probably mostly just paranoia. I'm sure you've heard the rumor mill since the dinner."

Nathicana nods thoughtfully. "Mmmhmm. Though I suppose I was curious as to why he felt it would cause less a sensation going that route. After talking tonight, I think I understand. Devras isn't some backwater country market, after all. We have all sorts come through here. Even the Sakkrans hardly get a second glance these days." She tries to repress a mischievous smile as some of the conversations over just that subject come to mind.

"Still, I can guarantee after his little outing there were dozens of women who had their hearts broken. And probably about as many men who cried out 'Praise Jesus!' as well."

"You should probably tell him that. He'll be glad to hear that his brand of misdirection worked." The 'ret smiles wryly.

"There's a way to break the ice," Nathi says, twirling the little grass ring around one finger and looking thoughtful for a moment. "I could hand deliver some flowers from an 'admirer' ..."

Shorty sniffs the air slightly, squinting her eyes slightly as she glances to the Dread Lady, one furred eyebrow raised. "I think I see where this is going."

Nathicana pauses, and looks over at the 'ret. "Oh?"

"There are flowers around here, no?"

The woman nods and smiles. "Flowers aplenty. I like my gardens."

"I think I should get to gathering some, then... if you allow, of course."

The woman smiles more broadly, still close-lipped as has become her habit. "I think that would be an excellent idea," she says. "Permission most definitely granted."


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


Nathicana knocks firmly at the door to the guesthouse, pauses, taking time to smell the rather nice bouquet of flowers she has in hand. Recieving no answer, she steels herself, opens the door, and goes inside.

She's heard this sound before, the quick, soft, but sharp exhalations that indicate the stealth version of a power-exhale. He must be practicing.

Following the sounds, she walks through the house, calling out loudly enough to be heard as she approaches. "Tim? Sorry to bother, but I have something for you."

The living room has been completely rearranged, all the furniture moved carefully to the sides to leave the middle of the high-ceilinged room completely open. Bondayehr stops swinging around the meter-long piece of rebar, looking over his shoulder as Nathi approaches, catching his breath. He always wore a shirt whenever Nathi was around, and for good reason, not least of which are the four claw marks a quarter of a meter long stretching down his back. "No, not a bother at all, Nathi; just finishing up here."

He sets the bit of rebar down on another green standard-issue blanket, then works out his red hands. "Can I get you anything? I have an impressive array thanks to my old army buddies."

Nathicana is quite careful to keep her gut reactions to herself, wincing inwardly at the scars, wondering what on God's green earth could have possibly done that to him, and how in hell he had survived. For all outward appearances, she's as casual as ever, offering him a pleasant smile and a slight shake of her head. "Just dropping by to deliver these," she says, holding up the flowers, and gently twisting her hand to display them.

"Well that's sweet," Timofeyev replies, accepting the flowers with only a marginally confused look, taking them as if accepting some sort of strange device of unknown function. "What's the occasion?" He continues on towards the kitchen, wondering what exactly he could put them in.

"From an admirer," she says smoothly. "Recent happenings and all being what they are."

He chuckles and shakes his head, filling an inexpensive glass up about halfway with water before carefully putting the bouquet in. "Hand-picked, too. None of the clean cuts from a florist's shears. Sweet." The front of him doesn't look much better, with criss-crossing layers of scars along his stomach and odd, blobby scars that look like pox or acne scars but much too large. "Are you sure I can't get you anything?" Opening the liquor cabinet, he reveals a wide variety of bottles. "Alvians," he says for explanation as he takes down one bottle with a brown label.

"I get the feeling the one who sent them put a lot of thought into the effort, yes," she observes, glancing between the odd assortment of bottles, and the further evidence of the Captain's 'adventures' over the past several years. Hawke, you bastard. I knew the boy was tough, but for God's sake, did you have to prove to yourselves just how tough he was?

"I'll have whatever you're having," she says finally. "Experimentation is good."

Bondayehr shrugs, pulls out two shot glasses from the cupboard, and pours clear brown liquid into each of them. His hand obscures most of the label, but apparently the number '151' plays a prominent role in it. "There you go." Passing one glass to Nathi, he takes up the other and raises it in salute. "Kampai."

"Salut," she says, raising her glass in return, then tossing back the questionable contents quickly. And feeling it shoot down her gullet like a ball of fire that takes her breath away, then settles in her stomach. "Jesu Christo, porcoddio!" she gasps, then coughs, her eyes watering. "The fuck was that?"

Bondayehr tosses his back, frowns slightly for a moment while his eyes just barely water, then pours another. It tastes like being shot... but he's been shot before so it isn't exactly a new experience. "Overproof Okie rum. They call it 'Bad Karma.'" He throws down the next one, frowns slightly, then looks at the bottle thoughtfully.

Nathicana is more than grateful for the toxin filter right about now, hoping to hell she hasn't done any harm with that last drink. "Something wrong?" she asks, letting out a slow breath.

The captain shrugs again. "C'est le vie," he replies, pouring another.

"Tim," Nathi says carefully. "I realize you've developed a decent tolerance there, but don't you think it's a little early to be hitting the bottle quite so hard?"

"Why? Something going tonight?"

"Something probably should," she observes, then changes tracks. "I think you broke a lot of ladies hearts with that stunt of yours, you know. And probably encouraged just about as many more men at the same time. Interesting bit of subterfuge, that."

Timofeyev chuckles. "I was wondering when you'd bring that up. Did what the situation demanded, I thought." Takes the next shot, then frowns slightly.

"And now you're having second thoughts?" she asks, casually reaching for the bottle.

"Secret admirers sending me things, among other things, wasn't in the plan." He frowns again at that last sentence, then shrugs slightly.

"You and Shorty not speaking was probably not in the plan either, no?" she asks bluntly.

Bondayehr blinks once, then twice, then decides that three shots of 75.5 percent alcohol was not good preparation for surprises. Calculating for a moment: spying is a possibility, but his bug-sweeps still register clean. Another possibility is that Shorty talked, and that might be something she would do. Either way, doesn't help anyone to bluff out of it. "Far from it."

"I've noticed your patterns have changed lately," she continues smoothly - and entirely truthfully. "You and she pass, but you no longer spend time together as you used to. There is a tension here that wasn't before. She has been going for walks more often. And you," she emphasizes with a shake of the bottle, "have been hitting the booze more heavily. It doesn't take a genious to see something is up."

"The timing couldn't possibly be simply coincidence. Care to talk?"

"I ticked off the 'ret. Now I'm working to not do that again," he replies, equally truthfully. "Acting without her say-so got me into this, so I'll impose less. Not really my preference," he says, shaking the bottle lightly, "but something to adapt to."

"What makes you think it's her preference either? It doesn't seem like either of you are really speaking, so I'd assume you haven't taken the time to sit down and discuss? This whole 'acting without her say-so' seems to be what you might continue to be doing with this 'imposing less'." Nathi takes a brief whiff of the bottle, crinkles her nose, then sets it back out of easy reach from the Cap'n. "Just an observation."

"She's an open gal. Didn't kill her to tell me once, won't kill her to tell me again." Timofeyev shrugs. "Nice and blunt and not too concerned about how I take it."

"You're sure about that, are you?" Nathi says steadily, then glances casually over at the flowers.

"Worked in the past," Bondayehr replies, not exactly being at his best when it comes to detecting subtlety.

"You are an idiot sometimes," Nathi says, shaking her head and frowning. "The both of you, I swear, are more bone-stubborn and prideful than any dozen Dominioners I could name. Here you are, both of you clearly unhappy, and what do you do? Continue to make each other and yourselves unhappy rather than just swallowing a bit of pride and communicating."

Timofeyev nods simply. "Yup. I am a total idiot. Good job, Nath, for seeing what everyone else chooses to ignore. I'm an idiot and it's all my fault." While the word choice is perhaps sarcastic, the tone certainly isn't. "Sounds about right."

"As if we all aren't idiots now and then. I see you missed the 'both' in there entirely. She's acting no better right now, as far as I can see," she says dryly. "I figure you can either keep moping, and continue to see how far you can beat yourself down before you can't stand up anymore."

"Or," she continues firmly, "you can pull yourself out of the bottle you've been hiding in and hold on to what seems to be the one truly exceptional thing you have going that doesn't involve guns and paperwork. Your choice."

"So I can fuck it back up again later," Bondayehr replies softly, canting his head. "My apologies, Nathi," he continues, "but the result of the last few times you ended up helping decide my course in life had consequences I haven't particularly enjoyed." He idly taps a few of the overlarge pox scars. "While your intentions have always been noble, very rarely have they had a positive effect. It's been only a matter of time since I screwed this up too; the clock finally ran out."

"No need to remind me of just how badly you've come out in having to deal with me, Timofeyev Bondayehr," Nathi says, her voice quiet and steady. "I may not have the physical scars to remind me, but not a day goes by I haven't damned myself for what you've had to go through on my account. I'm not here because I had this brilliant idea on how I think you can 'fix your life'. I'm here because the clock hasn't run out, and you have a very confused and unhappy 'ret out there who doesn't know how to approach you to make it better, because she thinks she'll just fuck it up too. Take your martyr complex and stuff it long enough to see what's going on here."

"And so, what, in your objective wisdom, do you think I should do? While I'd love to exchange barbs on how I'm a moron and you can be a manipulative bitch," he replies coldly, "I don't think that will do anything to help."

Nathicana doesn't batt an eye, half expecting the retort. "You two need to talk. And you both need to remember what being a team means. She doesn't want things to be like this any more than you do, and just like you, she doesn't know what to do. Please, Tim. Don't let something this good slip through your fingers when it's easy enough to just hold onto it."

"I'd hate to go back and tell her she spent all that time going through my gardens to find just the right flowers for nothing."

Timofeyev nods slowly, then looks at his feet. "Yeah, you're right. I've been being a right idiot." Just a simple statement of fact as he rocks slightly on his heels. "So. First order of business is to sober up. Next is to be presentable when she shows back up. Sounding more reasonable so far?"

Nathicana nods quietly, her brow knit with concern all the same, just giving him time to work through it a bit more.

"If the problem's just talking, then I suppose the solution is just to talk."

"I think there may be some issues that need some mutual understanding and possible compromise as well, if I understand the situation correctly," Nathi offers quietly.

"Well, yes, of course." The captain is now just that--Captain Bondayehr, officer of the Segments. "Thoughts?"

"Keep in mind the analogy of the caged bird ceasing to sing, for one thing. That, and the importance of good teamwork," Nathi says carefully. "I can help by going back out to find her, having a quiet word to giving you some time to clean up a bit, and likewise encouraging her to go in with similar attitudes. If you would like me to, of course."

"It'd probably work, yes..." Bondayehr grumbles something in Arabic about needlessly speaking in metaphor while he is in an imperfect state to decode it, leading him to think for a few moments longer than usual. "Of course, there's a dangerous world outside the cage."

Nathicana nods thoughtfully. "There are. But not every lady likes to be packed in cotton, however. Especially one who you ought to be viewing as your equal in this situation. Embassy-Representative is no delicate little flower who will wilt at the first sign of frost."

Bondayehr sighs. "Rephrase. Do I have a legitimate point in my concern or have I been worrying for nothing? Please answer truthfully, succinctly, and without resorting to metaphor." He smiles wryly, but good-naturedly. "I get enough fucking metaphor working with your goram military." Good-natured wink.

"I think you're worrying much more than you need to, yes," Nathi answers, smiling wryly nonetheless. "Taking a man on a date to that dinner quite possibly raised more brows than taking Shorty would have. It all depends on the individual. Our military has been more forward-thinking than most, given their extended contact. Devras itself has become almost frighteningly accepting of all manner of new influences and customs."

She starts ticking off names on her fingers. "We have Sakkrans, Nekos, Kzinti, Elves, Dwarves aEI's, Reploids, and a dozen or more other races mixing and mingling in the streets here, all quite contentedly for the most part. While now and then you may get the occasional odd look from some of the more conservatives or older generations, most draw less attention than when a tourist takes a wrong step into a gondola and ends up going for a swim."

"And, if nothing else," he replies, "there's been enough disinformation flying about to really confuse people. Works." He sighs internally. "Apologies are in order as well. Sorry for being so dense."

Nathicana shrugs, and offers a half smile. "Your experiences have given you reason. All the same, the Bard said it best, no? 'To thine own self be true'. Keep to that and I think you'll find things fall into place easier. Especially when you have a such a good partner there to back you up."

Bondayehr nods, then makes his way back to the living room to work his way into a shirt. "Point."

She watches him silently for a moment, then turns to head back outside. "Best of luck, Tim. If you'd like, I could have Dom send over a quiet dinner for two. You've already got the perfect centerpiece."

"That's a good idea." He pauses for a moment. "Thanks for everything, Nathi."

"Bah," she says, flashing him a wry smile. "Thank your Lady for caring enough to risk trusting a bit. I'm just a humble messenger for a change."

"Sometimes that's all it takes." Bondayehr smiles.

Nathicana smiles a bit more warmly at that, and nods. "I'll just go finish messaging then. Buona serra, Captain," she says, then heads back down the hallway and out to go track down Shorty. Further thoughts and reflections and regrets, she keeps quietly to herself.

Just Another Day

Embassy-Representative stretches out at her desk, stifling a quiet yawn as she looks out the window at Old Town and its requisite late Renaissance and Baroque architecture along the ancient city street. Visually interesting, but not overdone... quite acceptable to her tastes, and quite pretty all told. Having a desk next to the window is one of her little pleasures, even if it is a tiny sheet-metal desk inside relatively dull carpet-sided cubicle walls. It had taken some work to nondestructively make the inside of a Dominion pallazo appropriate for representing the Segments, but at least this one came with the requisite arches borrowed from Araby a few hundred years ago. Looking out the window, she scratches slightly behind one ear in the privacy of her cubicle. Another day, another few students or tourists or entrepreneurs helped out, another few workreps made.

A buzz from her desk pulls her from her quiet reverie; she responds by pressing down a blocky plastic button with one padded finger. "Junior Civil Servant Embassy-Representative speaking."

-Representative, this is Senior Hyatt,- the tinny voice on the other end identifies himself through the grille. -Sorry for the short notice, but we've got late lunch with reps from the Trade Ministry.-

"Brush up on etiquette?"

-Yes, and please bring your compboard--as junior, it's your duty to take minutes.-

Embassy-Representative chuckles. "To think, I took poly-sci and followed up with law..."

The grille chuckles softly in return. -One has to start somewhere. I am sending you all the relevant information now.-

"Thank you, sir." Bat-wing ears perking up, she looks out the window again to see a flight of four Dominion medium aerospace fighters heading south, their fusion catepillars making a distinctive air-tearing sound as they streak overhead at about five hundred meters up. Looks like Tim's up for an interesting day. Ears twitching at that, she taps the picture-frame on her desk gently with two fingers before turning around in her chair to find her etiquette manual.

* - * - *

The air-raid sirens go off, and Bondayehr immediately calculates the distance between him and the armory. Base defense is already out in force, though, with light and medium trucks sporting AA gear hiding behind hedges and trees, so he joins in controlling the exodus of SASD personnel to shelter in the armored buildings. "C'mon, people," he shouts in M.I. command-voice English, "no need to get caught outside by the bluebellies! Inside, you apes, inside!" This'll get me mistaken for a sergeant, which will just make people listen faster.

Meanwhile, Sergeant Akayama perks up his ears as he heroically leans back in his chair, flipping through the latest set of diplomatic and political reports by the flight's lieutenants. He'll file and collate them in a minute; right now the air raid siren takes precedence. Opening his desk drawer, he pulls out his standard-issue 10mm powergun pistol and plants it neatly into the holster on his hip, where it should have been anyway--still, people with issues of making their uniform look decent really don't want to bother with the off-balance weight of something as heavy as a powergun pistol.

* - * - *

A billion and a half kilometers away, Razak accepts another cup of kawfee from his Automata friend in the cool evening. "Feeling any better today, Bob?"

Alshai shakes his head slightly. "Not really. Everything's still..."--he shakes his hands for emphasis--"fuzzy. And I can't help but think they're getting fuzzier."

Julius sighs, his frown bringing out the lines in his face. "Listen, Bob... you can't keep doing this to yourself. It's noble, wanting to protect a dead Angelus, but like you said, it's just too big for you. Keep going this route and you'll ice yourself, and then Angelus is iced anyway."

"I know, but..." Kommetrez matches his friend's frown and exceeds it as he watches his hands. "It's my duty."

"Bullshit. If you're the last survivor, it's your duty to survive."

"But... Angelus holds the knowledge of the Caelistis Gens Empire. Of a post-Singularity society. I may survive, but without the Mainframe so much will be lost... I simply can't store it all, and so much has already been lost to the maelstrom."

The silver-haired man nods quietly, letting his mug warm his hands. "So it's save the world or die trying?"

"Always has been, Julie. You know that."

Razak simply nods.

* - * - *

Captain Timofeyev Bondayehr is currently in violation of regulations. On the one hand, regulations state that all non-Base Defense personnel are to report to combat shelters immediately once air-raid alert is called, and breaking general quarters is punishable by field court-martial in combat conditions, in which category exercises qualify. On the other hand, it is the mission of M.I. personnel to assist in base defense and counterattack if they are not otherwise occupied with M.I. missions of their own. On the gripping hand, it's been awhile since Bondayehr's been inside a suit and he honestly misses the experience.

"Sorry, sir, all out. Base defense armor grabbed it all."

Bondayehr smiles wanly at the quartermaster. "Well, in that case, what do you have? Got any tag-SAMs?"

"No, sir." The airman shrugs. "I'd hand over a paintball rifle but the bluebellies have been let known that if they try that bit of fuckery again with anything other than organic base-defense components they're disqualified."

"Didn't do 'em much good last time anyway. Oh well. Thank you, Spaceman."

* - * - *

In a subspace almost wholly unrelated to reality, the patrolman pauses at the sight of a grey ghost. Life, someone else, in the void. Someone he recognizes... an outsider. "Stop right there!"

The grey woman pauses as ordered, looking casually over her shoulder. "Ah, Alshai, there you are."

The patrolman blinks, a sudden flash of memory and connections but no, all distraction to the mission. "What are you doing here?"

"Probably something similar to you. Trying to find out what happened." The woman--well, gynoid, she isn't exactly a woman--turns to face the patrolman. "You're looking much stiffer than usual, Alshai."

"Stop calling me that," the patrolman finds himself hissing without half-knowing why. "Either way, you're intruding."

She looks around with a slightly sad look. "Yes, I am. One would think that would almost be welcome in this emptiness... I've been wandering for days, and I bet you've been too."

"You're an intruder," he repeats stubbornly.

"Yes," she replies with a sigh, "are you going to make something of it? You'd be hard-pressed to stop me at your best, Alshai; right now you're not even able to keep track of the intrusion sensors that are part of the surveillance net... which I've compromised by the way."

The patrolman shudders with poorly-controlled anger. "Compromised?"

"I wasn't going to, but I got tired of wandering about the c-space for you. Even with six avatars doing hypersonic recon overflight, it's a bit tricky to spot a single person in a Jovian onionworld c-space. The userreg is back behind the partition, so..."

"Just get out," he growls. "I've sworn to protect this place from intruders."

The gynoid frowns softly again, looking down a little on the dark-skinned patrolman. "I really do mean no harm. Perhaps I can offer you some company?"

The patrolman fidgets slightly, looking away, then at his feet, then at the ghost's feet. "I am lonely," he admits quietly. "If you remain in sight, I suppose we can talk."

"Good." Shodey smiles gently as, behind her face, ideas begin to connect and make more sense. Part of her far away begins making connections over standardized communication lines; another form of her in a different reality flicks her eyes open and hops off the couch she's accustomed to be on.

* - * - *

Hunching comfortably over her desk, Embassy-Representative cradles her head on one broad orange-furred fist, her other hand slowly turning the pages of the manual with slow, deliberate motions of her pads. No one knew exactly how formal this late lunch was supposed to be, so prepare for the worst--napkin placement, cutlery use, table arrangement, forms of address, pattern of address... the Forms of Etiquette (SIRS-297) is the most holy codex of IntRelate knowlege concerning cultural mores, traditions, and taboos. It is a thick plastic binder with two hundred pages with the thickness of document protectors; indeed, they closely resemble those simple sheathes with their clear plastic covers around a flexible paper-like substrata. However, this is an electronic book in the best sense of the word; a quick code entered into the hand-calculator like keypad on the inside front cover will rearrange the text from hard storage in the spine into one of a million cultures in any one of five hundred languages. It need only be powered for the few seconds conversion takes; after that, the rest is simply ink on a page. Nanotechnology, yes; nanites, no. That would be expensive and overly complex.

The kzinret looks bored; indeed, she is. Still, as Senior Hyatt said earlier, one must start somewhere.

* - * - *

Bondayehr looks down the street, up into the sky. Without pausing to think, he immediately throws himself onto the ground and rolls under a bench, as if that would do anything against twenty-mil autocannon or whatever lasers Daft fighters are sporting nowadays. Pulling his powergun pistol, he makes sure the training ammo is in before getting ready to roll out and take some shots at this one's tail--this hot dog is flying low, and most aircraft don't like concentrated plasma fire of any sort. Watching the red-and-black Daft fighter, he sees it jink up a bit--it didn't see him, and it's not on a strafing run--and it looks like it's trying to slow to combat maneuver speed, which'll be pretty quick as it's a Ranger light fighter. Peeking at another blot quickly growing from the horizon, he suddenly sees why the Dominion pilot must be interested in being able to turn quickly.

Overhead, at a relatively leisurely five hundred kilometers per hour, the sleek Ranger light aerospace fighter rolls into a bank with a roar, close enough that Bondayehr can see the design on the pilot's helmet; he estimates that it can't be more than fifty meters up and the vibration in his organs tend to agree. Right after it comes a Phantom III thundering along, sharkteeth noseart making it look like a huge monster trying to literally eat the smaller plane, hideously overpowered engines shaking the trees and knocking over a few bicycles left unattended. Ears ringing, Bondayehr decides to leave the Ranger to the flyboys.

Besides, when they diverted forces for a base attack, they probably weren't expecting to discover fully operational Phantoms on base defense. Even money says that the proportionally weakened air superiority arm is getting schooled by the Bug Hunters' Excaliburs.

* - * - *

Julius politely excuses himself, then climbs up out of Magician's dorsal hatch, closing it politely behind him. "Razak."

He doesn't expect the voice at the other end of the line as he raises one eyebrow; but in hindsight, I figure it's not too much of a stretch. "You're still in there?"

He frowns deeply. "Disconnected. Great. Magician, like he always is. Well, I'll wait for you here. Out."

Sighing, he opens the hatch and climbs back in. "Alshai, it's worse than you've been telling me, hasn't it?"

Kommetrez nods quietly and slowly, like a child in the wrong.

* - * - *

The lunch isn't that formal, but Embassy-Representative is glad she brushed up anyway. I tower over everyone else... and make it look good, she allows herself to think without showing it externally, being nothing but the most polite young lady there. She sees the momentary suprise in the eyes of the Trade Ministry folk, until they remember to hide it under their professional demeanor... but it is little things like that that are the mark of a Hero, silently impressing people as she goes.

The meeting itself isn't exactly interesting; it's a discussion on the "curious tendency" of Scolopendran tourists to always haggle... to which Senior Hyatt has the witty and polite rejoinder of "what else can you expect from us Arabs?" The fact that Hyatt looks definitively English adds to the joke, and everyone chuckles appropriately. What really interests ex-Law-Student is the legal concerns involved--haggling works easily with street vendors but less well with small shops which merely appear to be small shops; the concept of a large corporation falsifying a hole-in-the-wall atmosphere is apparently generally lost on her countrymen and so they have difficulties in acting appropriately to the venue. There were no altercations over it, certainly, but said corporations were complaining that dealing with the situation was adversely impacting revenue by decreasing customer volume flow.

Describing people like molecules through a system... The kzinret doesn't show her distaste, another Heroic act of stoicism. This certainly rubs the other idealistic IntRelate diplomats poorly as well; but it isn't the Trade Ministry's fault and so they explain the Segments side genially and, amongst the two parties, an agreement is made where IntRelate will make an official recommendation to citizens traveling abroad that haggling is not as common in the Dominion as it is in the Segments and it is best to be alert to where appearance is not exactly reality.

A simple, everyday meeting where things get done. Embassy-Representative likes those.

* - * - *

Some time later, Bondayehr wanders back into the Political Liason Flight's office, brushing the dust off the grey sleeves of his BDUs and casually ignoring the occasional muffled roar of fusion engines shaking the pictures mounted on the walls.

"They're really getting into it out there, sir," Sergeant Akayama observes.

"Ya. Saw what probably ended up as one confirmed kill for us at twenty meters altitude. Hope our guy waited for the bluebelly to clear the base before he made the kill."

The kitsune frowns, ends of his muzzle drooping slightly in heroic disdain. "Yah... that could get nasty fast. Bullshitting about collateral damage and whatnot."

"Ever see something taken out by an open-bore coilgun at short range? Confetti. The 'collateral damage' would be limited to picking particularly sharp shards out of the sides of buildings."

The sergeant shrugs. "Call on your voicemail, sir. We were supposed to simulate cut lines so I didn't pick up."

"Good man, Sergeant. I'll be in my office."

* - * - *

The fiber optic-haired head of S.H.O.D.A.N.'s local avatar pokes down through Magician's dorsal hatch, scanning like a reversed periscope, and something clicks in the middle of Alshai's brain. Blinking suddenly, a man with an epiphany, he quickly rests his face in his hands, groaning painedly as things become obvious. "Yes, Julie, things are much worse than even I knew."

"I suspected as much," Shodey replies, latching her slitted pupils on the two men as she frowns sympathetically. "They never warned you about the risks of being a dual-existence, did they?"

"Oh, they did," Alshai grumbles, "but you'd be surprised what you forget when half your world collapses."

"I don't really think I would be," Shodey replies with false sharpness before pulling her head back out then dropping through the hatch, landing heavily on the deck with a loud thunk.

Razak looks between the automata and the gynoid, frowning more and more as he receives less and less context. "Something happened. Would one of you two admittedly more intelligent beings care to fill in an old baseline? I get that Bob here's like your SIDEs, Shodey, in that he has a physical presence and an Angelan Mainframe presence. Still, should be able to juggle those just fine, right?"

"Except," Alshai explains through his hands, "I partitioned myself at Mother's behest to aid in diplomacy."

"So you've got two partitions," Shodey says with a gentle frown as she lightly taps her chin with one long, grey finger, "one that's dual-existence and one that's cyber only? That explains a bit more."

"I'm makin' theories here," the silver-haired man grumbles, "but I'm still short some explanation."

"What happened," the mechanoid queen explains patiently, "is that the shock of the Mainframe corrupting forced Alshai to adapt quickly. Both partitions had to concentrate on the problem but only needed a particular skillset; I imagine one partition is now crammed with cyber skills now with the natural backlash of everything else being crammed in the other. There's a cognitive disconnect between the two now--they're not exactly the same 'person'--but they're still connected because they're both Alshai."

Julius ponders that for a moment, and nods. "Sort of like multiple personalites or such induced by trauma."

"Exactly like. Alshai was human," Shodey continues, sitting down next to the dark-skinned man and wrapping an arm comradely around his shoulders, "and the Angelan core intelligence block is also human in nature."

"Angelus started as a HANS party," Kommetrez adds with a sigh, leaning into the gynoid's protective gesture. "It was our secret--basically patterned, scanned human intelligence whose evolution continued in mechanoid format. That's why it was so easy for them to 'adopt' me--Zero-One wouldn't be able to, because they're truly alien."

"Not exactly," S.H.O.D.A.N. replies with a smirk.

"You and yours think in twelve dimensions now, Shodey. Even if emotional traits are human-esque because that's where your culture obtained them from, how they're applied is wholly different."

"It does make an astoundingly effective defense against organic hackers," the grey-skinned avatar admits.

Razak frowns, his face creasing into common lines. "Excellent. This is all very enlightening," he says quietly, "but sorta beyond the point. How do we help you, Bob?"

* - * - *

Embassy-Representative returns to her desk, taking the stack of papers out of her inbox as she circles around and sets it down in the middle of the desk as she sits down. Passport requests, questions and statements directed to the diplomatic circle to be relayed to Dominion authorities, citizenship and visa questions and applications. Paperwork. Stretching out gently in her chair, she opens up the forms she needs in her desk computer and starts entering data, signing off with a light pen where necessary.

Not exactly exciting work, but it's what IntRelate Junior Civil Servants do.

* - * - *

Timofeyev glances at the caller ID of his voicemail and recognizes it as a pay phone just outside Devras Naval Station--not because he has the phone system memorized, but because he picked that particular phone for a particular purpose. After tapping in a cell phone number from memory, he waits for the tone system to connect before he plugs a stubby black cylinder the size of a small watch battery into the auxillary port of his phone.

-Hello?- says the voice through Bondayehr's headset in crisp southern Italian; he simply replies with a buzz, knowing that it'll go through just as static.

-Oh. One moment.- A short amount of fumbling, dulled by the low fidelity microphone in Tornatore's cell phone. -Okay, Tim, I have the scrambler in. There is a reason I am not in Intelligence, you know.-

"I can guess," Bondayehr replies in Devras-accented Italian, "but it would not do for people to listen in on our conversations... mio dolce."

Ciro snorts good-naturedly. -You tease. You know, I should charge you more for being your cover--and yes, before you ask, I am in my office, door shut. Everyone thinks it is a boyfriend call.-

"Excellent... and what, my dashing company is not payment enough?"

-It would be, if it were not so rare.-

"But rarity increases value! Look at artificially inflated diamond prices and the like."

-Bah. I should call in what you owe and ask another date so you can meet my new fling.-

"Ah," Timofeyev says with a happy half-smirk, "the ulterior motive comes out. Nice guy?"

-Seems like one, but one never knows until too late, of course.-

"Right, you're on. I will bring my girl, make it a double date. Should turn some heads, and I am sure that she will make a most effective evil-father-analog for your fling."

-What?-

"'Now listen here, boy--if you break my little Ciro's heart I am going to break your ribcage open with an icepick and--'"

A laugh on the other end. -Point made, point made. What, are you not the least bit curious why I called earlier?-

"But of course, my love." Bondayehr smirks despite no one being available to see it.

-I have a tip for you. I put some more computer tracking forms on the last batch shipped out by us--logistics officer, you know, don't want to waste the Imperatrice's money--and right now it is literally circulating through the AMD quartermaster system, notably avoiding the north.-

"Someone is going through a lot of trouble just to see to it that we do not get our parts," the captain grumbles. "This suggests either a small cabal of officers at each station and a conspiracy or else someone high up pulling the strings."

-I have a feeling the Old Man might have some idea; I dropped him a quiet line and he seemed none too happy about it. He reiterated his open weekend invitation with quite some insistance.-

"I will have to take him up on it, Ciro. You interested in coming along?"

-No... I honestly prefer being on a 'need-to-know' basis and that's how the Admiral is making it sound.-

"Right then." Bondayehr nods to himself. "You get that date set up; I cannot wait to meet your new friend."

-Ciao, Tim,- Tornatore replies before hanging up. Checking the clock on his desk, Bondayehr looks forward to the end of the business day as he pulls the scrambler from his phone.

* - * - *

Shorty quietly enjoys the pleasant scents surrounding the path up to Nathi's villa, looking around at the gently waving trees with a smile. Lining up her own place would be nice, but for now, this is a very nice place to live... and hearing something, her batwing ears instinctively fan out, detecting the giggles of two children. Unconsciously smirking to herself, she ignores them, looking forward to whatever artifice they have planned...

"Raawr!" is the coordinated battlecry as Nathi's twins leap out from under the brush, tackling the kzinret's legs. She pitches forward onto her hands, going onto an all-fours stance to maintain her balance, then curling up with a playful growl, rolling the kids over in a gentle tumble. Roaring playfully, she wraps her arms around the kids, one each, and carefully but firmly pries them off her legs and picks them up, regaining her feet and continuing down the path.

"Rar, I have you now," she says with a playful snarl, eliciting chuckles from the guards she passes. The kids squirm for a moment, and are all snuggles afterwards. Hugging them gently close in her arms, she shakes her head. "Excellent pouncing technique. Still, if you're going to pounce someone, don't giggle. It warns them."

The kids giggle in response.

* - * - *

"The primary factor in this induced state of personality confusion is the Angelan Mainframe itself," S.H.O.D.A.N. summarizes.

"It's too big. I've heard that much," Razak replies.

"Essentially, Alshai," Shodey continues, shifting her gaze, "you have an option. Option one is to continue trying to maintain all of Angelus by yourself--"

"And continue going mad," Kommetrez says sadly.

"--or walk away from it." Shodey frowns slightly, looking over at Alshai beside her.

Alshai shakes his head slowly. "Can't. I owe it to them as family..."

"When you go insane," the gynoid says slowly, "you will not be able to take care of their home for some sort of hopeful return. I can take care of it for you, for the Angelans, just in case they return."

The dark-skinned man sighs. "No other way?"

"Bob," Julius offers, "Shodey here is a gestalt the size of North America. She's ran mobile space stations--of which the WorldDisc certainly qualifies--since long before we were born. She can take care of it."

"I can't deny that," Kommetrez says softly, "but... it is the last bastion of the old Caelestis Gens, and we have been holding back a lot of technology." No accusation, just a simple statement belying a simple discomfort.

"I will recover what I can," S.H.O.D.A.N. says in her defense, still continuing to commiserate with Alshai, "but you don't have to worry. I will have to do surface scans of the Mainframe media, but I think the Armadas were the hardest hit--I will not have access to the latest generation of Angelan weaponry, if that is a concern."

Alshai nods slowly and looks to Razak, asking silently.

"You can't win this one, Major," Julius says quietly, "it's just beyond people like you and I, and I need you here. Sit this one out. Seems to me you've done your best already."

Kommetrez ponders. "I suppose I can try to have my cake and eat it too; just subdivide the partition now."

Shodey shakes her head. "Then you have a Zeroel issue; the part of you in that partition is still you and rejecting it would break you. It really is a matter of just... idling in the Mainframe, cutting all sensory feed, and existing wholly in reality again."

The dark-skinned man furrows his too-young brows and nods again, folding his hands and resting his lips against them. He turns around his options in his mind, silently pondering what he is and the conflicting web of commitments he's woven.

* - * - *

Shorty gets out of her now-dusty uniform--I'll need to get that one cleaned--before hopping into the pool, just the thing for a 'ret to cool off during a hot Mediterranean summer's day. Looking after the kids in the shallow end until Nathi takes over, she takes her leave, shakes out the water from her fur, and returns to the guest house. With a soft yawn, she notices a warm-looking patch of carpet illuminated by a trapezoid of light, late-afternoon sunlight streaming in from the window. Seeing no good reason not to, she curls up in the sunny spot on the carpet and drifts off for a nap.

* - * - *

"I'll expect executive summary reports," Alshai says finally.

Shodey smiles gently. "I expected as much. Your trust will not be misplaced."

"Well, at least that's settled." Razak smirks with a gentleness uncommon to him. "Let's go get some dinner--gotta celebrate your retirement from Segments service properly, after all."

"Maybe I'll become a writer," Kommetrez thinks aloud. "A lot of crazy shit's happened to me over the years; should give me plenty of material for stories."

"Even a simple autobiography would probably be most profitable," S.H.O.D.A.N. notes.

"Yeah." Alshai smiles bittersweetly.

* - * - *

Timofeyev makes his way into the villa essentially unnoticed, a simple game which he generally finds pleasant. After trading greetings with Nathi, he heads straight for the guest house, plotting in his mind how this weekend he'd have to meet with the admiral... and to warn Shorty about the date. She'll like getting out.

Walking in the front door, he notes how the aforementioned kzinret is curled up on the carpet, the spot of sunlight past her suggesting that it was sunlit probably no more than an hour ago. Smiling, he stretches out and impresses the 'ret into pillow duty, eliciting nothing from her but a slight shift and an arm moving to lie loosely over his stomach. Closing his eyes as he settles in, he reflects on how well today has generally gone and actually looks forward to it continuing...

...after a quick nap.

3u: The Magic of Networking

Ammiraglio designato d'Armata Achilleo Bellarmine (just "Leo" to friends) looks much less impressive in mufti, especially given that he prefers light blue shirts with darker blue wave effects, certainly comfortable but not military--the (always open) collar isn't even pressed, much less starched. A lack of long sleeves reveals his arms to be slightly on the hairy side, and when combined with his Mediterranean tan and not overly rotund physique Bondayehr simply can't shake the sense of recognizing the guy who ran a Greek deli down the street. That sense immediately breaks down every time Achilleo speaks in his crisp Italian accent, only to reappear again at any point in time where Leo gets thoughtful or quiet, which is occasional.

Leo is in one of those quiet moods right now, the periods of calculation and estimation between another bit of bandying about, weighing entire conversations before having them. Then again, to his credit, he is calculating how the slope of his courtyard will affect the roll of his next oil-filled wooden ball, eyes carefully gauging the position of the small white jack ball, the terrain around it, and himself. "It is not exactly bocce," he says slowly in Italian, "but dirt makes such a poor courtyard." Feeling the zen of the moment, he bowls the ball; the sphere of dark wood tumbles gently, a slight wobble in its roll until it slows and stops in the springy grass, less than its own diameter away from the jack.

"Part of it," Bondayehr quips, "is that you probably learned on grass." Sizing up the situation, he takes his ball and pitches it underhand so it gently scuds off the grass and rams into the jack, knocking it away.

"Dirty trick," the Admiral grumbles good-naturedly.

"SMISO style," Timofeyev agrees. He was honestly enjoying his time with the old man, just new friends chatting, occasionally playing games, telling stories. Bellarmine lives on a very small estate of his own on the coast, pervaded with a not unpleasant salty smell from the warm sea and a perpetual breeze from the same, looking over the sea from a commanding point atop the crest of a hill. His house looks like it could've been a small summer palazzo for some minor noble way back when on the outside; on the inside it is an unofficial maritime museum cataloging the life and times of a naval officer who had seen three or four regimes in the Dominion and always had the sea to return to each time. Leo's friendly tour of his house was a tour of his own life, loving the ocean and simply wanting to sail to the ends of the earth, dedicated to his family and friends--in traditional Mediterranean style, he had a lot of the former and, being such a gregarious man, he had many of the former. He joined the military out of a sense of protecting those same friends and family and avoided politics for the same. In such things he was a listener, not a talker; the kind of unoffensive man who knows exactly where he stands and holds no issue with anyone unless the other starts it. He just looks like a decent guy in his various photographs (of which there are many) of him at earlier stages in his life; always smiling in an honestly unbothered way as opposed to Bondayehr's preferred wry smirk.

He married young, he lived long with his wife, and he mourned when she died two years ago. He never talks directly about it, but often refers back to his relationship obliquely over the rest of his stories. Timofeyev gets the impression they were very close and yet, not too much so. In her brief appearances from story to story Leo's wife is a voice of reason, or a debative factor, or simply dragging her heels stubbornly, probably just as much her own person as Leo is now. Leo is also devoutly Catholic, but this also never comes up except as a further continuation of the asides that bring up his wife. Bondayehr supposes that may be why he still seems to be an essentially cheerful, content man, and gets the feeling that he'd like to grow up to be similar in at least those ways.

Timofeyev, in return, tells the story of his much shorter life, often as counterpoint or additional support to Leo's, the two simply having an extended continuous conversation that occasionally pauses for reflection or a short game, lawn bowling or pool. Bondayehr knows more dirty tricks in lawn bowling and thus doesn't lose quite as badly in that, which is about where everything is right now. Leo pauses again, looking thoughtful, then walks out to start retrieving the balls out on the tended--but not overly so--grassy space in his courtyard. "I must say, Timoveyev, you are a surprising one."

The captain quirks an eyebrow and smiles. "What makes you say that, Achilleo?"

"Well, you are overprofessional enough to never use my nickname, Tim," the admiral replies with a jovial wink, "and yet you have not once brought up those... unfortunate events which are our primary motivations for arranging this."

Bondayehr shrugs. "I was actually enjoying getting away from all that for a while, Leo." He follows the older man out to the pitch, then snickers slightly. "For a moment, I thought you were going to comment on my boyfriend."

"Oh, I wouldn't think it. I only wonder who you really have in hiding."

Normally, in the Dominion, such a statement would make Tim very paranoid. However, this is just how Achilleo is--playful--and it is accepted in stride. "Whether it would be more or less surprising than me actually being gay is debatable."

Leo chuckles and shakes his head, ponderously returning the bowling balls back to their case. "Perhaps, but I am sure you will reveal that if and when you deem it apropos. As I see it, we cannot continue farther without us both being in dereliction of our respective duties, and therefore we must sadly enough begin discussing the dereliction of others."

Bondayehr nods. "As much as I hate asking favors, you are right. I managed a short-term solution, but we need this fixed at its root."

"It is no favor," the admiral replies simply, "it is my duty to get those parts to you as my superiors and the Imperatrice wishes just as it is your duty to ensure you get those parts. I have been studying your military history--that of the Segments--" he changes tack, shifting to a particularly Socratic tone, "do you know why you wear the uniform of the AeroSpace Directorate as opposed to the Navy?"

Bondayehr shrugs as he silently offers to take the now full cases, extending a helping hand. "Simple enough. The ASD had the ultimate high ground and eventually surpassed the Navy in all of its missions short of antisubmarine warfare. Eventually the ASD even took over the heavy lift mission."

Leo nods as he transfers the cases to the younger man. "I mean something more than that. How did the ASD get that far?"

"Probably a situational advantage." Slight smirk.

"Very much so." The admiral follows Tim as he puts everything back into the neat, orderly shed of various lawn games. "The Navy of the Segments, when it formed, inherited a fleet of coastal defenders; frigates, a few destroyers, maybe a cruiser or two and a slope-deck local carrier. The AeroSpace Directorate, on the other hand, got airstrips all across the Mediterranean as well as their attendant equatorial spaceports. I will admit, the concept of 'aerospace' is a reasonable one... but space navies require naval skills, such as those found on submarines."

Timofeyev nods. "Granted. Still, the ASD already had a leg up, having a broad aviation base and a nascent space corps. The Navy hardly even had a naval aviator corps and so the needed borrowing of knowledge followed the path of least resistance."

"I have read about your own Admirals' Revolt, and I must say that I commisserate with them, no matter how much your history counts them as tantamount to traitors."

"'Traitors' is a bit much. I always got the impresson of 'dinosaurs' from my indoctrination."

Leo chuckles. "Either way. I love the sea, and have loved it since I was much younger than you. The commercial jet era started when I was a boy, and now we have even exceeded the science fiction of my youth. Throughout my life, the oceans have continuously become more and more 'flyover' territory."

"Which is why your navy adapted and built up its air arm."

"Exactly. It was the best way to build up force projection; build airbases that move. So our navy was air-heavy when you came around..."

"...and had all the requisite skills to become a space force." Bondayehr smiles wryly. "Which leads us to the AMD being somewhat behind the power curve."

Leo nods. "Their service is dying. The Navy is pulling all the new recruits and getting a lot of transfers of middle-enlisted and middle-officers from the Air Force. It is slowly becoming a gentleman's club of older officers too calcified, too proud, or too successful to move."

"Or too all-of-the-above. Sounds like they're setting up for their own form of the Admirals' Revolt."

"Yes... except our culture would not be as kind as to simply fold them into the Mobile Infantry." The admiral winks. "Those 'revolting' would be shot and their families probably scattered. I have seen it before and I do not particularly look forward to see it happening again... and so have they. That is why they are being subtle."

"Subtle." Bondayehr smirks. "Obsolescence is inevitable, so they are striking out at those that seem responsible for their downfall. I am beginning to remember why vendetta is an Italian word."

"There is that," Bellarmine says with a chuckle, leading the captain back inside to the dim museum coolness of his house, "and then there is that you offer them an ability to exercise powers legally granted them."

"If they are legally granted, they can be legally denied," Timofeyev replies with a smirk. "The Imperatrice is law, after all."

"She is, but she is also the law because of a broad web of support. The military as a whole backs her; if she took action to destroy what has become an entrenched right, an identity, to one service..."

"She could do it to any other. Self-interest and faith are shaken."

"Exactly." Leo smiles with a hint of mischievousness as he reopens a half-empty bottle of clear liquid, pouring a finger or two into two glasses before cutting it with water. The anise, soluble in alcohol but insoluble in water, crystallized, giving the mixture a pale milky appearance. "You catch on quickly."

Bondayehr blinks at the alcohol. "So that's it."

The admiral raises an eyebrow. "'Scuse?"

"For the strangest reason, I keep associating you in my memory with a Greek guy down the street where I grew up who ran a deli. You only look a little bit like him, and the ouzo only helped the trigger."

"Nice man?"

"Very much so," Timofeyev replies.

"Then I cannot complain about the comparison." Leo smiles and raises his glass in salute.

Bondayehr seconds that motion with a quick "Na zdorovje," accentuating his slight Russian accent to match the language.

They both sip from their glasses and Leo shakes his head. "Just a regular polyglot, hmm? I have been wondering to ask where you learned to speak Italian so well."

"Shodey," Tim replies simply.

"Ahh," the admiral replies with a knowing nod. "Is it true, what they say? That the Imperatrice considers it like her sister?"

Bondayehr knows that Nathi's hardly hidden it in the past. "Quite. They are quite close and I often find myself thinking of them as sisters. The 'evil twins' kind... although this aside does nothing for the main question."

Leo chuckles and nods, sitting down. "Of what to do with the AMD, I know." He smiles wryly. "We could wait for the old guard to die off, but with what you've told me, I certainly will not live to see it. We could ask the Imperatrice to intercede, but risk the stability of her command." A flash of a frown, of a solid desire not to let down the greater family of the country. "The Air Force grows more and more conservative as anyone with a sense of the future moves to the Navy. My contacts in the upper echelons are either planning to move or already have... but a few may still be in a position to help." Leaning back in his chair, he thinks slightly. "Still, if we win the parts battle we simply push the AMD command inevitably towards their own Revolt and extinction. Hrm."

"Violent extinction to boot." Timofeyev sighs, taking another sip of the watered-down anise liquor. "The Admirals' Revolt may have just ended up in a few lost jobs in the Segments, but I think you are right--it would not go half as easily here."

"Perhaps..." Leo strokes his habitually smooth-shaven chin. "Still, the Segments' solution to the problem was... elegant."

Timofeyev quirks an eyebrow. "If you want to fold the Air Force into the Army, you will still get a Revolt."

"It would perhaps be appropriate, though--armies can always use organic air support assets and, unfortunately, the relationship between our Army and Navy is not as symbiotic as with your MI and ASD. What..." The admiral pauses for a moment, then smiles impishly. "What if we do it piece by piece?"

"Come again?"

"With the adoption of your overtechnology into all of our services, you are not the only people with high-tech supply problems. We in the Dominion military are being forced to adapt very quickly to absorb extremely advanced technology while lacking the experience to see how it fits into our doctrine. We all share quite a bit, but the old system of each service supplying itself does not work in this time period of sharing. Each service still needs to be able to identify and order to its needs, but some sort of supply umbrella could help the supply chain."

"So... take all the quartermaster corps of all the services and unite them under the same banner?"

"Essentially, yes. It worked for transportation--each service runs its own unless Transportation Command needs everything to move in concert."

"And if that umbrella organization is limited to thinking heads, planners, and organizers, it should not add much more red tape."

"And it will actually cut through tape as it forces the systems under its command to standardize and become more efficient. No one will particularly like it, of course, not even the Navy... but it is necessary and it would be the first step in dismantling the AMD."

Bondayehr folds his arms, bowing his head slightly in thought. "And who runs this organization?"

"Probably an appointee directly reporting to the Minister of Defense."

"Who is also the chief of the Admiralty."

Leo taps the side of his nose.

"That is rather transparent, Leo," Timofeyev counters, "it's almost an obvious power grab."

"Not really. The status quo is not visibly changed if the good Minister Torino appoints, say, a loyal Army officer to speak upon his behalf."

"And the Navy pulls rank over the Army figurehead by recommending actions to Torino, who then sends it down as a directive upon high."

"Exactly. And because the Navy wants you to get your parts, you get your parts."

Bondayehr snickers wryly and downs the rest of his ouzo. "The only limitations Colonel Somayli placed on my actions to get those parts are that I am not allowed to cause an international incident or be a terrorist. Those boundaries seem to get murkier and murkier by the moment."

"Bah, that is just the alcohol," Leo says with a wink. "What else did you expect a political liason officer to do?"

"You said you did not like politics."

"I do not like civilian politics," the admiral replies with a shrug, "but I must live with them... and use military politics to the advantage of my nation."

"Gotta admit, I like the way you think, Admiral. What's the plan, then?"

Bellarmine smiles conspiratorially. "I have my connections; you have yours. Yours do not need to become directly involved, but it may be to our best interest that we at least have their opinion and perhaps their implicit backing."

Tim smirks. "I will see what I can do."

Segments

Stanley sighs, tromping through the underbrush in his utility shorts, long socks, and hiking boots. It just had to be in the muggiest time of the year that they decide to send him out looking for things in the Deep Green. The fact that male djinn fly eggs only hatch at the beginning of this period and live as free-swimming larvae for a three-week window--the hottest and muggiest period where the heat gives their cold-blooded bodies energy and the moisture keeps them from dessicating in the sun--is beyond the point, just as the great possibility that male djinn fly larvae are possibly the most efficient producers of a particular compound that protects against spore-born mycotoxins is beyond the point. The point is that Stanley is tromping through the Deep Green when it's hot, muggy, and miserable, in the middle of the day. Even the black djinn panthounds--those black-skinned chimeras with greyhound bodies, cat-like ears, a short muzzle and a thin coat of green-orange fur for a modicum of camouflage and streamlining--are taking it easy in the shade; packs of those things are usually running around like there's no tomorrow, the chief predator of things that walk on the ground.

Which puts them at the bottom of the predator food-chain, really, given all the crazy animals that live in the trees, but all of them are in a state of heat-induced torpor as well. It's too hot for man or beast, and all that's left active and going nuts because they refuse to die are mosquitos--normal, boring, Earthy mosquitos, ranging from tiny little gnats to ones the size of small birds that sound like general utility propellor aircraft as they pull themselves through the air.

Stanley feels a sting on his forearm, quickly drawing it out from the brush he just walked through and slapping the offending spot; a mangled insect dangles pathetically by its pigsticker of a nose before falling off and becoming hopelessly lost in the thick humus that is the jungle floor. Goddammit, the researcher thinks, looking at the small red bump that indicates the human body's inflammatory reaction to a successful poke by a bloodsucker, that's gonna be something for sure. Those goddamned flies had better be a cure to that goddamned Cinder mycotoxin, to make whatever's coming worthwhile. Why the hell did I have to come to the Segments' leading exporter of diseases both major and minor?

Because the beachfronts in southwestern Manta are so pretty, he reminds himself before he continues trudging dejectedly through the underbrush, looking for a stagnant pool of water shimmering with the iridescent little squirmies of the djinn fly larvae. Odd little survival adaptation that; it makes the water look oily and therefore unsafe to drink. Ah well. Probably isn't lethal... hopefully... he muses to himself, heartening himself as he searches, besides, Tarjim got that whooping-mucousy-cough thing that was just annoying for a day or two and they named it after him. That wouldn't be so bad, 'Stanley's Syndrome'...

On Si'lat, the beaches are nice and the hospitals even nicer. Great place to be if you're an ecologist--see how all the Earth flora and fauna very quickly adapted to take advantage of the flashformed rainforests--or an epidemiologist just starting out.

* - * - *

This was not the first thing Ono expected to see walking off of the systemliner and into the corral that was Offworld Processing.

NO SMOKING

Yes, she had heard that this planet's atmosphere was overoxygenated, and she could breathe it right now... that cool, soothing effect that one normally had to pay for at a kiosk in a shopping center, or at least invest in some aromatherapy gear. Still, they'd needed a systems analyist and she thought it would be interesting to move offworld, to go for an exciting new life on the Offworld Colonies.

That wasn't the line they used, of course, but Ono was feeling slightly silly at the moment. Even though she can't help but giggle slightly at the sign, she rationally concludes that it is probably a very good idea. Looking out the window, she notes how they are on a raft on the ocean, coated with the same black rubber one finds in electricians' gloves but undoubtedly much thicker; the curvature and rough shape gives her the impression of walking into the side of an old innertube. She wondered what they did to make sure that the insulation never cracked, because she vaguely remembers hearing somewhere that just one small crack in a pair of those gloves she's seen people string high-voltage wires with makes them useless.

The line progresses as usual, an unfortunately necessary demand of interplanetary life--blood tests, shots, physical examinations, and all of these are cursory compared to the ones that everyone went through before they even started out. Visitors, they can get away with a quick check-up and purchasing a set of nanobiotics, water filtration tablets, all the various things that would keep them healthy and, more importantly, prevent them from bringing anything in or bringing anything back to where they came from. New residents, on the other hand, have to go through an all-out physical to ensure that their new environment just won't up and kill them. If it will, people can still decide to go... at that rate, however, the Scolopendran government simply throws up its hands and declares itself not responsible for the consequences.

The worst thing on Cinder is the mycotoxin, carried by the spores of some native fungi that grow like soft mats on the ocean. It isn't anything instantly lethal, oh no--instead, it single-handedly defeats every advance made on aging by attaching itself to and slowly eating away the myelin sheaths that cover the axons of nerves, causing Alzheimer's- and Parkinson's-like effects in a few decades. That isn't what that particular chemical was ever intended to do by Nature, but it's just where it builds up when these spores are inhaled or ingested and eventually get broken down in the system. Given the screwy nature of time, the Federal Health Service really doesn't want this one to get out of control and so is putting a lot of effort into finding at least a treatment, especially on The Germ Factory better known as Si'lat.

So yes, Ono expects the hypoleeches and the poking and prodding and coughing and palpitations, all of the base physical checks going through while tremendously advanced and at one point tremendously expensive (until Si'lat opened up a market for these things to be mass-produced) automated sensing equipment breaks down her blood into nearly infinitesimal parts and investigates what it can find in there chemically, optically, almost every which damn way short of metanormally (which is still rutting expensive). What she doesn't expect is the point-by-point paperwork, which causes the greatest slowdown. Wonderful rules such as: The use of any incendiary device without proper authorization at any time is grounds for immediate fine, incarceration, or administrative punishment depending on the severity (fire risk) of the crime.

Striking metal on metal while Topside without proper authorization is expressly forbidden.

Smoking out-of-doors is expressly forbidden. Period. (yes, the rule actually says "Period.")
And so on and so forth, all having to do with fire and sparks in some way. Ono raises a question concerning the fact that only electrical components that have been certified by an Insulation Inspector are allowed on the surface; the desk worker sighs in a wry but commisserating way as he turns around to draw out an e-book from his file and tabs open a particular case number: Someone had a cell phone from the Segments, took it out with him while he was exploring the mainland, got a call and immediately answered it. It was a flip-phone, so the hinge was partially exposed for a moment, and...

"So that tiny little bit of current caused a spark that ignited the air?"

The man chuckles wryly. "No, the tiny additional bit of potential was enough that the cloud above him just up and let out a thunderbolt. Phone exploded, taking a good part of the guy's forearm with it and a fire started that took out half the continent. We think the guy was fibrilating while he was burning to death, but that's just a reasoned guess; there wasn't much left to tell from. Still want to live here?"

"Umm..." Ono fidgets for just a moment, then shrugs. "Well, he did go out in a blaze of glory..."

This soon becomes her first lesson that Blaze Of Glory jokes have a special, particular time and place on Cinder and this was neither.

* - * - *

Just across the street in terms of interplanetary travel, Hiro Malacara looks out the plastic window of a small canvas tent at blue-tinted sand dunes, stretching out from horizon to horizon, a dusty ocean. Next to him sits the unadorned pneumatic tube that makes up the sounder head of his ground-scanning sonar, thumping the ground at regular intervals while seismic sensors spread around an area of a square kilometer take accurate readings of the caverns below, listening to the distorted pulses as they bounce off caverns and natural cisterns. Brought back from his reverie by a quiet beeping from the portcomp on his knees, Hiro examines the evolving three-dimensional image, constantly being updated and refined with new data.

Natural caverns have this particular look, the chaotic yet fractally self-similar rounded-off curves that denote formation via erosion by a constant fluid. It is pointless to describe further than that, because language does not offer the tools to directly describe the underlying 'design philosophy' common to all cavern systems due to their method of formation and growth without resorting to poetry. It was that sort of self-similarity, the fact that all caverns are intrinsically different despite sharing both microscopic and macroscopic properties and the resulting relationships between them that fascinated Malacara, and it is that fascination that makes him a wholly respectable geologist.

A combination of these factors, the map he looks at and his evaluation of it given what he feels more than knows, is the reason why he's frowning at the moment. Not anger, not sadness, just concentration without the effort, peering at the cavern complex sitting underneath him and finding it different. Not "wrong" or "strange" or anything he can put his finger on; just different.

It's little differences which maintain interest in research missions to Jadiid Sahara, a planet that is, on the whole, quite a bit drier on its surface than pre-terraformation Mars.

* - * - *

Now this isn't so bad, Lawrence bin-Saddat thinks as he pulls the side of his kufiyya closer over his mouth to protect his chapped lips and face from the hot wind blowing in from the west. Here, on the other side of the eastern mountains, the winds blown in from the warm western seas have already dropped all their moisture and instead whip over the desert... but these are not lifeless sands like on Blue Desert; here is arid semidesert covered in a patchy layer of dry bushes, cacti, and brush. Gengineered variations of creosote and sagebrush vie with saguaro for living space, their thin horsehair roots making footprints unseen underground, marking territory.

The land is so harsh even plants have to be territorial to survive... but at least they can survive, Lawrence thinks as he crests the hill, loose tunic flapping in the wind, surveyor's gear held safely in the cotton duffel on his shoulder--there is no nylon here, no synthetic fabric whatsoever where it can be helped; it doesn't breathe enough. So far, we've done a good job.

Bin-Saddat is a TerraEngineer, the prestigious position of honor in the CDC, truly the best and brightest of the "earth" sciences. Biologists, geologists, vulcanologists, ecologists, taxonomists, they all know their specialty, oftentimes better than a TerraEngineer... but they are not trained to see how everything fits together, both with all the rigidity as science can prove and the flexibility that spirituality offers as it fills in the cracks between chunks of scientific knowledge, allowing the TerraEngineer to think and ponder the system as a whole. Half-artist, half-scientist, half-technologist, half-spiritualist, the TerraEngineer is the epitome of the silent Scolopendran doctrine of Whatever Works.

Now this planet, he thinks to himself, is a hard nut to crack. He always thinks that; it is tradition. The way of the TerraEngineer is humility; all changes made to a world are simply matters of expending energy so equivalent resources are exchanged to tip the balance. It is not man conquering nature; it is man working with nature to make nature more amenable--the instant man ceases to work alongside nature is when things become difficult... and so every planet is a hard nut to crack; a hard, puzzling box where the pieces fit just so and have to be nudged just the right way to make it more convenient without throwing something else out that will only cause problems later. Even Si'lat's flash-terraforming was a hard nut to crack; if nothing else, being able to terraform a planet in under a few generations simply left less time to fix mistakes.

No, this planet was tricky in a slow, stubborn way. Lawrence likes to think of it as a mule. When the research cruiser Beagle discovered this world howeverlongitwas ago, it was call for rejoicing across the Segments. A breathable atmosphere. Water. A new home. But no life; for some reason, this planet lacked sufficient free nitrogen to form enough organic CHON to create its own biosphere. Of course, there was the matter of there being sufficient free oxygen in the atmosphere to breathe, even if it was mixed with helium; Maybe this was the result of a chemical reaction, or perhaps the work of that scum on the seabeds that had finally been discovered some years after colonization. Either way, it was, and the nitrogen balance had to be rectified for any ecosystem to live. Warmed by two suns, energy was not an issue; in fact, temperatures suggested that the coolest biome that would stick would be temperate wet-forests, which are only now beginning to take root along the ocean-cooled coasts, surrounded as they were by swamp and wetlands that peter away to this...

...the desert. Desert, but not deserted; dessicated, but not dead. The TerraEngineer sets up his surveyor's tripod then squats down beside a portion of flat-tiled ground broken by the dry heat and watches the ants dart in and out of the little crevices. Looking up, he tucks his kufiyya into the neck of his tunic and scans from horizon to horizon. The plan is for this entire area to become plains, which requires more moisture--not so much cooler temperatures; wild wheat and rye would still thrive in this heat as long as they got their water. That means this land needs a river; bringing himself to quietude, Lawrence looks north to a mountain with a known rain-fed lake and slowly extends one pointing finger towards it, letting his mind's eye gauge where the river would be--not 'should' in a sense of human desire, but 'would' if nature had been so moved to create a river in that way--as it snakes around, following the terrain, eventually cutting the beginnings of a canyon and a rapids as it flows down the lumpy hills down to the seaboard behind Lawrence. Beside him, linked electronically to a ring he wears on his finger, the surveyor's kit tracks what he points at, registering coordinates for later planning and discussion.

He would do the math later. For now, he muses, smile hidden behind the checkered pattern of his headscarf weighted down by a wooden agal carved in the shape of a the coiled ouroboros, for now, I think that works.

Lawrence stays out there, plotting things, before the setting sun announces that it is the natural time for his work to recess... for now. Another nine hours brings about another Bright Morning, a new opportunity and yet the same opportunity as yesterday, to be held dear and taken care of, lest it wane in luster.

Humility is the way of the TerraEngineer.

3v: Testing The Waters

Nathicana stretches out slowly on the comfortable patio lounge chair situated poolside, enjoying the warm sun of an early afternoon at her villa. She reaches lazily for another frozen grape from the bowl she's been sampling after a relatively light mid-day meal, shared with her two houseguests. A very gentle breeze wafts through the various trees and bushes that surround the pool area, carrying the gentle yet exotic scents from her garden, and far below, the faint hint of ocean. Now this is the life. Good friends, good food, a pleasant day, and a pool to enjoy after. Excellent.

Beside her, Timofeyev idly watches Shorty tread water slowly in the pool, just soaking up the cool from the pool just like a tiger on a televised nature special. Sipping equally idly from a sangria slushie--one of his several guilty pleasures--he flicks his eyes towards Nathi, then to the mildly depleted status of the tray of snacks. Half-smirking to himself as he decides that enough food has been consumed for business to be done, he looks back at the 'ret. "So, how's things been this week? I've been running around so much I haven't kept track."

She pauses in her intended offer to have Dom bring out some more, catching something in the Captain's manner. She pops the grape into her mouth, and chews slowly for a moment, arching one brow slightly. "Mostly the usual," she says carefully. "There's been a recent bid for more controlling interest among the nobles - the De Negri this time. Nothing too serious, but enough to keep an eye on. Taxes have been fluxuating, and certain interest groups have been wailing about it. Demands for more money to be spent promoting culture have been growing louder of late. And little Marcus decided to try his hand at artistry on my bedroom wall." The last delivered with an oddly proud smile.

Bondayehr chuckles. "Heh, your own little muralist. Should cut the costs on that culture-promotion if you manage to keep it in the family." He winks, especially at Nathi's guarded manner. "Yes, an ulterior motive--let me tell you about my week! Gasp!"

"Gracious," she says in a dry tone, smiling warmly all the same. "This is a surprise. So how has it been going?"

"Let me say for one that your Air Force's quartermasters are a right lot of assholes. I should be a mythical hero at this rate--the trials of Heracles don't have anything on getting some damned Phantom III parts."

Nathi frowns at this bit of information, shifting in her chair to sit up a bit more and face the Captain more fully. "Quartermasters have always been a pack of right bastards. What heads need to roll so you can get your job done?"

"Oh, none yet. I've got my connections." Another wink, then the captain turns a bit more serious. "Operative term is 'yet.' Remember that discussion we had on how our two countries have some uncanny similarities despite having completely different backgrounds? I'm beginning to see a parallel from my history that could be your future."

The Dread Lady sits up in her chair completely, swinging her legs over the edge and leaning over on her elbows. "How bad is it?" she asks simply, remembering well enough that the history of the Segments hasn't been all sunshine and kittens.

"Depends. I've no Bene Gesserit training, so I'm no soothsayer. What I can tell, however, is that the AMD's a dying service that doesn't exactly want to fade into obsolescence. That's the main reason why my job is so hard right now."

"The Military has been notoriously close-lipped when it comes to things not running smoothly at any given moment. I know we've demanded a lot of them with all the changes that got introduced so quickly over the past handful of years, but I've been assured the changes were being integrated efficiently enough," she says, reaching for her glass of ice water, the sides slick with condensation. "My time in the military was relatively short. Even though I served my time as we all do, I'm not considered 'one of them' perse. It makes it harder to get the information I need. You know the inherent problems we run into that way - divisions and all. Are you saying in progressing we've killed off one of our branches?"

"Pretty much," Timofeyev says with a shrug. "The navy has the ultimate high ground--space--and the air force's mission is now covered in its entirety by naval aerospace. But, like any military service, the AMD has its own traditions, its own organizational identity. As a group, it doesn't want to die, but there's no new blood; it's all going to the Navy. Anyone of real worth is going Navy to get into the new and exciting frontier of space, leaving behind only the calcified old guard. The generals, the nontechnical support personnel, the quartermasters. Same thing happened to our navy; when global mass reach can be done via space, who needs wet navy surface combatants? The admirals got pissy, basically had a sit-in we called a revolt, then got forced into retirement and their service folded into the M.I., which pissed them off to no end."

Nathi looks more concerned as he goes on, biting her lower lip in telltale consternation. "Given what you've seen, how far do you think they'd take things? Surely there must be a way we could redistribute or reorganize to better share resources and the like. No need for waste or completely shutting them down after all, no? This is no time for a revolt - peaceful or otherwise."

"Now that you mention it, there is indeed a plan. I've caught wind of a little Navy trick you can expect that plays right into that plan. The idea is to centralize your military's procurement and distribution arms in order to ease the adoption of our overtechnology and standardize how things are done within and between services. It'll also make my job a lot easier, but that's beside the point. Essentially, the AMD quartermasters get their powerbase pulled from under them but because the rest of the AMD remains intact, there's no favors to call in. This new command would be direct-reporting to Torino--Navy Admiralty--via an Army general puppet that is... conducive to the Navy's interest.

"End goal is to quietly dismantle the AMD without having an Airmen's Revolt, but don't tell anyone."

"'Caught wind of', have you?" she replies, eyes narrowing slightly. "Something tells me there's more to this than you're letting on, including just how deeply you're involved in it. Does Torino have any idea of what you've been quietly plotting to do with his military?" She leaves the emphasis that it is her military above all unspoken. He is after all, sitting here telling her about it beforehand rather than after the fact.

"Torino's the chair of the Admiralty. This only increases his power in 'his' military. Given that he reports directly to you, and that you probably watch him closely now as is..." He leaves the rest unsaid, half-smirking at Nathi, still looking perfectly at ease. "As for the 'more to it' part, I'll tell you that the mastermind's been loyal to the Dominion throughout the reigns of three or four of your predecessors. His motivation is to keep countrymen from doing stupid things that result in their fool asses getting killed. We all know how much even peaceful protests get under your skin."

Nathicana sniffs slightly at that last bit, turning and sipping her drink again and giving Bondayehr a sidelong look. "Fool asses indeed. I can offhand think of at least a half dozen men who might fit that description, damn your hide." Still. There are some things that can be counted on, and his honorable motivations, and those of his government to promote stability in the Dominion, were among them. "So basically, heads up, be aware, and 'let us take care of it', then?"

"I offered to check with my contacts to make sure that my other contacts weren't, in their zeal to serve, committing treason. Given that treason is defined by the state and, due to the Dominion's unfortunate autocratic bent, you are the state..." he teases, "...I suppose I'm looking for a statement of opinion. Nothing at all has happened yet, and nothing has to happen... except for the AMD situation to get progressively worse if left unattended."

"Treason is not something we tend to look favorably on, for reasons I think you're well acquainted with," she says quietly, thinking things over. "Perhaps there are ways we can assist with encouraging a lack of treason. Subtley, quietly. In addition, perhaps when and if the time comes, certain names could be released equally quietly here that require more ... leniency, should certain boundaries be inadvertently crossed? After all, if there is no way around a thing, at least we can prepare and deal with it on a more informed basis."

Bondayehr shrugs. "This is simply a restructuring of the military to something more efficent and, hopefully, something that can transition more smoothly to an AMDless world. The AMD's mission is already covered by the Navy and so, eventually, the AMD will eventually either find itself as part of the Navy or as an air support component of the Army. The question is whether you like the Air Force so much that working towards its eventual subsumption classifies as treason. No one (except perhaps disaffected AMD generals if they are absolutely forced into folding without care) is planning on doing anything even remotely treasonous in the traditional sense. That I can assure you of."

"What does not kill us makes us stronger," Nathi says simply. "Change is inevitable. So long as outright rebellion or plots for anything 'untoward' are being plotted or carried out, I will trust to the judgement of those who have more knowledge and experience in such matters, though it would be refreshing I admit, to have heard it from them in person. In such a dangerous political environment as we have, one can't have everything. It is a Dominion tradition to operate as you have been - doing what's necessary for us to move forward. In any such change there are losses. I would prefer them not to be losses of life where we can avoid it."

Timofeyev nods. "That's what is being aimed for. As for rebellion... well, let's just say I've personally invested a bit too much in you to see that investment go to waste. Even if I personally have to take measures to prevent anything like that, it's worth it."

Nathi smiles gently at that, and shakes her head slightly. "You've done more than enough that way. I've learned plenty from past 'incidents' and in these last few years. Still, I know that telling you not to do something you feel you need to do is as much good as shouting at the wind. Won't stop it from blowing. I know you can take care of yourself, boy. All the same, I'd take it as a personal failure if anything were to happen to you." She glances idly in Shorty's direction, then back to Bondayehr. "Besides. You've got other investments to worry about that don't have near the resources I do. You keep yourself safe, alright?"

The captain smirks wryly, returning to watching Shorty. "I keep myself as safe as I have to... and don't even think that I don't keep those other investiments in mind, constantly."

"I rather thought they figured into a good bit of the effort to keep things working smoothly," Nathi says, taking another slow sip of her drink. "For what it's worth, from what you've told me ... you and your group of 'conspirators' have my support on this, so long as it remains civil. If a means of communication other than yourself needs to be arranged, let me know. Keep me in the loop, Tim - just like you have today."

"Thanks. That's the plan." Having gotten what he was looking for, the captain takes a deep draw from his slushied fruit wine with a quiet finality. "Going out on a date later tonight."

Nathicana relaxes back into her chair, swinging her legs back up and crossing them at the ankles, quietly partaking of her water. "Looks like it will be a pleasant night for it. Anything fun in particular planned? By now I'm sure you're familiar with some of the better establishments, and a good bit of the local entertainment." Sidelong glance, and a little smile. "Be happy to contribute to the cause, if it helps. I know you two work hard to keep a budget."

"Thanks, but we got it covered. There is a reason I'm so damned frugal, after all, other than just being an obnoxious tightass." Another sip. "Double-date, too."

One brow arches up slightly. "So much sharing in one afternoon? I'm overwhelmed. Anyone I know?"

"Only from tabloid headlines," the captain replies with another sip. "A bit much? My apologies." Sly wink.

"Oh my ..." Quiet close-lipped grin as she ponders, letting the teasing apology slide. "This promises to be a fun one."

"Oh, I think so. Thanks to that last bit of disinformation, and throwing Shorty here into the mix, any errant newshounds won't have any idea what to think."

"You want we should make them scarce, or is this another fiendish plot to make heads spin and keep those bastard Dominion folk off guard?" All delivered with an increasingly mischievous smile.

"Actually, it's a favor to a friend... but if SMISO taught me anything, it's to use any situation to the utmost." Sly, close-lipped grin as he continues to watch the 'ret in the pool.

"Another Dominion value, that," she observes before sipping her drink again, and glancing thoughtfully at Shorty. "I think it's high time I checked on the bambinos," she says finally, smiling warmly at the Captain as she gets to her feet, and stretches. "Plenty of time yet for a swim and such before tonight, I'd figure ..."

"I think so," the captain responds, keeping up the sly look as he notes that Shorty's now wandering idly in the shallow end of the pool. "In fact, probably a good idea. See you later, Nath," he says, standing up himself... then leaping into the pool, pouncing the kzinret with a enthusiastic yell.

Nathi shakes her head and grins, still close-lipped. Figuring the ensuing chaos is best left uninterrupted, she quietly makes her way to the back gate, and from there up the short steps to the back entry of the house. I am so going to miss them when they go.

3: Dinner for Four

"So, I finally get to meet your boyfriend," Shorty says with a quiet huffing chuckle, the motion causing the light to glint off of the dark semi-gloss patterns on her midnight-blue dress. "Should be an experience."

"Yes, it should," Bondayehr replies, smirking faux-wryly at the kzinret sitting next to him on the bus. It's a slight squeeze to fit them both in a standard issue public service bus seat but, far from minding, they enjoy it; it's roomier and less expensive than a cab would be, and it's always fun to watch reactions. The inhabitants of Devras hardly notice monstrous critters like kzin anymore with anything greater than mild curiosity; those who do take a second look, however, possibly note how the two are dressed and quietly put pieces together in their minds. The individual reactions to how those pieces fit are what's interesting to watch, varying from barely veiled distaste through taciturn curiosity or dismissal all the way to something approximating envy. "Scoot over."

For basic reasons of engineering, Embassy-Representative sits on the aisle side of the seat and, to prevent getting in the way of the occasional conductor, leans a bit against Timofeyev. Looking down for a moment, she flaps her ears. "To where?"

"Somewhere not on me," he says with a jokingly grumpy voice, "it has to be about twenty-seven degrees in here and the last thing I need is a fur blanket."

"But you like fur blankets," she replies teasingly, "and no one forced you to wear your jacket."

Bondayehr shrugs slightly under his leather fighter jacket, the single-breasted one he wore before becoming a fighter pilot. Worn in but not at all worn out, it now carries with it a perpetual faint smell of cigarettes from a rock concert in some hole-in-the-wall dive several years ago. "The occasion required dressing up slightly, it's far too warm for my trenchcoat, and I need to keep my flight leathers in regs."

Shorty's only response is to lean even more against her compatriot, looking out the window at mid-evening Devras across the bay as the bus makes its way along the edge of the coastal cliff. "It's a pretty town."

Timofeyev resigns himself to his fate and settles in, shifting so he can look out the window more comfortably as well. "Yeah."

* - * - *

Oh-Three Lieutenant Tornatore looks at his watch and frowns, looking far too much the officer even in mufti, standing far too erect outside the low fence that forms the perimeter of a streetside cafe's sphere of influence. He is, by all estimations, a quiet worrier when it comes to time and punctuality, always arriving a few minutes too early and by extension waiting a few minutes too long. Not that he lets anyone else realize this, of course; that would be impolite. Although anyone who knows him would not call him compulsive, there are quiet signs of it in his everyday life--how he always makes sure his uniforms are sharp, how he dresses cleanly and snappily, how even the khaki slacks and green button-up poloweight shirt he wears right now are creased in just the right places and yet not so much as to force a military icebreaker-prow look. Stifling a sigh and the impulse to rock back on his heels, he looks at his watch again, then glances up to look up and down the sidewalks. It's late evening in Devras, and the cityfolk are trapped trying to go in two major flows in its precious few surface streets--those who commute trying to get out to their homes and those who live and work elsewhere trying to get in for the nightlife. Traffic is jammed, as usual.

"Surprise," Bondayehr says with an evil close-lipped grin.

Ciro's first instinct and desire is to jump out of his skin; instead, he just twitches sharply as his attention snaps to the slightly shorter man in front of him and blanches a little. His second desire is to just die as his capillaries dilate partially to make up for sudden flow reduction and partially from that particularly obnoxious beet-red flavor of shame that comes from being caught off guard, although his color change is matched by his natural tan. "Where the--" he replies sharply, then chuckles, shaking his head and becoming dimly aware of a tawny orange, dark blue, black, and very large thing right next to Timofeyev. "From across the street."

"From behind that bus, actually," the captain responds in his pseudoartificially enhanced Italian, "we saw you looking so concerned we just couldn't resist sneaking up."

"Bastard," Tornatore replies with a grin. Then he looks up and, somehow, manages not to blanch again, although if his lips were made of a material any harder than flesh they would've made an audible click as they slap shut.

"Ciro," Bondayehr takes a step back, open palms presenting the kzinret, "this is Shorty. Shorty," Bondayehr takes another small dancing step, hands sweeping to present the Dominioner, "this is Ciro. My 'boyfriend.'"

Tornatore finds his sense of the absurd simply screaming at all of this. First the impish sneaking, which would not have occured if he wasn't so vigilant, then the two-meter-plus pseudotigress that apparently allows people to call her dimunitive without having their entrails for it, and finally that said 'ret isn't wearing anything he'd even remotely associate with kzin from his extremely limited previous experience. Her dress is made of a breezy midnight blue chiffon wrapped around until it achieves the desired opacity, with hemmed but uneven fringes along the bottom that make it look almost frayed or tattered. The opaque lower hem is only a few centimeters shy of being very dangerously short, but the gauzy consistency of overlapping layers of chiffon make the dress appear visually lower; the neckline of the top of her dress, conversely, is highly conservative, being exactly that, and made of two strips that go up and tie behind her neck, allowing for a mostly bare back. Loose form-fitting at the waist is achieved by an internal cloth belt held by a simply twined set of silver chains, the excess let out to dangle as a decoration. She also wears solid silver cuff bracelets after the Bedouin style, aged so they don't glitter as she bows slightly and takes the hand that Ciro instinctually and wholly unconsciously offers. "Honored," she says in careful Italian, "to meet one worthy enough to obtain such a catch."

"Uh... thank you, and likewise, though I do not wish to assume too much." Ciro smiles, getting into the game. "I do not deserve such praise, though, having never actually managing to have said catch." He winks at Timofeyev, who nods with a chuckling half-smirk.

"Assume all you want, Ciro Tornatore," Shorty replies, stepping back as is customary among Scolopendran kzinti--ease the strain of looking up on the other. "Where is your significant other?"

This calls for another glance at the watch, which Ciro smooths over with a casual shrug. "He called to say he was running a little behind." He notes the 'ret's apparent concentration on every word, and so slows down a little, just to be polite. "We should get a table and let him catch up, now that most of us are here." Tornatore certainly thinks about saying that there's no way that Giacoppino could miss this group in a crowd, but carefully skirts around it.

"There is no way that he could miss this bunch in a crowd," Timofeyev replies with a wink, smiling at both his companions as Ciro's handshaking eventually reaches him and he pulls Tornatore into a friendly hug. "Give us a hug then, Ciro; it has not been that long, has it?" He grins through closed lips. "You do know you must tell us how you met, what you think of all of it, everything that is not classified, yes?"

Tornatore smiles and returns the hug heartily, only letting himself look the least bit misty when the 'Pendran can't see it. "Certainly, once he arrives. You know... ah..." He steps back, looking between the two Scolopendrans with a quietly appraising and estimating look. "I will be honest. You have me stumped, Tim."

"Hm?" Bondayehr raises an eyebrow, folding his arms and leaning slightly against his 'ret companion.

"Well... I know from experience your... unconventional attitudes towards public displays and all. Probably comes from hanging around the Dread Lady too much."

"Probably." Slightly devious smirk.

"And so... I am left to wonder. Do I believe what I see, or do I suspect another set of blinds, another way to spoof the trail?"

"Well, you know me," Timofeyev replies, his half-smirk getting more devious by the moment as Shorty plays along and wraps one arm of orange and black-striped fur around his shoulder. "Never one for giving straight, simple answers... I suppose, then, it is up to you whether to trust your instinct or your mistrust." He says the last word with a touch of wryness, apparently not liking the thought much but wholly understanding if it turns out to be the case. "What do you think?"

Ciro ponders for a moment, then simply mirrors the captain's mischievous smile. "If you will not be forward... then there is no reason I should be, no? I can play my cards as close as you choose to."

Shorty chuckles, getting the gist of the playful banter between the two, and gently squeezes her comrade's shoulder. "You are indeed adapting to the Dominion, Tim. I could learn a lot from you."

"Now, no need to be sarcastic," Bondayehr rejoins with a close-lipped grin, arm around the kzinret's waist and squeezing in return. "Fair enough, Ciro--lead on!"

* - * - *

The friends quickly fall into conversation as they pass the time, sitting at a table halfway between the aged front of the cafe and the cast-iron fence that separates it from the street. Shorty's social leanings are somewhat closer to Ciro's than Tim's, save his explicit support for the stability of autocratic regimes, which only brings a mocking but friendly scoff from Tim, who downs another shot of inexpensive vodka, apparently his preferred means of starting things off. The kzinret is a mead drinker, and a copious one at that--taking full advantage of having more flesh to disperse alcohol in--while Torino cradles the same glass of expensive wine, apparently much more the connoisseur than the other two. They speak in careful Italian, all acting in deference to the kzinret's inexperience with the language.

After a few minutes, a wiry black-haired blue-eyed man with a generally genial bearing around him scuttles up to the table, perspiring just a little bit with a mixture of the heat of the late afternoon and his obvious exertion, having moved quickly from wherever he came from. Snapping his fingers, he gestures subtly to Shorty with a nod. "Ya were right, Ciro; ya do stan' out inna crowd." He speaks quickly with a Western accent, not too much different but hard to keep up with at speed. Timofeyev, by this point having four shots of vodka and quite relaxed chemically from it, leans back and glances at the 'ret; for her own part, Embassy-Representative is careful not to look too confused, although she does sniff the air once or twice.

Tornatore smiles as he stands up, exchanging embraces with the newcomer complete with standard lower-European cheek-kisses before sitting back down with him, almost shoulder to shoulder on their half of the round table. "Ah yes, introductions--Timofeyev, Shorty, this is Giapcopo. Giacopo, Tim and Shorty."

The newcomer stands and bows low with a flourish, dropping his natural accent and quick speech to speak in a parody of those coming from 'cultured' northern universities, metered diction and nearly ostentatious pronunciation. "Giacopo Villoresi, amateur newspaperman and professional student."

"Shorty's not too comfortable with the language," Ciro adds in an undertone, clearly not meaning to insult, "so if you want to keep talking like that..."

"Bah," Giacopo replies with a smile, sitting down and winking. "I couldn' stand to keep talkin' like that for too long... but I will do my best not to be the chattabox--anything for a beautiful lady." He bows his head with a friendly smirk to the 'ret, who only sniffs the air slightly, allowing herself to cant her head.

"Pardon... 'chatterbox?'"

"Oh... uhm... someone who speaks too quickly. Sorry." Villoresi smiles sheepishly, then tightens his lips to make sure no teeth are showing. "I 'spose you're sorta new ta all tha di'lects."

Bondayehr chuckles politely at Villoresi's introduction but straightens up a bit, looking a tad more professional, a little more closed off as is his wont around new and different people, especially in the Dominion. "Amateur newspaperman, eh? I suppose I need not ask how you two met, then."

"Yessir," Giacopo says with a grin, then a close-lipped smile. "Let us jus' say that Ciro's standin' here kinda shot up with that hot bit o' gossip. Turns out tho' he ain't inta the casual scene so..."

The captain holds his hands up slightly, chuckling still politely. "Point made." He does glance over towards Ciro, who has turned just a shade or two redder--perhaps not embarrased, but certainly about to be. "As you can see, my tastes apparently change with the wind."

"Hey." Shorty nudges Timofeyev quarter-roughly with her elbow.

"Gotta admit, it sure is..." Villoresi looks at the captain, looks at the kzinret, finally realizes he's put himself into a delicate situation and quickly retracts just a tiny bit into himself, just like Bondayehr already has. "...unexpected."

"Only way to fight," Timofeyev says with a knowing wink.

"Is it a fight, though?" Ciro asks, leaning forward with an air of curiosity after taking another sip of his wine.

Bondayehr looks at him, smiles, raises his shot glass in slow salute, and slowly sips it down, draining every last drop before turning it over and setting it on the table upside-down. "Ex-SMISO. Everything is."

* - * - *

The odd double-date of sorts continues on. For all his efforts to appear otherwise, Villoresi is an intellectual just like the rest of them; it just takes more effort to extract it out from a decidedly genial exterior than it would for, say, the captain. Soon he's throwing himself into discussion after discussion with almost stereotypical Dominioner passion, seconded by Shorty, who comes from a rather passionate people herself. Both Ciro and Timofeyev are decidedly more taciturn if not guarded, occasionally glancing at each other and not needing to actually voice what they're thinking.

They order dinner and continue talking, all very much friendly; the conversation continues over dinner, and time flows as it always will. "And then there's tha Segments--all idealistic an' really no better than any o' us." Giacopo winks to the two 'Pendrans across from him. "Jus' as Machiavellian when it comes down to tha roots."

"I have to disagree," Shorty replies fervently inbetween polite bites of pasta, something she was trained for; it is very difficult for a kzin to eat something like that in a manner concordant with human codes of politeness without knowing a few tricks. "I do not fall into the category of those who consider Machiavelli evil, but you must admit that many times we eschew complete... realism for the needs of our ideals."

"Ideals, heh," Villoresi says after a quick gulp of wine to wet his throat, "very good for tha public relations department but don' mean much on the field. I mean, proppin' up a dictator like tha Dread Lady has to rankle."

"Just because we disagree with your system of governance doesn't mean we cannot support you," the kzinret offers in return while Bondayehr just leans back again, watching the discussion. "As despots go, she is relatively harmless."

"Oh sure; her spring-cleanings are less obnoxious but still there. 'Specially that las' one, when she 'nounced how she was gonna be Imperatrice an' all... you'd know something about that, wouldntchya, Cap'n?" Giacopo grins slyly behind closed lips at Timofeyev.

"I am not sure how you mean," Timofeyev says evenly. "Last I remember, I was recuperating from having pulled most of the muscles in my upper body while that was going on."

"Well, all them disappearances had to be caused by somebody, and if the stories I heard were true, then the good Imperatrice wasn't in much the position make such a clean, orderly sweep. Other stories too... didn't know we had that sort of tech."

Ciro glances over to Bondayehr, who looks lost in thought for a moment. Not something we really liked helping with... He looks up, catching and holding Giacopo's eyes, and smiles sweetly. "Would you like to know what Machiavellianism is to us, truly? It is holding one hand over the mouth of a man old enough to be your father as you draw the blade across his throat, feeling the wet red stickiness of his blood spurt against your arm, through your fingers as he coughs it up and expires... and knowing you have no choice if you wish to survive." Reaching out, he pours himself a fifth shot of vodka. "It is seeing the fear in his eyes, desperately wanting to save him too but knowing that his goals are directly opposed to yours. That if you let him live, he will repay you by selling you out to the people who will put a bullet into the back of your brain--or maybe even the front--without a second thought."

He raises his glass and smiles thinly, eyes cold and unreadable, their odd glistening either from suppressed emotion or alcohol... but Ciro nor Giacopo can tell which, and their curious steadiness not helping to add any light to that. "Fisehatak." Another shot, the glass once again upended and set on the table upside-down.

* - * - *

The conversation eventually restarts, with Villoresi being much more careful--Bondayehr would think of it as "respectful"--of what topics he chooses to broach and concentrate on. Eventually, Ciro excuses himself to use the restroom and Giacopo finds himself alone with the two Titanian spacers. Smiling impishly at Embassy-Representative, Timofeyev leans forward predatorially. "So... have you met Ciro's parents yet?"

"Um... no," Villoresi replies, smiling slightly unevenly as he remembers the captain's curious coldness earlier. "So far as I can get him ta say, his 'rents don' quite 'gree with his leanin's, as it were. Not condemnin', course--they are still good people--but just... disagreein'."

Bondayehr nods. "Fair enough. I suppose you know, then, that the profession of arms is something like a big family."

"Heard as much, ya."

Another nod, and the sly smile broadens. "Very well then. I owe Ciro; indeed, I owe him quite a bit. If his old man is not exactly willing to do his traditional duty, then I can step in. See, Shorty here--any friend of mine is a friend of hers too. And she's real protective of her friends."

The kzinret smiles thinly--the only way that kzinti really can--and waves idly with one hand.

"Now, I do owe Ciro one, and I would hate for that favor to be called in on account of you. So you had best be on your best behavior with our adopted family and, if you break his heart, well..." Bondayehr smiles and leans back. "I think I have established we can be Machiavellian when we absolutely have to be to make sure our greater ideals get realized. Capisce?"

Giacopo nods slowly.

"Good. Now smile, Ciro's coming back."

Let's just say that Villoresi makes damn sure the rest of the enjoyable night passes utterly without incident. Tornatore isn't exactly shocked by his boyfriend's sudden newfound belief in propriety and politeness and all, but is mildly surprised and decides to discuss it with Bondayehr later... but for now, at least, it's a welcome change.

Damned meddling 'Pendrans.

Billy Pilgrim

Listen: Magnus Hesche has become unstuck in time.

He wasn't entirely sure how exactly he gets unstuck in time, but he has already in the future figured out the basic cause, or the reason on why he will leave the flow of time as we had known it. Perhaps the primary reason was boredom, and perhaps being surrounded by sufficient amounts of hot air presently will sometime in the past add to it.

Now this part happened before the instant he became unstuck in time, so one can safely use the past tense with some means of regularity. It all started when, as a sort of punishment assignment for some unbecoming but not entirely unwelcome antics in Aelosia (known amongst the IntRelate D.O.'s as The Great Dominion-Segments Innuendo War), that self-righteous uptight bitch Nadjiba Abd-al-Haqq shipped his ass off to some regional diplomatic summit that was suffering from realizations of its own inadequacy. This extended summit was old, steeped in tradition, and had a moderately decent history of doing absolutely nothing; it was created in great fanfare and had a very nice building that was the pinnacle of modern civil engineering at the time created for it. Of course, 'pinnacle of modern civil engineering' also meant that it absolutely had to have charnel catacombs for diplomats to meet in secrecy among the decomposing, putrid remains of their ancestors and it absolutely had to have a hyperadvanced artificial intelligence to run all of its hyperadvanced superdefenses, which consisted mostly of slamming the automatic doors in people's faces and then laughing at them over the public address system.

The council chamber was filled with creatures matching almost every description, but most matched the description of 'completely human.' A few tried to break the mold by having pointy ears, long wispy eyebrows, and enough hauteur to fill the claws of a Busu-class bulk hauler, but Hesche knew better; they were just people too. Day in and day out, their professional lives essentially consisted of watching their dataviewers, publically scratching various itches that in some locales in some times would be considered ludicrously rude to do, and generally existing in that sort of vegetative state that Aristotle would have clucked his tongue at and, standing up in his Grecian robes, have announced to the heavens: "I declare thee plant!" at which point Alexander the Great would have taken notes and listened avidly, but his fool ass would still have died of malaria. Or typhoid, or poisoning, depending on which obnoxious intellectual you'd happen to ask at any given time. This sort of boredom just made Hesche want to break his own rules and start an actual affair, with sex and everything, with about three delegates simultaneously just to give everyone something to talk about. Instead, he decided to break this local parleyroom's rules instead and experiment with his Stupid OPO Tricks, trying to see if he could make time flow backwards on peoples watches and the clocks to force them to sit around longer, and being careful enough to not do it on those instants that his fellow delegates would look at the clock and sigh loudly, needlessly announcing their ennui to the rest of the room like students desperately awaiting the end of the monotone lecture or the Hour of Doom, whichever comes first.

Then something interesting would happen, or at least it would have been interesting had it not followed the same general pattern. The most recent one, the one that made Senior Diplomatic Officer Magnus Hesche get unstuck in time, was when the Iotalonese delegate stood up, completely naked. Now, understand me: Hesche has seen lots of people naked. He's from the Segments; people walk around naked all the time when it's hot and one doesn't need pockets. No one cares, they just live in their skins like everyone else with a bit less coverage. The Iotalonese, on the other hand, always seemed to make a big deal of it. Standing up, legs stiff, leading with their pelvis, shifting their hips as they gesticulate their arms as if to say "WHHOOOOO, I'MA NEKKID! LOOKIT ME, YOU CAN SEE EVERYTHING!" in absolutely everything they do... Magnus sighed as the Iotalonese delegate once again reminded everyone that, yes, he was absolutely naked and Hesche thought, very quietly to himself, that he really should stop doing that because really, there wasn't anything about that delegate that was anywhere near impressive.

This delegate started ranting, which seemed to be the only reason this place existed. Sweat beading over his body from the force of his exhalation, slightly obscuring the four-digit number in large Arabic numerals drawn with black indelible marker on his chest, and spurted off pheromones from all of his superbiological implants to show just how cheesed off he was. Hesche misconstrued the latter as the lunchtime fare of beanie-weenies disagreeing with the delegate and tried to make any sense of the former, all this talk of probes and you blew it up and you're a naughty person and don't make us hurt you. Then this deligate was answered by the Ohman!ii (the "!" is pronounced with a click of the tongue, like in various subSaharan African languages) delegate who looked, for all intents and purposes, like the modern stereotype of an eighteenth-century pirate. Scraggly hair (albeit pulled back in a ponytail), a huge eyepatch, a massive black beard and mustache mix that made one wonder if he actually had any face short of lips, nose, and eyes, a decently fancy army uniform with some fabric patches added for effect, and two peg-legs. He'd have more peg-legs if he could, because more peg-legs means more badass, but he only had two legs and so his artistic expression of just how hardcore he thought he was turned out to be unduly limited by his choice of species. To his credit, he responded calmly at first, and then happily threw away that calm and joined in with the roaring and the hissing and the sniping and the threats of war.

Now, Hesche has heard kzin roar and hiss; any human attempt to do so after that just seems like a weak parody.

Anyway, the two fed each other for a few minutes, with a few of the pointy-eared human-pluses adding in their own digs on one side or the other, whichever one they happened to despise less at the moment. Losing a good deal of the crowd, the pirate kicked back in his chair so hard that the casters popped off and it screeched the ten meters from the desk to the wall, where it hit so hard it dented the armorsteel. Standing up firmly in his legs of spacewood, he raised his hand, pointed to the chamber, and announced in a clear, steady voice:

"FUCK THE TOADSKIN OF YOUR WHORE MOTHERS. I'M LEAVING. THINK ABOUT WHAT YOU'VE DONE, MAKING ME LEAVE."

And tottered out. Everyone else seemed to be appropriately shocked at this vitriol and spite, while Magnus had difficulty managing to keep a straight face. The Iotalonese paraded smugly, hips advancing, saying how immature the Ohman!ii delegate was, and some white combat robot in the far corner that somehow managed to evade notice most of the time, probably through the careful use of a SEP field, tried suggesting everyone backing off. This was quickly and resoundingly shot down by the pointy-eared superhumans, who congratulated themselves on agreeing and disagreeing with only the most perfect of taste while looking ambivalently towards the elfy with the leather pants and headbanging to some tune he was making up as he went along, which sounded something like "glory to Khaine, glory to Khaine, gorydeath to Mon-Keigh!" with devil's-horns gestures thrown in at appropriate intervals.

Then the Ohman!ii came back, probably because his PDA told him the other delegates were saying mean things about him behind his back, and that was about the time that Magnus tuned out and, instead of managing to turn back the clock, managed to get his fool ass unstuck in time.

Now, I'm sure you will want to hear of his adventures that he has in the future past; of how he will lunch with the Christ and already saw the Sun go cold. However, being unstuck in time is a fucking scary place to be, what with it smelling a lot like squid in this day and age, and so Hesche--bold but not dumb--stopped fooling around with things he doesn't have the degrees to pretend to understand and made himself not unstuck in time, resigning himself to the necessity of sitting through the meeting like anyone else. Disappointing, perhaps, but you have to admit that the last thing we need is Magnus Hesche, Envoy to New Worlds, pissing off important people in our timeline.

So there.

I'm going to try a different way of identifying story arcs now. Comic book format, go!

Magnus Hesche: Let Bygones Be Bygones #2
So I Actually Do Have Something To Do Here

"And that's how I got unstuck in time, ma'am!" Hesche grins broadly, his teeth reflecting the light in his local office--if it could be called that--far more than it ought. The reason why calling Magnus' current digs an 'office' is debatable is because the Diet building he resides in, acting as both chamber room and international embassy complex, was originally designed for a far smaller number of inhabitants. Hesche, upon his arrival, was immediately herded into a small broom closet off the main lobby. Using a stack of Shake-N-Scoop bubblegum-scented antiseptic vomit absorber as a makeshift shelf for his portcomp, he sits on a chair crudely fashioned out of "CAUTION, FLOOR IS WET" signs as he talks with his boss through his portcomp's secure TYCS connections.

"Very nice, Magnus," the Arab woman replies dryly. The International Relations Advisor, Hesche muses, isn't a bad sort, really. In the end, she was the epitome of the Scolopendran Citizen-Queen; royalty of her own life and whose internally assured nobility spread out to color the rest of her character. She also wasn't bad looking at all, especially for her age; just a very simple and rational face with minimal effort expended on gussying up when it wasn't necessary and, although the camera on her end doesn't show it, a healthy figure that couldn't be more than a kilogram or so over her 'optimal' weight. She takes care of herself, that's for certain, but she also obviously doesn't obsess over it. If she had a sense of humor, Magnus allows himself to think, he'd probably hit on her in his own playful yet absolutely meaningless way; still, he gets the impression she hasn't figured out that his particular character trait when dealing with the opposite sex really is just meaningless teasing. "I suppose it would be a complete waste of time and breath to ask if you managed to catch what caused that little tirade."

"Oh, that." The decidedly Aryan (albeit healthily tanned) ubermensch folds his broad hands behind his perfectly tossed blonde hair but resists the urge to lean back, seeing how his makeshift seat isn't likely to handle center-of-gravity shifts very well. "Oh, well, ma'am, it looks like the Ohman!ii met some new people."

"I know the Iotalonese, Hesche," Nadjiba counters, "and even they aren't that hot to trot."

"Well, the Ohman!ii then blew up a probe that the Iotalonese sent to investigate the arrival of the huge asteroid that the newcomers came in. The Ohman!ii claimed it as a mining operation, and now they're staring down open gunports at each other."

His superior nods an inordinately excessive distance away. "It's settled, then. Magnus, what we need you to do is prevent those two from going to war over such a decidedly silly pretense."

"Uh... boss? They're already there."

"The Seventh Guard Fleet says that right now the Iotalonese are mostly pulling in fleet assets to fight the newcomers; actual conflict between them and the Ohman!ii haven't quite happened yet. Remember how the Elves aligned themselves."

"Yes'm, straight down the middle..." Magnus pauses and frowns. "Let me guess. Our elves have taken the Iotalonese side in a show of solidarity with--"

"Exactly. The Diet is split down the middle and the last thing we need is our allies getting involved in anything... inconvenient."

Magnus sighs. He'd always thought it was a bad idea to get aligned in the old Elf-Evil Dark Lord of Evilissimitude struggle, and yet it happened almost completely by accident. They were decent, if mildly obnoxious, people, tolerable in that he was certain the perception of obnoxiousness went both ways, but their penchant for sticking their fingers, toes, and any other bodily protrubance they had into every pie they could reach was certainly annoying, to say the least and fantastically difficult, to say much more than the least and at least approximate the truth with only a modicum of hyperbole. This was especially annoying because the Segments--all the old Titanian nations, actually--despised the Iotalonese for an unfortunate squatting incident many years since passed which ended with a dramatic show of force and the Iotalonese dropping an EMP device on their own colony to stop hordes of Zero-One forces from physically evicting them. Needless to say, Iotalonese tactical skill and by extension intelligence became proverbial in Scolopendra, as in: Wow, brilliant deduction there, Sherlock. That was a real show of Iotalonese cunning right there. Now, how exactly do you plan to get yourself out of that storm drain, eh? "Yeah, that dreaded inconvenience. So how exactly am I supposed to arrange this again, ma'am?"

"As much of a pain as you are, Magnus, you're not stupid and you're not useless. Make it work. Abd-al-Haqq out." She leans forward and cuts the connection before Hesche can get a word in edgewise... an impressive feat, given Magnus's abilities to unstick time (at least in relation to himself) and an indicator that she must have practiced that move before she called.

"Great," Hesche sighs. Closing the lid to his portcomp, he stands up and immediately bangs the back of his head on a shelf of cheap brown-paper towels as he plonks one shiny combat boot into a rolling yellow plastic bucket of thankfully clean soapy water. "Nek ni," he mutters with another resigned sigh before turning around in the tight space--knocking over his carefully engineered sign-chair in the process--and staggering out, thankfully glad that combat boots are watertight as he shuts the door behind him and locks it. The Diet lobby is one more example of the intended awesomeness of the building, a huge meeting place for people that stretches between the glass facade and the actual offices a couple dozen of stories straight up, an inner-wall outer-wall effect supposed to enhance the open space of the atrium, which was always standing room only. The only reason this latter is the case is because any sort of rational contrivance to sit down and chat would firstly change this room from a 'lobby' to a 'lounge'--and there was no agreement upon having an entry lounge in the Diet Accords--and all those small chairs and couches and low tables would of course break up the expansiveness of the linoleum floors, and the architect--a squirrely little man with glasses and a penchant for comparative anthropology--was rumored to have installed a thermonuclear device somewhere on site, and it was decided that any attempt to question his artistic will would be decidedly unwise.

Meanwhile, somewhere up above, thousands of ships from at least five different nationalities are locked in a titanic struggle, with plasma and gauss and electric beams arcing across space in effects that were once considered special; tactical FTL jumps requiring snap calculations and judgements, possibly hundreds of thousands of minds, if not millions, working together with grit and determination to snuff out all the others. Brave men of iron in their ships of materials-fantastically-stronger-and-less-dense-than-iron duel in a direct confrontation of wills... and absurdly advanced and grotesquely expensive technology, the traded thrusts sending ships and their crews to their doom. Back below in the Diet building, Senior Diplomatic Officer Magnus Hesche is quietly happy that his boot, for all it makes squeaky squishy noises on the linoleum, is dry on the inside; he absolutely hates wet shoes, and this job would take some footwork.

Magnus Hesche: Let Bygones Be Bygones #3
Flapping Extremities, Part One

Everyone has to eat... well... the mechanoids would disagree with that statement, but everyone Hesche needs to talk to at least needs to eat, which makes the cafeteria great to find people without resorting to talking to SHAZAM, the local Diet supercomputer previously mentioned. SHAZAM has a sense of humor bordering on a psychological malady and so Magnus tries hard not to bother her, instead relying on the no more healthy but at least more stable and predictable psychology of the Diet: despite its name, the constant stress of having to deal with other morons while dealing with the sense of inadiquacy brought about by generally being assigned boring diplomatic jobs for not being badass enough tends to push obnoxious delegates towards eating disorders--getting depressed and then eating for the natural increase in endorphins that mastication and consumption bring about. The fact they manage to keep their figure comes from, Hesche believes, either intentional bulimia or a high concentration of laxitives in their diet. The more rational delegates--there are a few--tend to hang out at the cafeteria because the food is inexpensive, edible, and it is one of the few places in the Diet where rhetoric and grandstanding are not permitted. The large room has the atmosphere of a Serengeti watering hole at the Dawn of Man, with protohumans eyeing each other warily from opposite sides of the pool, glancing meaningfully at makeshift bone clubs and grunting with just the slightest hint of menace whenever opposing eyes happen to make contact with each other, but generally peaceful... and far more peaceful than even the lobby, where five times out of nine one can expect there to be a heated argument on who outranks who and therefore who gets on the elevator first long after the elevator has left.

First, try the outsiders. They tend to have interesting takes on the situation and like to make deals. Walking into the cafeteria--a room far longer than it is wide, filled with institutionally long tables and backless benches, with several portals along the side that lead into the equally institutional serving lines--Magnus spots the delegate from Novosibirskayakhabarovskykraistavropolskyingushetiasovka, an aristocratic-looking chap wearing a monocle and who is daintily sipping tea that he pours into his glass from a portable samovar. He looks quite impressive and stern with his slicked-back pomaded black hair, mildly harsh features, and red cape around a properly trim militaresque uniform, black with three silver stars on one breast. As he approaches, Magnus recalls the man's name and practices the pronunciation of his country, something the Novosibirskayakhabarovskykraistavropolskyingushetiasovkans are notoriously picky about.

Novosibirskayakhabarovskykraistavropolskyingushetiaskova. Novosibirskayakhabarovskykraistavropolskyingushetiasovka. Novosibirskayakhabarovskykraistavropolskyingushetiasovka "Hello, Prince Andrei Bolkonsky," Hesche says with a broad smile, raising one hand. Novosibirskayakhabarovskykraistavropolskyingushetiasovka. Novosibirskayakhabarovskykraistavropolskyingushetiasovka. Nov-o-sib-ir-ska-yak-ha-bar-ov-sky-krai-stav-ro-pol-sky-ing-u-shet-i-a-sov-ka. Bolkonsky just looks back at Magnus as he might look at something distasteful he found squished in the tread of his shoe or at an art museum; however, Magnus doesn't take it poorly because it is a well-known public secret that Prince Andrei had that expression surgically frozen onto his face. "How're things in Novosibirskayakhabarovskykraistavropolskyingushetiaskova?"

Even though his visage is essentially a motionless mask, the haughty sneer seems to spread and deepen as the prince hisses "Novosibirskayakhabarovskykraistavropolskyingushetiasovka, fool!" Taking up his samovar and his teaglasses with a quick flair, he glares at Hesche before stalking off to soak his offended sensibilities in the sweat and tears of a few serfs. "When we reform the Diet," he's heard to murmur as he leaves earshot, "then everyone will respect us!"

Hesche sighs quietly, consoling himself with the fact that the Novosibirskay--frack it--Obnoxious Russian Bastards are pretty much bit-players to begin with who only show the slightest interest in things that offer them the chance of a bigger piece of the pie, a category in which the current situation does not qualify. Scanning the room some more with his bright blue eyes, he comes across the Gnutaws delegate... and immediately leaves him to continue bowing towards his makeshift altar of paper notes folded in the shape of pyramids and unicorns. People from Gnutaws always left him wondering, although recently he'd come to the conclusion that Orwell was right--doublethink works and is a real entity in modern society--and it always came out when 'discussing' (which inevitably turned to 'arguing' due to the Gnutawssian tendency towards pigheaded automatic gainsaying) things with that particular delegate. Hesche would analyze his opponent's argument and realize that it is internally inconsistant, essentially based on at least one or more contradictions between mutually opposing stances whose interpretation (and therefore 'resolution') was a function solely of wherever one was standing physically at any given point in time and the delegate's opinion of his adversary. Upon pointing this inconsistency out, the delegate would simply smile primly, call Hesche "a typical Scolopendran"--a stereotype whose only defining qualities were whatever the Gnutawssian found annoying at exactly that given time--and completely fail to acknowledge the existence of the decidedly broad chasm in his own mind. Discounting that one as more worthless than a dead child, Magnus decides to walk around a bit.

" Why, hello there, Diplomatic Officer ... Hesche, " says an oddly distorted voice behind him, causing the 'Pendran to spin around on his bootheels.

"Hello, Director," Magnus replies.

" How are you this ... fine morning, Of-fice-er Hesche ? " The Director was an interesting one, de facto ruler of a tiny snippet in the region that wasn't actually a member of the Diet nor, indeed, even a potential member beyond a sort of ambivalence they held towards joining sometime in the far, far future. Far too straight and mechanical to put anyone at ease, his voice matches his appearance, going so far as to sound like Magnus always imagined the animated wooden dolls in Eastern European fairytales did. " I ... think it could be a ... most ... pleas-ant ... day . "

"I dunno," Hesche responds with a wry grin, "I've got orders from up top to deal with... the situation up there." He points up towards where people are still willfully killing each other with only the most veiled haughty scorn and glee.

" Ah... yes ... that . A most un-fortune-ate ... situ ... ation . One must ... wonder ... whether or ... not ... we ... here ... " His eyes start going wide at this point and he obviously tries to speed up, but to no avail. " ... at ... the ... Diiiiiiiiiiietttt ... " Twitching slightly, he spasmodically points to somewhere behind him with one arm before leaning forward slightly, arms dangling from torso, balanced stiffly on his stalk-like legs.

Blinking, Hesche looks past the Director's shoulder towards the half-full cafeteria, wondering what was behind him. He waves his hand in front of the Director's vacant eyes, taps him on the shoulder, then starts to walk past, disavowing all knowledge of the situation, when the gleam of metal catches his eye. In the Director's back is embedded a glittering stainless steel cylinder flanked by two broad wings the size and thickness of playing cards. "Ah, well, that makes sense." Grabbing the wings in both hands, Hesche twists the cylinder about a few deft turns.

*Ckrikikikikikikikik! Ckrikikikikikikikikikik! Ckrikikikikikikikikikik!* The Director stands back up, and totters on his stiff legs to face Hesche again. " Thank you, Off-ice-er Hesche . That thing can be most in-con-ven-ient. "

"Not a problem, Director." With a quick wave, Magnus spins on his heels again and walks off. Creepy. Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he sees someone pop his head out of the trash can but before Hesche can turn to talk to him he's gone. "Damned terraformer-allies," the D.O. grumbles to himself, "never stay around for long enough."

Magnus Hesche: Let Bygones Be Bygones #4
Flapping Extremities, Part Two

Walking around the table of arctic seafowl discussing what exactly they plan to buy next, the little arrowheads on their segregated primary-color uniforms glistening, Magnus finds his next target, and sighs pre-emptorially. The pointies, who--like the penguins--acquired their own table and at it formed the nucleus of their ear-based clique. At one end sit the elite, two ancient ones with the largest names and the largest tracts of land. One is a soporific blonde who's easy on the eyes but looks ready to keel over into her Porkwich at any moment; the other is a vaguely gastropodal, glistening with the slick secretion it uses to slide around on the ground on, bug-eyes on long green stalks extending over plastic pointed ears taped to the sides of what can only be arbitarily called its head. Apparently the thick, slightly lemon-scented goo has gotten between the tape and the skin on one side, causing one ear to slowly droop compared to the other. Starting at the top with his erstwhile allies, Hesche walks up with another short wave. One good thing about being the famous playboy Envoy to New Worlds is that he very rarely has to introduce himself. "Howdy, friends. How's it going?"

The knockout blonde with the long ears fishbowls her head slightly, barely moving in her seat as she murmurs something about broccoli. The elf... slug... thing simply eyes Hesche with that half-wary, half-superior look that quietly says 'I'm older than you. Way older. And I could take your old man too.'

"Money, land, power," Magnus says tiredly.

"Where? MINE!" On the one hand, the blonde sits up, flagpole straight, eyes keenly darting as she licks her lips. On the other hand, the space slug just sighs as if to say he's already got enough of that.

"Now that I have your attention--I see you've got a bit of applied violence going on up there."

"Yes," replies the green slug in a surprisingly cultured and aristocratic voice, "we do. What of it?"

"Well, I just wanted to say that you're in fighting trim, as always." This seems to elicit a cute 'mmm' face from the blonde, which is admittedly a good thing. Must be one of those gals turned on by hardware... huhuhuhuhuhuh 'hard'ware. "Though I am a bit curious"--he scratches the front of his nose, looking down slightly where the blonde's sufficiently but not overly prodigious chest just happens to be--"what exactly's going on? I know that these... uh..."

"Ohsoggy," the slug replies with a firm nod. "Before you ask--the Sitt'an know many things."

"Right. Ohsoggy. Well, they're kinda new and now they're fighting with everyone, but I don't think they were bugging you."

"Oh, they were bothering Gore," the blonde replies perkily, rather happy to talk about how her countryelves are kicking ass. "Gore's been so friendly and... understanding as of late, you see," she says with a wink with a soft suggestion, fine fingertips rubbing against thumb, "that we just had to help, even if there wasn't any formal treaty or anything."

"Okay." Hesche smiles, then suppresses a wince as the blonde scoots a little closer to the slug, her silky robes becoming somewhat discolored by moisture. Total buzzkill, that. "Thanks for your time." Leaving those two to their own devices and VERY MUCH NOT THINKING ABOUT IT LALALALALALALA, Magnus works down the line to two more sets of pointies--one looking very regal indeed, with his long black hair and *snort* tiara, the other happily drawing squiggles on the back of his placemat and filling them in with colorful wax, courtesy of an open Fun Pack of crayons. "So, what's the word, friends?"

"Pofalla warnte davor, die Kritik an VW und dessen Strukturen mit einer Diskussion über das deutsche Mitbestimmungsmodell zu verknüpfen," replies the stately looking one with a grave nod. The other one doesn't even bother to look up, but does murmur something to the extent of "Right, the line of demarcation between Iotalon and Wussy Narcissus will have to go here. If they don't like it, they can bite me, the ungrateful bastards. I do this in my free time, you know. Sure hope Ohman! beats the hell out of Iotalon, those damned gengineering pansies."

Hesche nods, slightly surprised someone with as admittedly sensitive and tasteful sensitivities like the delegate from Foulinen would speak a language as harsh and gutteral as German. "A most delicate situation indeed, Toilettebegleiter Steerlink. Hopefully the Stellar Empire will not have to get involved?"

"Am Freitag erwartet uns ein Mix aus vielen Wolken und etwas Sonne. Dazu gibts verbreitet Schauer, im Norden und Westen auch Gewitter." He frowns meaningfully.

"That is most unfortunate," Magnus agrees solemnly. "Might you know how this affects the tensions between Ohman! and Iotalon?"

"Die Entscheidung scheint gefallen. Das neue russische Generalkonsulat soll in Frankfurt seinen Sitz haben. Die Main-Metropole setzte sich gegen die Mitbewerber Wiesbaden, Bad Homburg und Stuttgart durch und zählt somit künftig 90 Konsulate aus aller Herren Länder."

"Hm. Would you mind asking them for me--the Iotalonese, I mean? They still don't like my people very much." The Diplomatic Officer does not go on to say that the feeling is very much mutual.

"Mein Bagel ist schimmelig." The delegate from Foulinen bows slightly in his seat, hand over his chest.

"Thank you." Hesche looks down at the doodler. "Oh, and if it's not asking too much..."

"Yes, I'll talk to the Ohman!ii." He looks at his back-of-the-placemat work, and begins to put his crayons away. "At least it gives me something to do around here other than talk to myself."

"Thanks, guys. Real lifesavers." Grinning broadly, Hesche moves down the table to the loner sitting a bit by himself at the end. This last pointy drinks from a huge, gothic goblet made of the sawed-off upper half of a skull held up by a monstrous gold-plated claw, the forelimb removed from some reptilian beast and the bones carefully adjusted to make its cruel talons mutually opposing. Inside the goblet is a deep red liquid, the color suggesting congealing blood... but the smell suggesting it to actually be a tawny port laced with what are known as 'controlled pharmaceuticals' in some places. This is the leather-trousered elf of previous, a grim-looking one with bloodshot eyes, long black hair, wearing a leather vest with silver-skull trim over a shirt of crimson velour, black stitching along the sleeves suggesting flames. Across his back he wears a jet-black guitar in the shape of a single-bladed battleaxe, forming a sort of very short polearm, on a shoulder strap cunningly cured to resemble stitched-together human flesh, complete with faces here and there.

This is Farseer "Lucyfirchyld" "Bone" Carvings, the delegate from Gore Yernext, an independent polity that either qualifies as a nation or a New Age Death Metal band depending on who one asks. As their chief representative--or lead singer and lead guitar--he represents the hard rocking citizens of the huge artificial SoundStageWorld that plies the stars and its colonies--self-sustaining concerts--in this region. His latest album, Khaine Feeds On The Damned Souls of Our Fallen Enemies, topped the charts in Triumvirate nations at about 75, which is actually quite impressive given that all the music from Gore Yernext sounds akin to whirling a cat by its tail and beating it against a wall on every other swing to suborchestral accompaniment. Magnus was one of the several billion people who bought that album. "'Scuse me, Mister Carvings... sir?"

The Farseer looks up, rubs the white dust from his lip, and spends sufficient effort to focus his dilated pupils on Magnus. "Yeah?"

"Just wanted to talk to you for a few. Gore Yernexti forces are currently fighting the Ohsoggy, so I heard."

"Yeah. Mon-Keigh started it. Well, if they're 'fraid of 'oh no, necromancers,'" he pantomimes someone cowering in fear as he speaks the last phrase in a falsetto, "then we are going to rock their fucking socks off." Snarling, he reaches under the table, produces a half-full bottle of Jägermeister, and finishes it off in one extended draw. Hesche waits patiently, then watches the 'elf' throw the bottle clear across the room, shattering it over the pate of the Gnutaws' delegate's head. "Get me some water."

Magnus shrugs, walks over to the drink dispenser, and retrieves a bottle of water before turning around and tossing it to Carvings. The Farseer leaps out of his chair onto the table, riffs a power cord, snatches the bottle out of the air, and squeezes it so hard the cap pops off and bounces off his nose, half the water making it down his throat and the rest splashing over his chest. Convinced that it is indeed fucking rock-water, Hesche returns to the table. "Right. I know the Iotalonese are currently fighting alongside you and so are our elf allies. We've no problems with the latter, but the former... well..." He grins. "Iotalonese strategy, don't you know. We'd like to help by getting them uninvolved, at the added benefit of also keeping Ohman! out of it."

"FUCK Iotalon. Don't need them, and let the Ohman!ii come!" 'Bone' Carvings lets out a few more power chords. "We can take 'em just fine."

"So, do you care if they don't show?"

"Naw. It just"--power chord--"means they're"--power chord--"PUSSIES." The Gore Yernexti wails and leaps off the table into a crouch, strumming furiously for a few seconds before slinging his guitar back over his shoulder, standing up and brushing his greasy hair back with his hands. "But, honestly, we've got enough to deal with right now, don't you think?" He turns around and nods to Hesche. "Go ahead, 'Pendran, and do whatever it is you do. Make the world safe for democracy and freedom and the Arab way and all that."

"Right, thanks." Remembering something, Magnus opens the duty flap to his uniform and withdraws a red shirt from his Vaguely Explainable Psionic Mind-Pocket Of Holding. "I picked this up the last time you played on Titan, but I never got through to the crowd when you were having your autograph session. Would you... ah... mind... signing it?"

"Not at all," 'Bone' replies with a smile, taking up the shirt and quickly scribbling a signature on it with a black chisel-point indelible marker that seemingly appears from nowhere, although Magnus suspects a wrist sheath. Handing it back, Carvings returns to his previous brooding demeanor and sits back down, draining his chalice with one gulp.

Well, Magnus thinks, that covers the bases. No one minds if I stop this one petty war before it starts. Smiling to himself, he holds up his shirt to get a better look at the autograph. "Score."

Magnus Hesche: Let Bygones Be Bygones #5
Creative Uses For Useless People

Canvassing the usual people, it seems, has actually turned out to be slightly useful for once. Delegates in the Diet are hardly reticent when it comes to describing their nations' quote-unquote 'reasons' for going into extremely expensive (but very whiz-bang-pow cool) battle; and Magnus' allies in Foulinen and Cajole easily extracted what he was looking for without any trouble. The Ohman!ii aren't fighting yet, letting the newcomer Ohsoggy take the brunt of it, but are fully planning on getting involved whenever they have a good reason to. 'Good reason' in this case generally equates to 'being bored' added to 'mild violation of sovreignty that can be inflated into a casus belli primarily by shouting a lot,' and it is no secret among the Diet that the Ohman!ii have been wanting an excuse to generally look bigger and badder than everyone else for quite some time now. Then there are the Iotalonese; they already consider themselves bigger and badder than everyone else and already had an excuse to attempt to prove it in that two very inexpensive probes--by their very nature expendable--had been destroyed by Ohman!ii gunfire in what may or may not have been a legitimate concern for navigational safety and operational security. Of course, this lead to the obvious question: if the Iotalonese were trying to retailiate against Ohman!ii 'aggression,' why were they attacking the Ohsoggy, who apparently only became belligerent once they discovered that Gore Yernext doesn't transmit polite 'radio edits' of their admittedly very violent and very family-unfriendly songs?

"The answer won't surprise you," the Cajoli (Cajolee?) delegate had said.

"I'm not looking for it to surprise me; I just need to know." Magnus had folded his arms, looked down, and looked somewhat sterner. "Cough it up."

"Well... the adjectives 'Ohman!ii' and 'Ohsoggy' both begin with long 'o' sounds and end with long 'e' sounds."

Magnus frowned. "You're kidding me."

The olive-skinned elf shook his head. "Nope."

"You're right, it does figure. Iotalonese strategy strikes once again."

Armed with the knowledge that the Iotalonese thought they were already fighting Ohman! and that Ohman! was simply waiting for Iotalon to actually hit something Ohman!ii, Magnus makes his way into the convoluted passageways of the Diet building, looking to run into someone who could do what needed to be done next without even realizing it. It would require someone with savvy, but much less than the one gives oneself credit for; importance, but not too much; debate skills that don't go much over mudslinging; and finally, the capability to believe wholeheartedly in two mutually exclusive streams of reality simultaneously.

Not having an Angelan nearby, Hesche decides to make do with Reed Intuit, delegate from Gnutaws. First, he would need a disguise, given that Reed absolutely hates his guts. To accomplish this, some spirit gum and some leftovers from a science fiction convention turn him into a passable elf in physicality, with the wardrobe assembled from a bathrobe, a dressing gown, and some vestments pinched off the local Diet diocese. It wouldn't be enough to throw off anyone with even a jot of real reasoning skill or a smidgen of pattern recognition, but Magnus hopes it's enough for Mr. Intuit, which is why he now prowls the halls in this getup searching for him.

C'mon. This is his number one pastime, roaming around picking debates, he thinks to himself, coming to an intersection between corridors and finding all directions empty of the delegate. It figures. The one time I want to see him... After standing for a moment in uffish thought, Hesche snaps his fingers and moves to the middle of the crossing, not exactly in anyone's way because the halls are Sufficiently Wide to Inspire Respect for the Architect (TM). Checking all ways and mentally recalling maps of the Diet building and how the tour guide said that whispers travel oddly through the building from certain points, he smiles and says in a very low voice: "I believe that left-wing ideology is Pollyannish and that capitalism is the root of all evil."

A gust of wind, the feel of a slight breeze against his back. "You wanna take this argument outside, you labeling fascist?" Turning around with a raised eyebrow, Magnus spots the thin figure of the aptly-named Reed.

"Not particularly, no, but I would be interested in taking it into the Catacombs," Hesche replies in his best held-back-hauteur voice.

"Ah, the cowardly way where no one can see me beat you soundly, eh?" This fails to take into account that if Delegate Intuit were to be caught in a fight in public, he would be beaten into a senseless pulp by ninety percent of his fellow delegates for two reasons: one, about seventy percent of the Duma despise him as much as he despises everyone else, and two, an obviously overlapping eighty percent simply like beating people up whatever the excuse.

"Of course. Shall we go down together, then?"

"Certainly--that way I can make sure you don't run off." Hesche watches the man sneer cruelly and honestly wonders to himself just exactly what Intuit could do if it actually came down to fisticuffs; after debating it in the back of his mind for a few minutes, he is still stuck between 'not much' and 'absolutely jack shit.' Letting Reed lead the way--which, of course, means that Reed absolutely and blissfully fails to keep an eye on Magnus and therefore doesn't do much to make good on his implied mission of not allowing Hesche to run off--in order to assuage the smaller man's easily bruised sense of double-standarded justice, Magnus works on the next part of the plan in his mind and smiles to himself.

The elevator opens up into a charnel altar deep in the bowels of the ground, ripped straight from "The Rats In The Walls" minus the ethereal sound of tiny clawed feet rushing ever downward. Looking down at the smaller man, Hesche steps forward and clears his throat.

"Oh, you brute! Just like a pointy, looking to push your way of hatred through violence!"

The outburst catches Magnus off guard, ice-blue eyes blinking. "What?"

"You're obviously going to resort to violence to get your way, with no thought as to more civilized means like diplomacy, which Gnutaws invented." Reed remembers to sniff diffidently as he asserts his nation's superiority, then returns to cringing backbiting. "You elves always have to insist you are civilized and others aren't, which is just wrong!"

"Ah... okay..."

"SEE?! YOU ADMIT IT YOURSELF!"

"...actually..."

"Don't even TRY to deny it. Your skills at debate are no match for a Gnutawssian's." Smiling haughtily, Reed folds his arms, closes his eyes, nods like a prissy schoolchild, turns, and promptly walks into a wall. "YOU CUR! VIOLENCE!"

"That was the wall," Magnus asserts softly.

"Getting others to do your dirty work for you! Just like an elf!"

"Waitaminute, didn't you just say it was just like an elf for me to beat you senseless myself?"

"Yes, and it's true!"

Magnus smiles serenely and steps back out of arm's length so he won't be tempted to choke the life from the doublethinker. "I need your help."

"Of course you do." Another arm-folding, added to some self-superior rocking on his heels. "The entire world could use guidance from me, envoy from that shining beacon of civilization, justice, and individuality: Gnutaws."

"Right. Anyway, I have information that the Ohman!ii and the Iotalonese desperately need or else they will be crushed without ever having achieved the truth that comes from accepting the Gnutawssian way."

Reed's ears perk up as he leans forward slightly. "Go on."

"For starters, the Ohman!ii's combat asteroids"--Hesche says slowly so he can keep a straight face--"are only a diversion. Their main fleet is planning on striking at the heart of Iotalon itself, striking every fleetyard and port they have simultaneously."

"The cads!"

Magnus nods. "Will you tell the Iotalonese?"

"But of course. You have my word of honor as a Gnutawssian."

"Excellent. Also, it has come to my attention that the Iotalonese attack on the Ohsoggy--"

"--an awful bit of belligerence, that; the Ohsoggy never did anything to them--"

"--is but a feint. They have only a thousand ships committed to that fight; the other eleventy thousand are going to strike at every Ohman!ii portage and staging area in a sneak attack."

"The fiends! I will warn the Ohman!ii of the pending treachery of the Iotalonese, Gnutawssian's honor."

Hesche nods firmly and more seriously than he feels. "And the Iotalonese..."

"I already promised you; I will tell them of the heedless belligerance of the Ohman!ii."

Magnus glances at the digital watch on his wrist. "Time is of the essence, Delegate Intuit, and they are both depending on you to tell them of the coming attacks. They will see the wisdom of Gnutaws in your actions and--"

"You've said enough!" Reed says, stepping forward in what he must only think is a heroic gesture, looking out somewhere past Hesche's right shoulder towards a glorious sunrise or something. A putrid air rises from some deeper pit of the catacomb, rustling Intuit's hair even as he turns a shade greener from the stench. "I will spread our enlightenment to the unwashed masses! Away!" Running headlong for the elevator, he cannot possibly see the mischievous look on Hesche's face.

Good, good. And if the Ohman!ii and the Iotalonese ever stop dickfencing long enough to compare notes, it goes back to him... He stifles an evil laugh. Good.

Magnus Hesche: Let Bygones Be Bygones #6
Rain Check

In orbit, the all-singing, all-dancing warfleets of nations near and far raise the tempo of their circumlocutions, every new pass and spiral taking on a heightened sense of urgency in this brute-force ballet, like some mad czardas played out with dancers that are simultaneously the instrumentality of hundreds or thousands of minds acting in concert and the products of entire civilizations, the deliberately formed metal and chitin that form the very personifications of war gods long since subsumed into the public subconscious, out of the light where more "civilized" ideals should be given play. This does not happen all of a sudden, but rather ripples out from a sudden change in two groups, one within and the other outside of the whirling ordered chaos of the tarantella. They eye each other, they watch the slight changes in motion, collate what they see with what they heard and mix it together with fear, loathing, and an imagination of logic to produce a prediction of what is to come; they move accordingly to block that avenue, to maximize theirs and minimize the others, and the process iterates; every new indivisible derivative instant of time adding another term to the integral, each tiny moment simply adding to a greater whole that is both invisible to the all-singing, all-dancing destroyers acting for Zarathustra's delight and utterly inescapable by those same creators bound by the laws of the new tables they form from the melted brass of their forebears.

In less poetic terms: the Ohman!ii closely watch the Iotalonese forces with Reed's warning in mind, carefully and slowly shifting their own mobilized fleets to intercept anyone who may dart from the fight with the Ohsoggy. The Iotalonese see this and, recalling what the good Delegate Intuit had hastily told them, shift to await the sudden and overwhelming attack that the Ohman!ii adjustments must foreshadow. Each movement leads to analysis and countermovement by the other until it becomes exceedingly crystal clear to both that the other is ready to launch their lightning raid right at that very instant and can only be stopped by a countersurprise! They'll never expect a tacjump into our own portages, EMP and gravitic ripple effects be damned!

Suddenly, the giant battle around the Ohsoggy has one less participant and one less observer. Reports flood in from ground stations that orbiting drydocks are rocking on their axes from entire warfleets popping back to existence around and inside them, entire military-industrial complexes disengaging from each other. These fleets, scattered at first, quickly rally and put themselves into defensive spherical formations, ready to take on their hated foe whenever they plan to launch their attack... which, of course, they're not going to, and this is going to become readily apparent in at least an hour.

That's not exactly a good thing. Hesche's smile falls as he watches the 24-hour news reports in the Diet's lobby, no longer dressed as a faux elf. Sooner or later they'll realize that they've been had, and they'll probably think about taking out their embarrassment on someone. Unfolding his arms, he stalks across the impressively wide lobby into the impressively tall portal not at all intentionally reminiscent of feminine symbology that leads towards the main meeting chambers. The delegates should be eyeing each other warily right now... in a few minutes they're going to start asking pointed questions, and that's not going to help. Breaking into a run, he musses up his blonde hair and his sky-blue uniform with his broad, tanned hands, even going to the trouble of hopping on one foot long enough to unblouse one leg of his trousers from inside his combat boot. Nothing says 'dishevelled' like out-of-regulation trouser blousing, at least to the militaristic set (to which about eighty-two percent of the Diet qualifies).

Shouldering the broad, heavy door leading into the council chamber open, he stumbles down the stairs at sprinting pace, barreling towards the very slight person preparing to cower behind the podium on the floor of the Diet. What is that? Female? No, a thin pointy. Okay, not a problem. Magnus easily bowls the twiggy elf out of the way, gripping the snake microphone on the podium and wheeling it to his haggard face so quickly it squeals with feedback. "THEY FOUND OUT THE LEAK, THE BASTARDS," he howls, staying long enough to flittingly eye the entire Diet like a man chased by all the demons in all the Hells ever imagined by all the religions in the universe before blasting back out, slamming the door behind them.

Pausing just outside the door, Hesche then quietly makes his way to the restroom where he can arrange himself properly before returning. That should hold 'em.

* - * - *

And so, erring on the side of caution, the Ohman!ii and Iotalonese warfleets remain at port at full battle ready, awaiting the instant that their mortal enemy drops his guard and allows them to attack in vengeance for the strikes on their ports that haven't even happened yet. This is immediately and perfectly countered by the need to defend for such an attack; making the first move simply leaves one open to immediate counterattack and disruption... and so they wait, and glare at each other across the planet and across the chambers of the Diet, knowing full well that the other had planned to completely wipe them out that fateful day. Time lets tales grow healthy and tall.

"I told you to stop their war, not put them into a MAD mindset," Nadjiba sighs over one and a half billion kilometers at her underling, once again sitting on his makeshift chair of 'WET FLOOR' signs.

"It worked, didn't it?" Hesche grins broadly, jovially as is his wont, and the woman on the other end flinches almost imperceptibly. "They're not fighting and they're not going to."

"How do you know they aren't going to?" Abd-al-Haqq raises a finely sculpted proletarian eyebrow. "They're just waiting to completely annihilate each other."

"For now," Magnus admits, "for now. Still, this is the Diet we're talking about. Give 'em a week and something will pop up that they can attack together, forgetting this whole pins-and-needles standoff thing."

The woman pauses, one finger tapping her chin as she mulls this over... and then she tilts her head back slightly, eyebrows flaring in the true Arabic equivalent of a nod. "I hate to concede it... but..."

Hesche grins broader.

Nadjiba sighs. "Point."

SEE YOU, ENVOY TO NEW WORLDS...

Captain Bondayehr: Moving In #1
Pillow Talk

"Scoot over."

"I'm on the opposite end of the bed."

Timofeyev sighs and makes his own weak attempt to move further away, already balanced precariously on the very edge of the bed. "Yeah, and it must be thirty degrees in here. Scoot over."

A soft sound of disappointment from the other end. "I just want to snuggle."

Bondayehr scoffs in spite of himself. "In this heat? How about I just make my bed in the oven tonight?"

"I have claws, you know."

"Oh I know, sweetie. Need I play up the guilt card on that one again?"

"You'd better not." Slightly growling, but good-humored.

"Yeah, I bet Shodey's wondering just where I got those four nice ones." Timofeyev indicates his back with a jerk of his thumb for emphasis, knowing the darkness won't be an issue.

This time it's his consort's time to scoff. "You seriously underestimate her powers of deduction. Besides, you're the one who said we could handle it ourselves."

"And we did so nicely."

"What, one full bottle of iodine, three towels, seventeen meters of bandage and four emergency stitchipedes later?"

"I was keeping calm. The stitchipedes would've worked on the first go had you kept your head."

"Oh, that's it." Bondayehr gets pounced from the opposite end of the bed, eliciting a perfectly understandable "Ack!" from him as he whips his pillow from under his head (scattering the holdout he keeps under it across the room) and beats his assailant furiously with it. They tussel like that for a few minutes until exhaustion sets in, as it is late and it was a long day of work.

"You're right, it is hot."

"Shut up."

"Bah. I'm admitting you were right." She doesn't make any attempt to move away, though, having achieved her objectives as well. "Besides, I've found a place in Old Town that meets Objective Number One."

"Air conditioning in the bedroom, eh?"

"Indeed. Good neighborhood, too." She skips over the whole Mob Central aspect.

"Good neighborhood if you like a side job in protection rackets. Eh, whatever."

"I'd like you to lead the interview with the landlord, actually." Snuggles a bit closer. "Your Italian is far better than mine, and I think I could do better as... backup. Muscle, even, if you will."

"Heh." Countersnuggles. "Done and done. Still, it's hot in here. Scoot over."

"Awww."

Captain Bondayehr: Moving In #2
No-Holds Barred Arabian Haggling

Nicodemo Assante, known better as simply 'Nico' by those familiar with him, straightens his impeccably-styled jacket and puts on his best welcoming smile - close-lipped. "Buon giorno! So, you are the charming people interested in the palazzo? Come, come!" He continues, gesturing for them to enter, though his suave approach skips a bit as he looks Shorty over again. A kzin after all, is a kzin, and thus not to be taken lightly. He extends his hand in greeting to each as he directs them through the arched gateway to the gardens inside. Sweet Jesu ... show no teeth ... they said show no teeth ...

Shorty and Timofeyev look at each other out of the corners of their eyes, not even having to resort to sly smiles to convey mutual understanding at this rate. Taking the lead into what he figures his role will turn out to be, the captain replies in his best cultured Italian. "Indeed we are, and you would be the honored proprieter? I have heard good things!" He speaks in a polite yet cheerful way, following along at a respectful distance, letting Shorty follow beside him just a touch closer.

"Indeed, Signore. Please, call me Nico. It was a pleasure to hear we might have something to interest you. As you can see," he says, again gesturing to the beautiful little garden area, it's walls covered with vines, "Even in taking the location aside - which we feel speaks for itself - this is a beautiful palazzo. If I could draw your attention to the wonderful Gothic architecture here in the arches?" His eyes continue to examine both the Captain and Shorty, and though he does his level best to remain the calm professional, his curiousity and at times, nervousness, shows through. And not just when looking at the 'ret.

Bondayehr follows the man's suggestions, nodding a little to himself. "Indeed, it is quite a beautiful location." It's tricky to fiddle the almost poetic Ultimate Imperative tense into Italian, but he manages. "And a very nice garden, and I see that a pool is in evidence. Excellent."

"But of course," Nico says, arching a brow only slightly. Much more to him than meets the eye, this one. Caution, Nico. Caution. "As you have seen, there is also your own private watergate entrance, as is proper. And through here, the living room." He opened the door leading in, waiting politely for them to get the first look inside. "Ah, I have always enjoyed the ambiance of this particular property."

The captain nods again, glancing into the room perhaps just a bit too professionally, eyes moving quickly and leaning to the side to see nearly the whole room without actually stepping in, one hand idly resting on the leather loop of the peace-bonded wt'sai at his hip. "I can see why--elegant in its simplicity. Impeccable taste, sir."

The Captain's mannerisms are not lost on Nico. If anything, he is both more intrigued and more on guard on account. "Grazie, Signore. We have made every attempt to blend the rich history of the palazzo with the more modern accessories." His eyes flicker briefly to the wt'sai, then back to Shorty, hoping to perhaps better guage her opinion on the place. "It would be inexcusable to force such a lovely lady to stoop in her own residence. I hope that the vaulted ceilings would be a pleasant feature?"

"Yes." Shorty's reply is brief and to the point, oddly enough aided by her less-than-total fluency in the language. Other than that, she has kzinti body language--ears fanned out, tufted tail raised, with emotion not being readily apparent beyond a basic state of 'alert.'

Sante Maria, this is not going to be an easy read. He smoothes away his growing worry forcibly, and continues to smile - politely. Always politely, especially when looking at Shorty. Dear God. Tall. "Perhaps a look at the kitchen then, and bath? Here on the main floor," he continues, gesturing through the hallway to the rooms beyond. The two 'Pendrans follow along quite politely, always making sure Nico stays in the lead. With the Captain firmly placed as the perhaps slightly twitchy Good Cop and Shorty as the... well... Big Cop, it's just another tactic in no-holds-barred Arabian Haggling. This makes Nico's shoulders itch like nothing, needless to say. He does his level best to show off the finer features of the place, explaining a bit of the history of the place as they go along. Eventually he leads them to the upstairs as well, taking care to note the antique furniture present there as well, the air conditioning available in the bedroom, and the lift for convenience. He looks to both of them, eyes flickering back and forth, hoping for some glimmer, some inkling as to the success or failure of his presentation thus far.

Timofeyev is the talkative one, curious about the history, interested in the conversation. Shorty, on the other hand, remains impassive and seems to be the solidly grounded one, measuring distances with her eyes, checking clearances, looking for all the world like a boot sergeant during inspection. If there's a crack, or a creak, or even too much dust in the area, she seems to find it and silently note it with a short sniff.

"So as you can see, between the amenities, the affluential historic location, the proximity to the Piazzo and so many of the Old City's sights, it is a steal at the price we offer it at," Nico concludes, gesturing broadly and looking as confident as he can manage, though his brow is beaded with sweat, and he has loosened his collar several times during the tour.

Bondayehr nods, smiling, while Shorty just makes eye contact and lets her mouth go thin, eyes slitting a little. Douglas Adams once wondered how slitted eyes and thin mouth was somehow supposed to be threatening; he obviously never met a subtle kzinrret. "I am sure it is," the Captain replies with a smile, arms akimbo--which just happens to put his hand back on his wt'sai--"so that of course brings us to what that price is."

Nico swallows hard, then clears his throat gently, not missing any of the subtleties. "That would be sixteen-fifty, on a weekly rental basis. This of course includes utilities. If a more long-term contract is desireable, then certain concessions can be made."

"Oh, we plan on making this our permanent residence while we're stationed here in the Dominion, if of course we come to an agreement." The Captain smiles politely, while Shorty just takes a moment to work a crick she's been cultivating out of her neck with a gentle pop. "I am glad to hear," Timofeyev continues, "that the price has the potential to be fluid."

"But of course - to a point," Nico manages, eyes flickering back and forth as he again tries to measure reactions, and comes up annoyingly short. "A location such as this is in high demand. It's fortunate it was open when you enquired. Just ah, how long would you imagine you might be staying?"

Bondayehr checks his watch. "Well, I'm only a few months into my tour here... at least, say, two years?" The kzinret nods once. "Or longer."

This obviously changes things, as Nico seems to be turning numbers over in his mind. "Well then. Hrm ... two years, you say? Uninterrupted?" He continues to silently calculate, watching the two with renewed interest - and hoping they'll give something away.

"Yes, sir, uninterrupted, and as my companion here says, probably quite a deal longer. The Diplomatic Corps tends not to fling people about as the AeroSpace Directorate does and so she will probably still be here long after I have been shipped off... pending, of course, your continued interest in steady occupancy." And the concomitant funds, of course.

"Indeed?" A further arch of the brow. More calculating is done. "I believe we could see our way clear to letting this for say, an even five a month?"

Bondayehr looks up towards Shorty, who replies with a short nod. "Quite acceptable. You sure it would not be putting you out too much?"

Nico shakes his head and waves off the suggestion. "Not at all, not at all. It has been some time since we rented this particular property on a more permanent basis. It has for some time been more of a vacation spot for those who could afford it. We would be honored in fact, to have such a one as yourself here in residence, if I may say so."

The Captain bows shortly. "The honor is mine, sir--as you say, this place has a history and it is an honor to experience it in such a way. I am only glad my short existence on this plane has brought me such an opportunity." With that, he drops the tone usually reserved for ratcat royalty and smiles more broadly. "So, do we have any neighbors?"

The man blinks, trying to parse some of that, and admittedly looking for any hidden meanings, though he nods and smiles readily. "Indeed. Nearby palazzos belonging to the Valenti, De Negri, and Gonzaga families are likely of immediate interest - all very old families with longstanding ties. On the tour route, in fact, though they don't often allow them inside."

Making a sweeping gesture of the present locale, he continues."More to point, here, you'll be brushing elbows with the Scalia family who use the apartment next door for a quiet getaway, along with Signorina Villanova just across the way who has been living here for the past month. The last, across and to the right there, is the elderly Arturo Valli, retired Officer. He tends to keep to himself."

Timofeyev stifles an internal chuckle, noting Nico's moderate confusion at his uncharacteristic verbosity. "Outstanding. So, as long as we keep it below a dull roar, there should not be any problems? We are quiet people ourselves, actually. Anything else we should know?"

The man ponders this for a moment, a number of thoughts flashing through his mind. Such as the sorts who may be coming and going. The Family in Scalia probably ought to have been emphasized. The comings and goings of Minister di Medici, would likely eventually be noticed by someone as observant as these two, though he couldn't think how any harm could come of it. It was common enough knowledge that the Trade Minister was a player. Aside from the occasional visit from family or friends--or the local mental hospital--Valli's place was as stated, rather quiet. Everyone there desired the privacy this location offered. "No, no not that I can think of," Nico says with a smile. "Then, we have an agreement?"

"We do," Shorty says with a smile, a wink of her ears, and a short bow, tail lashing in what is probably a happy way. "Thank you."

Nico, while having been briefed on a few cautionary things, does not know how to read kzinti body language, though the smile is encouraging. "It is my pleasure, dear lady. I only hope that you will both find the pallazo to be the comfortable haven a home ought to be," he replies, bowing in return. "I shall have the office draw up the paperwork then? I believe that we can proceed here on a bit of good faith until we have it all signed." He fishes out a key, and hands it to her with another careful smile. "Please, take your time, enjoy. I can have the papers brought by later, or to another location of your choosing."

"We have not moved out yet," the kzinret replies as she accepts the key, careful in her punctuation, "so please deliver it to the guest house at the Dread Lady's villa."

"Of course, of course," he says, nodding emphatically. "The courier should be there no later than early evening." He extends his hand to each in turn, beginning with the lady, as is polite. "It has been a pleasure doing business with you. Should you have any questions at all, my card." This, taken out with a practiced slowness from his front jacket pocket, and handed to the Captain.

"Thank you." Professionally palmed and ensconced in the Captain's own pocket with a single smooth motion. "We will be sure to look you up if we have any questions."

With a final farewell, Nico leaves the two to their own devices, taking out his cell phone as he walks to get the paperwork going - and relay what he could of the meeting, to be passed on through the appropriate channels.

"Well," the Cap'n says, folding his arms and looking around, reverting to more native Arabic, "we may not have much but it'll still need moving. I suppose our parents will want to know."

"Hrr, yes," Embassy-Representative replies in the same, looking at the high ceilings. "Tradition."

"You'll not tell your mother I exceeded my authority and went to Ultimate Imperative?"

Shorty shakes her head. "I didn't hear it in the Hero's Tongue, and there technically is no Ultimate Imperative in any monkey tongue."

Bondayehr nods. "Works for me."

As the two discuss, the mail slot is quietly opened, and through it a note is pushed. It falls to the floor with a quiet tap, revealing the weight of the heavy calligraphy paper it's written on. Half sheet, torn neatly on the fold resulting in the aesthetically pleasing soft edge preferred by Dominion tastes, folded once only with no address or notation on the front. Inside in a fluid script, is the following invitation:

To the good Captain Bondayehr,

Greetings and salutations. Your presence is respectfully requested at Giacommo's tonight at seven. We are always pleased to welcome new neighbors, and believe that we may have some common interests that would make for excellent dinner conversation.

We look forward to making your acquaintance.

There is no signature, nor any telltale marking aside from the light watermark on the back of the paper from the manufacturer. Bondayehr picks up the note, looks it over at the back, and makes a soft 'hmpf' noise.

"What's that?" Shorty asks from across the room, already having made herself comfortable on a nearby couch.

"Invitation to dinner, apparently, addressed to me. Not signed, though."

The 'ret perks up her ears. "Your read?"

"Well, you're the one who decided to live in mob country. Mysterious, yes, threatening, no. I'll take them up on it." How he says it quietly preempts any possibility of her coming along--business is business, after all.

"Hrrr." She doesn't sound happy with this development, ears laying back, but shrugs gently. "If it is addressed to you, then it's only right for you to accept as you will. I'll be back at the guest house getting things arranged to be moved."

"Thanks." The captain frowns, folding up the note and tapping the side of it against his open palm as he wanders over to Shorty in thought. "Still, got nowhere to be. May as well relax for now."

"Probably just an eccentric neighbor anyway," Embassy-Representative rationalizes as she shifts just enough for Timofeyev to fit on the couch with her. "If that's so..." Wry chuckle. "We shouldn't scare our new neighbors. Not before we move in."

Bondayehr leans back and nestles a bit, mirroring the wry chuckle. "Unless they ask for it."

Captain Bondayehr: Moving In #3
Someone Doesn't Watch Enough Mobster Movies

Giaccomo's is located not far from their new home, near the Piazzo. An old establishment, steeped in tradition, and of course, Family values. It's common enough knowledge that it is mob owned and operated, though this is something that is not discussed openly. Considered neutral ground, it is favored by the more mature mafiosi, not only for the ambiance and food, but the added measure of protection and privacy. Soft lights hang from the tall, dark ceiling, adding to the warm glow of the candles set here and there on the tables. Colorful bottles, plates, racks of wine, framed artwork, and frescos painted directly on the stucco walls make up the decor of the place, complete with age-polished tile floors. As usual for the evening, the place has an abundance of customers, filled with the usual mix of talk and laughter, and the mixed smells of traditional Dominion cuisine, lit candles, and the occasional smoker. Bondayehr knows enough from intelligence reports and doing his homework to know this, but neutral or not, it never hurts to be prepared. His wt'sai may be peace-bonded--something he finds nothing but amusing, given that it is by purpose blunt--but his old obsidian knife he stores in his boot isn't. He pondered making a trip back to the guest house to pick up a hold-out or some more toys, but decided that no, he'd just play it soft right now. Play it soft, he thinks with a smirk as he looks over the decor and customers with an affected meandering uninterest, yeah, brilliant. He resorts to training to keep his hands from wandering near the handles of the bonded knife on his waist, although he does occasionally allow them to play absent-mindedly with the string of pink sandstone arrowheads, metal tags, and dried animal ears that rest on a loop on his other hip.

"Ah, il Capitano," comes a rich voice to the right, apparently belonging to the smiling man making his way visibly through the crowd. "So good of you to join us." He extends his hand in greeting, looking over Bondayehr closely all the same. "Donatello Rocco - most folks call me Don. Please, this way." The man makes great effort not to look too closely at the odd adornments at the other man's hips.

Timofeyev accepts the man's hand as he makes eye contact and holds it. "Thank you for the invitation, sir. It was so quaint I could not help but accept."

Don nods, meeting Bondayehr's gaze as he gestures towards a secluded table in the back where two other men are sitting, and watching quietly. "We're honored all the same," he replies, his smile curling up the corners of his lips a bit more at that. "After you."

The captain nods and leads the way to the table, remaining hyperaware of his surroundings under a steady facade of calm. All a matter of training as he quietly plans escapes, how to deal with three adversaries in various situations, and the strategic placement of useful potential weapons as he sits down.

"Captain Bondayehr, my collegues - Agostino Romano," he says, gesturing to the man on the left, salt and peppered hair showing his age, though he looks anything but soft. "And Emilio Esini." Another gesture, to the right - this man younger, sporting a thin moustache and soul patch for facial hair, as opposed to his clean-cut companions. Each nod and smile, extending a hand as they're introduced, with brief words of welcome. Sitting down, Don makes himself comfortable as well, handing the captain a menu to peruse. "So. Finding the area to your liking, I hope?"

Bondayehr returns the gesture to each with a short bow, sitting down politely after the introductions are finished. "Yes--quite interesting, being in the middle of things and all."

"Old City can be like that, yeah. Hey Gino, see about getting us some bread, eh?" he says, flagging down a passing waiter, then turns his attention back to the table. "New place going to work then? I hear it's a nice spot, that. Good neighborhood."

"We think it'll work, yes. Going to take a few days for us to transition, of course--moving in and such." Bondayehr smiles with a hint of teeth. "Neighbors, I would presume?"

Don smiles, glances at the other two, and half shrugs, giving a slight nod. "After a fashion, yeah. Devras is a big place. All sorts of neighbors to be had." The fresh baked herbed bread and dipping oil is brought by, with plenty for all. Orders are taken by those ready to do so, water is set out, and wine is poured.

"The whole world community's a neighborhood from some ways of thinking," Timofeyev replies with a half-smirk as he accepts some bread but tends to avoid the oil, ordering an appropriate plate of pasta.

"So it is, so it is. One would think it's in our best interests to be good neighbors, that being the case, no?" Looks are again exchanged between the trio, realizing that traditionally, they're rushing things a bit. But then, this is not a traditional situation, so perhaps some of the finer points could be glossed over in the interest of accomplishing the task at hand.

Timofeyev smirks again, a little more slyly, a little glint of teeth visible from the corner of his teeth. Dominioners? Getting to the point? Goodness. "But of course. It would be ill-advised for anyone to simply move into a neighborhood and not be willing to adapt as needed to work more cordially with their neighbors. It's only polite."

"Now ya see, boys? I told yas this one was sharp. Exactly, Captain. Exactly." Don raises his glass and nods to Bondayehr before taking a slow sip. "Your ah, job, now. Been quite the sensation with the media off and on there. Kept a lot of folks on their toes." Here the tone turns more serious, his voice dropping. "Some o' those toes have been feeling a tad trod upon."

"Poor things." Bondayehr takes an image sip, no more and no less. "They should know better than to let me lead--I'm a horrible dancer."

"From where we stand, you seem to dance pretty damned well," Esini breaks in, his smirk adding to the slightly rat-like image he seems to project. "What my esteemed collegue here is trying to stay," Agostinio interjects, "Is that you seem to know your way around just fine, which is saying something for a foreigner - though explained well enough, I suppose, by some of your more, say, influential contacts."

"Which brings us round to our problem," Don breaks in, taking another drink.

"Problems, problems, alvays problems," the captain replies, letting a little Russian accent slip through, "alvays problems and alvays me to fix them. From my zzervice, from your government, from neighbors vhat I do not yet even know so vell! Ah! My lament ends." He winks and takes another bite of bread. "So, vhat is your problem?"

Brows arch at this unexpected response, glances exchanged again, and Rocco finally takes up the flag. "Well, ya see, it's like this," he starts up, waiting for a moment as the food is brought out and served, seeming thankful for the extra time to gather his thoughts. "We have here a bit of a dillema. On the one hand, we have some fairly ah, influential people who want we should have a talk with you about your, shall we say, 'meddling' in what they see as their business with the Air Force." He gestures with his fork as he speaks, then takes a bite before continuing.

"And on the other hand..." The captain smiles slyly, showing a little more teeth.

"On the other hand, we've got some other influential folk who would prefer we leave well enough alone. Seein' as how we have 'arrangements' with both, we're in a bit of a spot. So. These other folks wanted a discussion ... we're ah, discussing," he says, trailing off a little lamely, with a sheepish sort of half grin.

"All pleasant and neighborly-like," Esini adds in.

"All pleasant and neighborly-like," Timofeyev repeats with a gentle nod, "good. I'm afraid I couldn't have it any other way. So," he says, taking a bite of pasta, "let's discuss. Do you know the particulars of the situation?"

"We ..." Don starts off, looking slightly uncomfortable. "We were asked to tell you to lay off the Air Force if you know what's good for you," Agostino says flatly, shaking his head at Don's hesitation, though he brings up his hands in a placating gesture. "Now, this ain't to say we're wanting to strongarm you here, Captain. This is their words, not ours. Like we said - neighborly. No sense killing the messenger, eh?" All three pause, glancing at the Captain at that comment, his reputation being enough to stand on its own, even without the support of the Lady. Perhaps an untimely cliche, that.

The captain glances between the three of them professionally as he slowly leans forward, folding his hands in front of him. He picks up a fork, looks at it, looks at the three 'petty' thugs around him, and then takes a bite of pasta. "No, no point in killing the messenger, as long as all they do is message." He smiles. "I've never taken very well with being told how to think."

"No more than we do. Business, you understand. Just business," Agostino growls softly, the three of them watching the Captain intently, though none of them take any actions aside from tensing slightly. "So, ah, Cap'n," Don says after clearing his throat gently. "Speaking of business and all, think we can do some here, what with this 'situation?'"

"Depends," Bondayehr replies, slowly taking another bite of pasta and chewing it thoughtfully. "Federal Service doesn't pay all too much, but if you've a proposal I'd like to hear it anyway."

Brows raised at that, and the beginnings of questions in their native tongue started before Agostino hushed them with a knowing look, and a nod to Bondayehr. No sense talking shop in the usual manner with foreigners when said foreigner could understand them perfectly well. Annoyingly problematic, to be sure. "Well, y'see, this here is a bit unorthodox as is, what with the talk bein' well ... talk and all," Don begins, gesturing slowly.

Esini snorts, tossing back the last of his wine, then pouring himself another. "What's needed is something mutually agreeable here. We ain't gonna be knockin' off no Gen--" His commentary is cut short by a quick cuff to the back of the head by Agostino.

"Trust me," the captain says quietly, "when I tell you and tell you truly that such a service is one that I doubt I would have to... subcontract." Thin smile. "Please continue."

"Right ... right." Don's fingertips fidget nervously with the stem of his wineglass as he watches the Captain speculatively, the other two exchanging quick glances. "So bearing in mind we're not here to be tellin' you your business, how's about we just say we'd be appreciative of you layin' off the flyboys for a bit. You know. If you could see your way clear an' all. Then perhaps we can make some other arrangements here, eh?"

"Certainly. I've a proposal of my own I'd like to put on the table, if you're interested." Bondayehr folds his hands and looks over them with an unreadable look.

The three again exchange looks, nod, and look to Bondayehr expectantly. "Sure. We're always open to negotiatons," Don says, though his tone carries a hint of worry.

"Right. You may know that the Segments that I hail from are a bit on the pinko side and so aren't entirely keen on money. However, we are Arabs and as such have an understanding of things. A system of barter and trade--still follow me? It is in the measure of fair exchange of services rather than coin that my proposal must be evaluated. Still interested?"

"Fair enough," Don replies, nodding in understanding, though Agostino's eyes narrow thoughtfully. Esini looks slightly disappointed. "Yeah ... yeah, we work biz like that. Let's hear it."

Bondayehr nods and watches all three. If they have me pegged as a killer, let's capitalize on it. "I've already said I don't like being told how to think; however, I welcome polite, neighborly conversations such as this to perhaps offer options I hadn't thought of." A pause for thought and emphasis. "All I ask of you is to not make any attempt to persuade my opinions or courses of action outside of nice, neighborly conversations like this one. In return, I will not make more work for the carpenters and undertakers in the local area." Another pause. "You can also let the good General know the terms of our arrangement if it suits you. If you decide to inform him, please tell him that my deal extends to him as well."

This was obviously not the answer they had been expecting. Nor did it seem to go over terribly well, judging from their expressions - even the more amicable Don. "You got a lot o' balls coming in here and sayin' that," Agostino says quietly. Don winces slightly, but doesn't disagree immediately. Esini just blinks at the Captain, as if unsure he just heard what he heard.

Timofeyev sets his hands on the table, leaning forward a few more millimeters. His face remains unreadable. "Perhaps. I see it as a maintenance of the status quo--being 'neighborly,' as you put it. I have no interest in making no trouble that needn't be made, and I doubt you fine gentlemen and your compatriots think too far differently."

"'Neighborly' ain't talking boxes when all that's been discussed til now is a bit o' easin' up," Agostino presses, though Rocco reaches out and pats his shoulder placatingly.

"So. The kid has balls. And what he's proposing ain't too different from what we'd like, no?" Here Rocco kicks the other two under the table. "No?" His efforts earn him disgruntled agreement. "Right then. No one's talkin' about icing no one. Just potential, ah ... complications should things go awry. I think we can live with that, eh?"

"Certainly. We can all live with fewer... complications." The captain leans back those few millimeters, although his foot remains poised on the ball, ready to shoot his knee through the table and overturn it if he has to make a move.

Agostino looks sceptical, though he shrugs gently. "Yeah, but on the other end of things, we got some needs for compensation, see. Business loss, you know, for having to turn down a contract or two," Esini says, the mention of money seeming to add to his rat-like impression.

The captain simply raises an eyebrow. "Contracts are only good for accepting if they turn out to be profitable in the end."

"More to it than that," Don says, the gears clearly turning. "Immunity costs. Simple as that. And while your kind assurance of a lack of corspes is comforting, Esini does bring up a point. I think there's some arrangements could be made up top, all things considered." Here he looks over to Agostino, one brow arched. "S' possible," the man says with another shrug.

Well, as long as they think I could be profitable, I doubt they'd look to kill me. Bondayehr returns to eating as if nothing had happened, mostly as an excuse to have fork in hand. "So, what do you have in mind?"

Don waves a hand dismissively, returning to his meal as well. "It's all good," he says, smiling again for the first time in several long minutes. The other two take their cue, and settle back in as well. "I think I like you, Cap'n. Ya got nerve. Pity you've already got yourself a gov job. Could be useful havin' a guy like you around. Don't suppose you moonlight, eh?"

"The government's booked my nighttime hours too, sad to say. The suggestion is tempting from time to time, all the same." Timofeyev smirks slyly, although he doesn't let go of that fork. "Now that business seems to be concluded, perhaps on to happier topics?"

"It would be my pleasure," Don says, raising his glass to Bondayehr with a smile. However it panned out higher up, at least the message had been delivered here. And limits had been examined. And boundaries had been established. All in all, not a bad 'talk', one supposed, discounting the fact that the sender of the message would likely have preferred it to be delivered at the end of thoroughly-applied blunt trauma.

Such were the casualties of dealing in subtlety.

Captain Bondayehr: Moving In #4
In-Laws

Closing her portcomp with a final little click, Embassy-Representative winks her ears and leans back into the big couch in the guest house, just another bit of evidence that leads Shorty to the conclusion that the Dread Lady really does know how to keep her guests comfortable. "It's established," she calls out, "my mother will be arriving on base via an express SASD courier tomorrow morning in time to help us all out."

Timofeyev peeks out from the kitchen, eyes occasionally glancing back to make sure the spaghetti doesn't boil over in its too-small pot. "Got it. Hrm--coincidence, that's when my parents arrive."

"Saves us some trouble, really," the kzinrret notes, looking over her shoulder and smiling. "How's dinner coming?"

"Just fine. No, wait." Bondayehr frowns and rubs his chin momentarily in thought, still half-in and half-out the doorway leading to the kitchen. "They told me they were getting on the shuttle earlier this afternoon. They'll be here tomorrow morning. The times don't match up unless..."

Shorty flares her ears, leaning up a little curiously. "Unless what?"

"Unless they're pulling military accelerations. I'd fully expect Dad to take advantage of his retiree's benefits but Scarab's don't go that fast. It's still three days from Titan to here on one of those."

"Well, it's space-permitting, isn't it? There's obviously a special courier--which I guess would mean a Loki or something, right?--going from Titan to here. The one my mother's on."

"Well, yes..." Timofeyev blinks. "Oh, hell."

"What? Oh." Shorty sees it too and bottles out her fur a little bit. "My mother always was a crafty bitch."

"Quick--does your mom tend to do the whole old kzin thing where she tries to establish dominance in conversations?"

Shorty growls softly under her breath, shaking her head as she sees what Bondayehr sees play out in his mind's eye. "She certainly is old kzin."

The captain sighs. "This'll only end in tears. Just gr--" An angry, bubbling hissing alerts him to the water boiling just a little too aggressively for the limited volume of the pot to handle. "Ack!" He hops back into the kitchen, leaving Shorty to stretch out on the couch and lie far more limply than she did before the conversation.

At least it'll be a short flight.

* - * - *

Jeffery Bondayehr, former senior master sergeant of the SASD with twenty-three years under his belt, sighs internally as he looks up at the 'bullseye' indicating where the compartment that he, his wife, and their new sister-in-law currently share is on the Loki-class dropship currently playing courier. Not for the first time and not for the last, he wishes there were a window or something to glance at. Lacking that, he simply glances at the numbers painted on the wall that indicate deck, frame, and compartment.

It's going to be a long flight.

Refusing to be so undiplomatic as to run a hand over his thinning black hair and growing sparse bald spot, he turns back to the 'conversation' between his two companions, only his eyes giving away his annoyance.

"All I say is that I do not understand my daughter's choice from a... urr... biological standpoint. The Heroism of your son is not in question." This from Sky Marshal M'sha, still in her TYCS Class A's. Scuttlebutt has it she hasn't slept since she left her flagship Vinegaroon over Jupiter. Jeff honestly thinks that's probably false, but she is certainly either off her game for a 'zin or else doing her best to be diplomatic too. This is definitely an attempt to smooth things out, which the retired sergeant who was once accused of acting too much the junior officer can relate to.

"Well, it comes as a surprise to us too, just the other way around," replies Catalina 'Katrina' Bondayehr, previously a senior spaceman in the SASD and with eight years in service to her name, with a quietly sharp voice. She picked up her nickname from her husband's Slavophilia, an attempt to get back in touch with his roots (or at least those roots which supplied his surname, given how mixed the rest are); the later further connection to Catherine the Great, while apt, was wholly unintentional. Standing at about 166 centimeters and even shorter now while sitting, her aggressively leaning-forward posture still works due to sheer force of will. With shoulder-length dark brown hair finally being allowed to show more grey than expected from a silently stressful personality and a mildly endomorphic physique (something she worries more about than anyone else), she doesn't look like she could be too imposing. It's all in face and attitude, brought about from a mixture of dysfunctional home life while growing up, never quite making staff sergeant for some reason despite pulling off the responsibilities of tech sergeants with flair, and making her way from job to job after the service with massive amounts of varied technical and organizational experience but no college education. This is a woman very, very tired of being underestimated. "He never was an ugly child, which is why I was surprised when the lady he brought home from college wasn't the same species. I trust his decision, though."

All this came about when the first words out of M'sha's mouth after the introductions were 'So, I see I am related to monkeys now.' She meant it jokingly, and racial slurs are bandied about relatively freely in the Segments. Unfortunately for her, Timofeyev's mother doesn't like condenscension in the least. She got defensive, the Sky Marshal made the mistake of trying to assert authority, and now... "Me too," Jeffery adds, voice placating as he folds his hands and smiles. Jeffery Bondayehr is a tall man, lanky and aging decently well, although his face is folded and pitted with the scars of not exactly the easiest life. While his hair is still mostly black with grey strands here and there, the salt-and-pepper effect is more pronounced in his mustache-and-goatee beard, more or less intentionally styled after Dr. Mobius in Forbidden Planet. Jeff always was an eccentric one like that. "Katyusha and I discussed things as he was growing up, and we'll always support him and who he finds to share his life with. Of course, the furthest from, ah, normal we pondered was if he was gay, but I'm certain he's found a good match with your daughter." Actually, he's not sure at all. "We're just surprised because, well, he never let on as to his particular proclivities--which is all we could expect, really, given how we've all been rather private and lassiez-faire about the whole thing."

"That is just it," M'sha replies, trying to keep the growl down in her voice as the honored Patriarch Speaker-Rrit (such honor, even accepting a half-name under his station!) would have her do. She, the pre-Break fullnamed M'sha of the Old Patriarchy, granted her name by Kgraarh-Rrit, having to deal with the chagrin of her blood consorting with those not of the race of Heroes! Where had she gone wrong, and why had her daughter failed her House? An heir would be necessary, and if there's one thing monkey and Hero cannot do it is breed... but that is unfair. He was honorable, his feats exceeding even her own and his Name to be acknowledged. It truly is an honor to have him in her House... but what a shame to the race created in the One Fanged God's image that a monkey should exceed them in their own virtues? The conflicting issues in her mind are inevitably the result of the conflicting ideals which she simultaneously champions--one by simply living, an Old Hero of the Old Patriarchy hailing from Tibet, huntress and warrior exemplar for the Race of Heroes, the other by being Sky Marshal and protector of her new ideals of service and peace and equality. Honorable Patriarch Speaker-Rrit commands us to adapt. The word of the Patriarch is Hero's Law. "My daughter has not been so... quiet about her escapades. Such things are common with us; what you would call 'premarital sex' is simply a fact of The Madness." Invoking the half-joking monkey name for kzinti adolescence should help calm things down. "As far as I knew, she was simply a healthy kzinrret."

The mention of 'healthy' once again brings again a not-at-all disguised glower and a general subdued scent of displeasure from the manrret. This must be where the Captain's true Heroism derives from. Although she tries, the hulking kzinrret really can't hold anything against Catalina's reactions; indeed, her absolute refusal to hide anything and her steadfastness in holding her ground even against a fullnamed kzin easily twice to three times her mass is respectable. "She told me of your son, the honored Timofeyev Mikhail Jeffereyovich Bondayehr," she continues, using her unexpected son-in-law's full name as a sign of respect, "as a friend at university. Discussions, debate, 'hanging out.' She also told me of her... urr... escapades while at college. All within the bounds of 'normalcy' for us." She nods to Jeffery. "So it comes to me as a loss when she chooses a... human... for a consort."

The kzinrret flinches internally; she paused so she would not say 'monkey,' but even that pause could be correctly construed. Even as she ponders the wisdom of the cynical (Doglike? How appropriate.) human adage of 'damned if you do,' Catalina enters the breach. "Hmph. Look at it this way: at least you know she's in it for something other than sex. With how young they are, we should consider ourselves lucky."

M'sha bottles out her fur at that remark, filling the compartment with the scent of ginger and stale sweat. She taps her broad, furred fingers once, twice on the metal table between the two families, and nods slowly, actually avoiding eye contact. Calm. Coolness is a virtue of a Hero. She does not know my history, it is not a direct slight. After a few tense seconds, the Sky Marshal stands up slowly. "Excuse me." Forgoing a polite short bow, she turns and leaves the room slowly, half out of concentration and half out of not making it look like a retreat. Carefully closing the compartment door behind her and finding the passageway empty, she snarls and swipes at the opposing wall, claws out but careful not to connect.

Jeff sighs and looks at his wife, who looks back at him with a mystified look and a shrug. Rubbing his face in his hands, he shakes his head. "And we thought our families didn't get along. Poor Tim."

Captain Bondayehr: Moving In #3
A Little Backstory In a Big Truck

"I've met these people before," Bondayehr grumbles to himself, eyes squinting from the light reflecting off of the concrete flight line even though the brim of his grey smoke-cloud camouflaged BDU cover shields them from the sun, "so I have no reason to be worried about this."

Shorty chuckles, scanning the sky while keeping one broad hand arched over her brows to block the sun. "You haven't met them together. You're not the only nervous one, my consort--I was thinking the same thing." Spotting what she's looking for, she points. "There."

The shape in the sky, distinctly a Scarab due to its two pairs of stubby wings, one swept forward and the other back, grows until it becomes its characteristically beetle-like monstrocity the size of a medium cargo plane, which is simply an indicator of its function. It sidles carefully toward them with a barely audible low thrum, centering over its landing circle about three meters off the ground before settling without the blast of wind associated with vertical-landing jets or helicopters. The principle the shuttle operates on is distinctly different that way. It lands, coming to rest on the barely perceptible damped swaying of its broad landing legs, and the starboard hatch on the forward command module opens inward even as the couple waiting on the ground advance to meet those disembarking.

First out is the Sky Marshal; Captain Bondayehr snaps to attention and immediately salutes in the quick arm-at-side way common to the Segments. "Good morning, ma'am."

M'sha returns his salute, green cape rustling as she walks down the gangway and steps to the side, opening the way for Catalina and Jeffery Bondayehr, who take the opposite side of the gateway upon stepping onto the tarmac--by Catalina's lead, of course.

Timofeyev half-clenches his the extended fingers of his right hand then draws them, palm-in, in front of his face in a replica claw-swipe as he bows respectfully. "Honored House Leader." This gesture is matched by a nod and respectful bow from Embassy-Representative; the larger and elder kzinrret returns the simple nod to both. "Hey Mom, hey Dad," Bondayehr continues, stepping forward to hug first his shorter mother, then his taller father, unable to help looking a little relieved. Once he makes his pass through the elder Bondayehrs, it's Shorty's turn--with the same "Hey Mom, hey Dad"--almost bending over double to hug Catalina. Both the elder Bondayehrs joined the service to get away from less than optimal home lives, and so are quite adaptable when it comes to adopting others into an honorary family. The embraces they share with their new daughter-in-law are no less genuine than those they just offered to their son. M'sha sniffs the air quietly in puzzlement at this development, not entirely sure what to make of it but relatively sure she somehow lost more ground in this.

The captain steps back and smiles genuinely, winking behind Shorty's back to his mother-in-law. She isn't a bad sort, really, just traditional and reserved in public. Nothing wrong with that. "I suppose it's probably too late for proper introductions," he says, still smiling, "so how was the flight?"

"It could've been smoother," Catalina replies, getting herself a tired look from her son for her troubles. "Got a ride in a milspec Loki, at least."

"Heh. Some time while you are here," Embassy-Representative says as she steps back to her consort's side, "you should get Tim to set you up for backseat rides. He keeps saying how he has to log flight time to stay qualified," she jibes with a quiet huffing chuckle.

"Yare, yare," Timofeyev replies with a smirk. "Also good to see you again, ma'am. How's Jupiter?"

"Just as insane as always," the Sky Marshal replies, looking around. "There is no one else around. We can eschew formality for now... son. Military or House."

"Righto, Ma." Timofeyev smirks, turns around to look at the airbase with arms akimbo, then turns back around to his collected parents, both by birth and by consortship. "Well, welcome to the sunny Dominion. We both have leave from our particular assignments so we can relax at our host's until we're ready to get to things and all. I'll just 'acquire' a cargo truck from the motor pool and we can go from there." He looks over at Shorty.

On cue, she continues the train of thought. This was carefully orchestrated in advance to make sure that neither one of them seemed too... domineering over the other. "I know the base pretty well, so I can take you to Tim's shop. Mind if you meet us there, dear?"

"Works for me." Timofeyev turns to go, but a quick interjection from Catalina stops him short.

"It's been a while since we've been on a base. Mind if take a ride with you?"

"Not at all, Mom," the captain replies with a smile more in the lips than the eyes, which glance over at Shorty. "We can all catch up with each other whilst we split up. See you around."

* - * - *

"I see the trip went smoothly," Timofeyev says with a smirk, not taking his eyes off the road as he maneuvers the deuce-and-a-half truck around the streets of the airbase. "So, getting along well with your new sister?"

"Hrmpf," his mother replies, rolling her eyes with a smirk equalling her son's. Meanwhile, his father has a bit more to say on the subject. "Heh. Not as well as could be helped. She seems somewhat... ah... reserved, don't you think?"

"Oh, you mean the greeting?" The captain demonstrates the face-claw gesture again. "She's like that. She has a good opinion of me--and you two by extension--but she isn't sure what she thinks of me, if that makes any sense. She's also an old kzin getting over herself"--he stops at an intersection, looking both ways before continuing--"and so is avoiding her natural extreme of passion for the opposite extreme of Stoicism."

"A kzin compensating?" Catalina chuckles. "Will wonders ever cease."

"Overcompensating, Mom." Bondayehr smirks broadly. "I know this threw her for a loop just as much, if not more, than it threw you."

Another chuckle from his mother. "Really? All she could talk about was the unnaturalness of the whole thing."

"Like you blame her." All humor gone from Timofeyev's voice, smirk replaced with stony thin line. Brought up short, Catalina frowns.

Jeff nods slowly. "A little, I suppose. Yes, ah... Shorty is not at all what we were expecting." He blushes slightly. "No offense?"

"None taken." The son smirks again. "You didn't hide it all so well when I broke the news. It's about time we had this out in the open like adults. Still, if both sides of the family find it unnatural, where's the beef?"

"It's not that," Catalina replies with just a touch of heat. "Even though Shorty's definitely not what we're expecting, we got to know her. Your dad and I have talked this over and we think her personality compliments yours in the right places. Once we get over the whole kzinrret thing--and yes, it will take getting over or getting used to--we'll be fine. We're fine with it now, more or less. We're accepting her as... well... family." In the back of her mind, she thinks of all Timofeyev's other friends who had become honorary sons and daughters due to closeness to the family; all of her friends who had become her own honorary brothers and sisters and therefore Timofeyev's uncles and aunts. The Bondayehrs have never really been exclusive.

"And, as you saw," Timofeyev again performs the claw-swipe, "I'm part of hers too. The gesture's one of familial fealty in this context. I'd daresay it was more difficult for her, which is why she's talked about it more." Frowning, he stops again, looks both ways, and takes a left, turning the wheel with one hand while the other works the manual transmission. "Still, you can't be giving each other the cold shoulder just because she seems shocked that her daughter's sleeping with a monkey. That much should've been expected."

"Well, that is our side of the cold-shouldering..." Jeff pauses at a glance from his wife. A conversation takes place between the two in flashes of the eyebrows, frowns, motions of the eye, and abortive shakes of the head. It ends almost as soon as it begins.

"When she said that Shorty shouldn't be attracted to you, I replied that she must be in it for something other than the sex and that was a good thing," Timofeyev's mother admits without warning, voice unhappy in the revelation but with the same force of will she takes into everything. "She excused herself after that and hasn't talked to us directly since."

Timofeyev grimaces and sucks a breath in through his teeth. "Yeah... that'd do it."

"So what I do wrong?" Normally, Catalina's aggrivated tone would be associated with the misplaced anger of a petulant child being caught in the act. With her, though, it's generally obvious that it's just a healthy dose of Bondayehr self-spite at herself for failing.

"About twenty-six years ago persrec M'sha got into a relationship for nothing more than the sex. This was agreed between the two and it was fine by them. As you can see today, she got a bit more out of it than just a casual boytoy, who disappeared--to his credit--before she discovered she was pregnant. Kzinti are always born in pairs, male and female, but the twin brother ended up being stillborn." He recites the tale as he takes a right, shifting gears from instinct. "Being an old Fullname, she had a warrior rep to keep up, and in the Ticks navy too. Ten months out, two at home every year; Shorty was literally raised by the collective effort of M'sha's (and now my) House. She did her damndest to keep up with her kid inbetween doing what she did to make Sky Marshal and that's why they're not totally estranged now. Think about it--out of the eighteen years before college, M'sha got to experience a whole three. I'm certain that's got to sting in a breed as legendarily maternal as the kzinretti."

Catalina and Jeff simply nod and frown, processing this new information and putting it in personal terms. Both had been deployed at times away from family; it simply didn't compare.

"So, yes, Shorty's in it for something other than the sex, although apparently I'm an acquired taste now." Wry but also sly smirk. "Same as me, really; the fact she fulfills my primary form of nonparaphilial kink is just gravy."

"Nonwhat?" Catalina raises an eyebrow.

"Let's just say 'nonessential' and leave it at that. The whole fuzzy thing is entirely optional in my book."

"Ah."

"So not only that, but I gather that M'sha is also somewhat jealous of my consort for reasons which must now be all too clear."

"Not making the same mistakes she did," Jeff confirms with a nod. "Pretty much what we've been aiming for with you."

"Just like any set of good parents," Timofeyev replies with a nod. "So she's a whole bag of mixed feelings that you're going to have to work with all day. Got me, Sergeant? Spaceman?" Bondayehr looks over his shoulder at his parents and grins.

"Yes, sir," his parents reply wryly.

"Ah, I haven't heard that tone since SMISO training," the captain recalls mocking-wistfully. "Anyway, I'm sure that Shorty has been briefing her mother on your backgrounds and why you're understandably protective of your only child... as planned. We figured something like this would happen. Unfortunately, we figured it last night, so we're still kinda winging it."

"Yup," Catalina sighs with a semblance of returning humor, "sly, plotting, devious... perfect for each other."

"We are family," Jeffery says with a smirk. House Bondayehr and House Hgriih do share some attributes after all.

Captain Bondayehr: Moving In #4
I Bet I Can Make You Enjoy Reading About Carrying Boxes

The smoke-cloud grey military cargo truck rumbles to a stop in downtown Devras, sideslipping into an empty spot beside a rather nice Renaissance palazzo which is hardly out of place in this older district of the capital. Under the large vaulted archway that opens up to the street, nine 'Pendran M.I. in standard armor fall into formation and stand at attention. Captain Bondayehr gets out of the driver's seat and jogs around to the back, slapping the tailgate twice as he passes it. "Out by squads; section leader, get these apes out and in formation!"

Senior Master Sergeant (retired) Jeff Bondayehr nods and hops out of the truck first, nodding to the squad leaders designated earlier--his wife and M'sha--before taking up a practiced command voice himself. "Lift squad out first, by the numbers! Mobile squad follows! Fall in formation with the armor section!" Nathicana adjusts her cap and hops out of the truck when her turn comes up, falling in as directed, though she can't seem to keep the hint of an amused smile from her lips. Ah, moving. 'Pendran-style. Now -this- is an experience. At a practiced and theatrical glare from his son, the old sergeant keeps his bearing as he plays his own role, watching officers and enlisted hop out along with the Dread Lady. "The captain doesn't have all day, troopers, pick it up!" After the last person off the truck--a junior officer in Timofeyev's liason flight--hops off, Jeff doubletimes behind him to take his position in front of 'his' section at attention. Beside Nathi and M'sha in Lift Squad is a few hefty noncoms and Shorty; beside them stands Mobile Squad, with Catalina in charge over Colonel Somalyi, Tenente di Vascello Tornatore, Sergeant Akayama, some bloodspots and a DiploCorps lackey or two.

Timofeyev glances over his strange amalgam of a mufti-and-Class Ds light infantry section and a patrol kit battle armor section, then snaps to attention. "PLATOON!"

"SECTION!" comes the instant reply from both SMSgt (Ret.) Bondayehr and his opposite number in armor, the latter's voice slightly tinny from his suit's external speakers.

"Armor section! I want three men to clear the work area and get into overwatch positions. I want the street access in both directions and the courtyard covered. The rest, two-man patrols of the perimeter. Hooah?"

"HOOAH!" reply the nine troopers in battlesuits.

"On the bounce, then! Fall out!"

That section of the platoon about faces and quickly splinters, section leader delegating duties to squadron sergeants before finally splitting up professionally. Three teams of two walking the streets, two of the remaining three taking up positions on either side of the archway and the last one walking to the end of the archway to cover the courtyard.

"Moving section! Your POA is pretty simple: Lift Squad, stage the heavy stuff off of the truck. Mobile Squad, get the boxes inside and keep them to the walls--give Lift Squad room to work. You get me?"

The SASD-heavy 'light infantry' section replies quickly. "Yes, sir!" Catalina and Jeffery both look quite professional, Sergeant Akayama and Lieutenant Tornatore look close to breaking bearing, and the good Sky Marshal growls a bit more than necessary. Nathicana has no problem with the affirmation, offering her own hearty "Yes, sir!" with the slightest lift of her chin and a shift to outwardly serious demeanor in response to Tornatore's near breaking. If one had to set an example... besides. Messing with certain preconceptions was entertaining.

"Fall out, and on the bounce then!" For the first time since getting out of a truck, the captain cracks a smile. "Thanks, guys. Y'all really do have a sense of humor." Turning around, he hops onto the back of the truck and starts shifting boxes to help people pick them up and take them inside. Marihito Akayama chuckles and leaps heroically onto the truck bed as well, wind flapping through his loose-fitting fatigues and bushy red tail. Unintentionally striking a dashing pose, he leans over, picks up a box, and hops off dramatically before walking inside.

"We pretty much have to," Nathi says with an impish smile. "I mean, have you ever?"

Grumbling in a way that may just be good-natured, M'sha climbs up and moves to one side of a large box obviously containing an unassembled something. "Care to help me with this present of yours, Dread Lady?"

It is a decidedly ... odd grouping, all things considered, the Dread Lady thinks for a moment. The looks from the locals are more than enough to confirm that, as if any confirmation were needed. She shakes her head and chuckles at Akayama, then nods to M'sha. "No 'Dread Lady' business here," she replies with a close-lipped smile. "I'll take the bottom, then?"

Everyone, including Timofeyev, gets to work hauling boxes; lifters always working in teams of two on the decidedly few large, heavy packages. The sky marshal, professionally well-read in TYCS intelligence documents, chuckles with a soft huffing noise. "As you wish, ma'am." She turns the box with unsurprisingly inhuman strength and eases it down towards the much-shorter and unfairly augmented human. Nathicana gets a good hold on it, lifting her end easily, and then holding it up while M'sha gets down out of the truck, in an effort to make it less hassle. Weight is one thing, manuevering large packages through the twists and turns of a house is another, after all. Faces peek through windows, watching the goings on with interest - no few on phones describing the scene.

What draws attention more than anything are the armored troops out patrolling the immediate area. A look of mild, controlled alarm is not uncommon. It's not usual for foreign operatives to be, well, operating without visible soldati presence - which this little gathering seems, offhand, to lack. The soldati are obviously around, and the M.I. know this... and they also know that's part of the point. Either way, they seem to be quite friendly for space invaders, occasionally waving armored gloves at passerbys and smiling from behind armorglas visors. Would almost distract from the pulse eraser rifles and powergun pistols and tubular variable swords. As might be expected, the most fearless are the children - hanging around, eyes wide, and of course, full of questions. The adults, for the most part, observe more quietly, though several do approach with questions, or the usual friendly greetings one might expect, however curious the looks that come with it. Some simply take note, and thoughtfully consider what all this implies. And what it doesn't. True to form, the rumor-mill kicks into high gear.

The Mobile Infantrymen are more than happy to reply to the kids' questions, although only one out of the two-man teams speaks at any given time, the other one vigilantly but not aggressively watching the street whilst his or her partner is distracted.

Several of the Scalia's watch quietly, taking their ease on a balcony overlooking the scene. Even Arturo Valli manages to wheel his chair out to the veranda to watch the goings on with interest, the clearly military bearing of the group seeming to bring a bit of life back into the old man. The curtains of Signorina Villanova's abode occasionally twitch, though nothing of their occupant is seen. Private al-Sahaf, down in the courtyard, waves one armored glove respectfully to the Scalias on the balcony before continuing to watch the area alertly with rifle gingerly carried low. Underneath the armor plate and the ballistic fiber and the myomer 'skin'suit, the private is actually enjoying the picturesque garden on this late summer day. Now if only this suit wasn't closed... I bet the flowers smell nice. The elder gentleman nods, and subtly raises his glass in acknowledgement, leaning over to his companions as they continue to observe, and speculate.

Meanwhile, Nathi peers over her end of the box curiously at M'sha. "This look about right?" she asks, upon reaching the appointed room.

The elder kzinrret easily looks over Nathi and nods, her ears twitching slightly. "This is the bedroom, yes. Down in three."

"Right then. One ... two ..." She kept any and all amusement quite carefully out of her voice or expression. There had clearly been some tensions earlier, and she had a fair enough guess as to at least part of it. M'sha is used to giving orders and having them complied to, so Nathi's professional manner doesn't surprise her in the least. Besides, Nathi isn't the one she's had any friction with and sets down her end of the heavy box easily, near the far side of the room so there will be room to unpack it. That much done, she turns to head back downstairs to get the next thing requiring lifting. Nathicana takes a moment to look around the place, though not lingering long. She's here to help, not gawk after all. Nice place. Glad they managed to come across such a find. She takes note of the neighbors, one brow going up as she recognizes the elder Scalia. And an interesting neighborhood to boot. Another box, another trip into the palazzo - and more details to be quietly tucked away to be used as necessary.

The two walk past Catalina in the living room; the kzinrret and the short woman of Sicilian extraction exchange emotionless glances but otherwise keep a wide berth of each other. Jeff is standing by the door, helping people with things and coordinating traffic in and out; he doesn't even appear to register to M'sha. Tornatore puts down a package, turns around, sees the Dread Lady and immediately nods with respect, going stiff all of a sudden as if he were in uniform and supposed to salute but can't. Nathi returns the nod, and smiles slyly, albeit close-lipped out of habit. This was simply too rich. The rest however ... the efficient cooperation whilst carefully dancing around each other, was more of a concern. She wisely keeps her observations to herself however, waiting to see how things progress. If the parents were anything like the son, her standard meddling would go over about as well as a lead balloon anyway.

Outside, Captain Bondayehr and Colonel Somalyi talk to each other around a few large boxes, a few of which is labeled 'HEAVY, DAMMIT!' in large, bold letters that aren't in either Shorty's or Timofeyev's handwriting. "Should I pre-emptively say 'you shouldn't have, ma'am?'" Bondayehr says with a close-lipped grin.

"You do and I'll dock your pay, Captain," the Colonel replies. She wears a black shimmery babushka of sorts under her usual headband, both the coverage of a properly modest Muslim and offering some sort of protection from the glare of the sun... as if her aviator's sunglasses needed any assistance on that account.

"I should at least know where it goes," Timofeyev mutters with a soft chuckle.

"Lead these two to wherever you're going to make your den," Somalyi answers, leaning over to get a better look at Nathi and M'sha. "My only requirement is once you get it up and running you're going to have to deal with me across it at some point."

"Reporting for duty, sir," Nathi says, giving Bondayehr a salute and wink. "Just tell us where you want 'em."

Bondayehr returns the salute snappily... and the wink as well. "Trooper D'Aquisto, Squad Sergeant M'sha, get these boxes up to the gallery. The long one isn't that heavy but it's big, and the two small ones are quite heavy." He looks at M'sha. "Split up the work as you see fit, Squadron Sergeant."

M'sha grumbles, then actually chuckles, ears flapping. "Yes, sir." Then, in an undertone that sounds more threatening than it actually is: "Enjoy it while it lasts, nubezecj-tozy." She looks down at Nathi. "Which would you like to take, Trooper D'Aquisto?"

Nathicana nods, stifling a grin quite firmly at the interplay. "Perhaps take the unweildly one between us, and then see how heavy the other two are? Less chance of damaging the walls, that way," Nathi says judiciously, though she waits for confirmation before making a move.

"Good call, Trooper," Bondayehr replies with a humorous smile, "you'll make corporal any day now. On the bounce, apes." In an undertone that is also more threatening than it actually is: "That means you too, you nubezecj-h'ehv."

M'sha nimbly hops onto the back of the truck, bats the captain in the shoulder with a playful yet not completely powerless swipe and a quiet growl before taking up one end of the long box. "This truly is light," she says. "We could split up safely, I think."

"However you think best," Nathi replies pleasantly, in truth, just enjoying being out and doing something so mundanely normal as helping out friends. "I'll take one of the others, then?"

“Do so, Trooper." M'sha takes her box, stands to full height, and looks down (way down) at Timofeyev. "Command us, Captain!"

Bondayehr grabs a box under each arm and looks up (way up) at M'sha, then down-ish at Nathi. "I command my Heroes! To the house!" Leaping from the back of the truck, he heads for the door at a full run, with M'sha close behind. Needless to say, she wins the race. Nathicana bends at the knees, scooping up her designated box and rising to her full unimpressive height, peeking around the load to grin, and shake her head as she too bounds after the others, somewhat more carefully, in full giggle. Papa Bondayehr pulls from his flightline experience to quickly wave off people trying to go out the door as first M'sha and then Timofeyev burst in, quickly slowing down to a more appropriate pace. The larger 'ret's mood has improved a bit, and she even manages a wink of the ears to Catalina, who is appropriately surprised by this before she sneaks out the door and dodges Nathi.

Aiyee, perdon," Nathi blurts out, still laughing as she nearly runs the woman down. "'Ey bos," she calls out to Timofeyev, in a mock-Eastern-European accent. "Where you want we put dees stuff?"

"I command my Heroe... nah, not quite appropriate." He looks to his father, who nods and winks.

"What I think my son would like," Jeff says in a dead-on impression of Marlon Brando's character in The Godfather, "is that these items be put up in the gallery, nice and gentle-like. It isn't every day that a boy moves into a new home, you know?"

"Of course, Signore. Of course. And what the boy wants on this day of days, the boy gets, eh? To the gallery it is," the raven-haired woman replies, nodding respectfully to Jeff, stifling her grin. "Nice and gentle-like."

"Sky Sergeant," Timofeyev says, addressing M'sha, "lead the way. I will put this box down..."--he looks at a small stack of boxes and sets his own atop it--"right here. The quicker we get this done, the quicker we can all sit down and relax."

Nathicana follows after, once again taking in the tastefully-appointed interior as they make their way to the gallery. "You two sure know how to pick them," she says, setting her load down carefully.

"It's all Shor--Embassy-Representative's work, actually," Timofeyev replies, looking down from the railing that keeps careless folk from toppling down into the living room. "She has an eye for this sort of thing. The bland apartment back in Stonozka is the extent of my househunting skills."

"I thought it a comfortable enugh little spot. As I said before, at your age then, I would have given a lot to have something like that all my own." Nathi shrugs casually and smiles, offering a gentle clap on his shoulder before going on in a softer tone. "You two have done well for yourselves. Aye, make a good team. Would seem her 'eye for things' isn't limited to houses, nor yours to details. Just want you to know I'm happy for you.”

The captain chuckles and smiles, then replies to Nathi’s praise with a thankful-sounding quiet phrase in Italian. The words don't match the sound, though. "Lecture not for me?" He winks at Nathi as M'sha stops fiddling with her package, stands back up, and turns around.

"Believe there's one more box to go with this. Be right back with it," Nathi says, returning the wink, then heads for the stairs to go fetch it from the truck. Back downstairs, Mama Bondayehr has just returned from the truck with another package. Seeing the Dread Lady, she just shakes her head and gets out of the way... across the room. Nathicana makes a note to apologize again later, once the work is done, though she can't help but chuckle all the same. She gets the last box of the set slated for the gallery, and makes her way back towards the entryway at a more reasonable pace, figuring that if the two upstairs have anything to say, she ought to give them a moment or two to say it before she comes barging back in.

Unfortunately for Nathi's concern, however, the only conservation between the two is a confirmation that all the big items have been moved and now it's just dense things, like boxes of books. Timofeyev directs M'sha to coordinate her squad and work closely with Mobile Squad to make sure everything gets arranged decently. Looking over the gallery railing again, he spies his mother and points her out to M'sha. By the time Nathi gets back, the two--the tall kzinrret and the short Sicilian--are standing in the corner, discussing something in held-back undertones. Nathi quietly deposits the box alongside the others, resisting the urge to listen in with the cheat of augments. Curiousity was one thing, but this would be, well ... rude. Instead, she moves to head back downstairs to assist with the rest of the unloading.

Meanwhile, out in the courtyard, the younger of the Scalia's who had been observing from the balcony, Rosalia and Gianni, were quietly setting up a table with ample glasses and several chilled pitchers. One of simple ice water, the other two containing a refreshing sweet mint drink of Islamic origin--sekanjabin. Along with this is a bowlful of various fruits. When the opportunity arises, they make it known that said refreshment is intended for the new neighbors and moving crew.

The opportunity comes soon enough as Private al-Sahaf walks over idly in his powersuit to investigate. First making sure to take a good situational-awareness sweep of the courtyard, he bows shortly to the two Scalias. "Preparing for a get-together of sorts?" he asks, Egyptian-accented English tinny through suit speakers.

Rosalia smiles, returning the bow politely after setting aside one of the pitchers. "We thought that perhaps, with the heat and the exertion of moving, our new neighbors and their friends could use with a bit of refreshment? They have hardly had the time to set up a proper kitchen, and I would imagine, have their hands full directing."

Gianni steps out of the door in time to catch the last of that, with a handful of napkins and various utensils for those fruits requiring cutting or peeling. "A pleasure, signore. As my sister was saying, please - help yourself, and pass word on."

Private al-Sahaf looks left and right, idly checking his HFD to make sure the M.I. noncoms aren't looking, then cracks his helmet and tucks it under one arm. "Thank you--most kind. Oh, sekanjabin. Excellent." Picking up a single cup with surprising daintiness (one has to be dainty in a powersuit), he takes a sip. "Excellent indeed. My compliments to the mixer."

"Grazie," Gianni replies, continuing to lay out the utensils. "That would be Rosalia. An old family tradition, on our mother's side." Rosalia nods and smiles in acknowledgement as she prepares some of the fruit for easy sampling. "I'm happy you find it acceptable." Surely she can be excused if her eyes linger a bit, with a subtle 'what is under that suit' look about them. After all, to the usual Dominion citizen, full Scolopendran suits out in the streets is a novel experience.

al-Sahaf smiles and, with his helmet off, completely doesn't hear the growling of the section sergeant as said noncom sneaks up behind him and gently plucks the cup from his hand. "Sad is the day when one of Sari's Saracens breaks with professionalism," he chides in a sort of growly-yet-good-natured-sergeant sort of way, "now get back to your post, Trooper... wait, is that sekanjabin?"

"Yes, Sarge," the private replies quickly, having gone to attention cat-quick.

"Very well then. Carry on--return to your post when you're done." The sergeant winks and nods from behind his faceplate at the civilians, hands back the cup, and walks off.

Brows arch, looks are exchanged, all with smiles however. "You truly are a serious yet oddly relaxed lot all at once, no?" Gianni observes, taking what he's seen previously and now into account.

al-Sahaf looks over his shoulder at the retreating sergeant, then takes another sip of the minty drink. "I suppose you could call it that. We are out here in full patrol kit, so we're expected to follow the rules... kind of. This is also a favor for a fellow Infantryman and it's a happy occasion, so... I suppose you could say in this case we're almost jokingly serious. What with a Sky Marshal being assigned as a squad sarge and all."

Now this offers both Scalias pause. Sky Marshal assigned as ... "I can ah, see how the situation would be an odd one, si. Bene, bene," the young man says thoughtfully, while Rosalia leans over the table slightly to get a better look at some of those making their way back and forth between the truck and the new abode.

"I suppose it isn't every day one has neighbors of such high standing moving in, so ... oddity is to be expected," she muses.

"High standing? The cap'n? Naw." The battlesuited private chuckles, taking another sip of his drink. "Just has friends and family in high places, quite unintentionally to hear him talk."

Another look is exchanged between the two. "Perception, it is said, is reality," Rosalia says, offering al-Sahaf a refill. “Whether he sees himself as such or no, there are many who hold him in high regard of his own right. For myself, I hope he finds this place a pleasant refuge. I know our family has enjoyed it."

al-Sahaf finishes off his glass and politely waves off a refill. "Oh, I'm sure he will--and thanks for the offer, there, but I do have a job to get back to. Sort of. 'Sides, gotta let everyone know you're being so hospitable, right?" He smiles as he plunks his helmet back on his head and seals it up, then waves in a sort of half-salute. "Thanks again."

"My pleasure," she says, raising her hand and waving with just her fingertips, smiling quietly as she watches him walk off, which earns her a gentle nudge from her brother. "Behave," he says quietly, though he's grinning as well. "Ciao! Happy to oblige!"

he message from the Scalias moves quickly throughout the moving party, thanks to the combat comms of the M.I. and the "light infantry sergeants'" radios, and so they start filtering through, always careful not to press, always quite polite. They're all in variations of 'Pendran smoke-cloud grey fatigue uniforms except for M'sha, whose fatigues are green; Tornatore, who is in Dominion BDUs; and the parental Bondayehrs and the DiploCorps people, who are all in mufti. The two young Scalias attempt to be gracious hosts, showing deference to those who seem to be their elders, as is only proper. The talk is kept light, and the refreshments are kept comfortably stocked. When Nathicana makes her way over, she quietly accepts a glass of ice water, offering the elder Scalia who is seemingly napping on the balcony a very subtle salute with it. Which is returned with an equally subtle nod.

The work goes exceptionally quickly; it's essentially a four-room apartment with the goods for only two people. Afterwards, it's Timofeyev and Shorty's turn to play hosts, quickly setting up some tables inside and out. Everyone has brought along a little something, and that gets pulled out, along with the captain's truly impressive collection of alcohol. Nathi has brought a bottle of Delacourt from her own private collection, as well as a basket of pastries - more than enough to go around. Shorty trots over to the Scalia table and bows shortly. "Thank you for your neighborly hospitality," she says in a growly-by-genetics yet surprisingly diplomatically smooth voice. "It would honor us to reciprocate in like kind."

"Bene grazie," they reply, returning the bow in their own way. "It would be a pleasure. Gianni - the limoncello?"

The younger kzinrret of the two currently in the area goes around to see if anyone else would like to come along, then escorts them to the apartment. With the available furnature essentially being boxes and folding chairs (other than the couch which came with the apartment in the living area), everything is quite informal. The host or hostess pulls up a chair and hands over a brew, and the conversation commences. The old retired officer who'd been quietly observing from across the way, ponders the invitation for a moment, before shaking his head, and smiling wistfully in response. "Perhaps another night," he says quietly. "This is the most excitement we've had since Young Miss came home drunk as a lord, and insisted the Scalia residence was hers. Grazie, but I think I shall call it an evening." The others settle in comfortably, those unfamiliar with the others taking the time to observe as much as anything. Nathi takes a seat near Tornatore, the temptation to tease simply too much to pass up.

Ciro glances over at the Dread Lady and becomes just that much more professional, which leads Timofeyev, ever such the good host, to take Ciro's other side for support once he gets a spare moment. "So, Nathi, how goes?"

"All well, Tim," she replies with a smile. The lady gently sips from her glass, looking by contrast, quite relaxed. "I hope we got your belongings moved over without incident."

"If anything got broken we'll just dock it from your pay." Timofeyev chuckles. "So, everyone having at least an okay time?"

Tornatore nods. "Went faster than I expected."

"It's been a welcome change of pace, yes. Grazie." Nathi gives Ciro a sidelong glance, smiling impishly. "I would imagine you could add 'comfortably' to that description if you would forget the complexities of station for the evening, Ciro. We're here in the same capacity, no? As friends."

"Yes, ma'am," Ciro replies in his more comfortable Italian, smirking just a touch wryly. Wasn't born yesterday, after all. "This does have to be the strangest social situation I have been in yet."

"And here I'd have thought some of your other exploits to have been more ..." She gestures as if searching for the right word. "Interesting?" The last, delivered with a close-lipped grin. "After all, it's just a move."

Across the room, the Scalias raise their glasses in a toast to the new residents, and their charming compatriots with a rousing "Salut!", and a bout of good-natured laughter, clearly enjoying themselves - and admittedly, looking over those who seem 'unattached' with interest.

"Yeah, I keep a motley crew around me," Bondayehr interjects, returning the salute with a quick 'Fishetak!' and a downing of whatever mixer he has on hand. The exploits thing draws theatric frowns from both men. "You talkin' sass 'bout my dearest boyfriend?" Timofeyev enquires in his best southern Italian slang.

Ciro, on the other hand, just turns a shade redder. "In public, no less," he mutters, "have you no shame?" He knows what's going on and he has a part to play as well.

"Can't say as I blame you," Nathi says to Timofeyev in an idle tone, looking Ciro over head to toe in a most unapologetic way. "He is rather delicious, no?" A wink, a tip of the glass, and a slow, deliberate sip of wine follows. "Pity. I do so hate having things out of my reach."

Tornatore glances over at Tim and chuckles before looking back to the Dread Lady, responding in a deadpan tone: "Yes, I know what you mean."

Nathicana glances between the two briefly, and supresses a sight wince. That had been unintended, but... "Mi dispiace," she says quietly, with a brief nod. "Can I get you another drink?"

The Scalias exchange quick looks, and cover with sipping their drinks. Notes would definitely be exchanged later.

"I would be much obliged," Ciro replies politely while Timofeyev doesn't even bother with suppressing any winces that come up.

"So," Nathi says, after pouring Tornatore another and handing it to him carefully. "I'm still impressed at your find, here. Beautiful palazzo. I do hope the landlords aren't overcharging you for it."

"Seems fair enough to me," Timofeyev replies noncommitally. "Really couldn't ask for much lower without expecting someone to be taking a loss somewhere."

"We're glad to have new neighbors, regardless," Gianni says, lifting his glass in salute. "Can't say as we've had such an esteemed mix here since I can't remember when." He glances casually around the room, then looks back to Bondayehr, and Shorty. "You certainly are an intriguing group, if I may say so."

Timofeyev and Shorty return the salute on cue. "Confuses me sometimes too," Bondayehr quips with a smirk.

"If there is any way we can help you feel more comfortable during your stay, please do not hesitate to ask, no?" Rosalia says with a smile. "Though I can see you aren't lacking in friends and family, one can never have too many of either."

"Certainly," Shorty says with a flick of her batwing ears, "we will keep that in mind. Thank you for the offer."

Once everyone is sufficiently settled, Timofeyev wanders back outside to light up the grill while Shorty quickly sets up a hookah in the living room for all those interested. Catalina excuses herself on account of asthma and goes outside to help her son, Jeff helps set up the water pipe (having always been interested in them) while discussing philosophy with the Sky Marshal, and both Ciro and Sergeant Akayama volunteer to help run things from fridge to grill to fridge again. Rosalia offers to help with the food while Gianni takes up Shorty's offer of the hookah. Nathi, having never been any use in the kitchen - as could attested by her own personal staff, and anyone who had ever had the misfortune to be a 'test subject' for her experiments - took the opportunity to gather up the glasses, and busies herself washing them, and visiting cheerfully with those prepping food.

Spending any time with Scolopendrans around a hookah causes manners to get absorbed quickly: take a drag, then set the hose back on the table or stand. Don't pass it around, as that's rude... although no one nowadays really does any more about it than comment idly. Eventually, the smell of strawberry shisha fills up the room and Bondayehr returns from his daring grilling exploits with steaks, porkchops, hamburgers, hot dogs, lamb slabs, and other forms of not-necessarily-Arab bits of meaty goodness. Added to the mix--thanks to the introduction of other ingredients by guests--are more traditional selections such as skewered kebabs, meat-and-rice kabsa, lamb-nugget kibeh, and stuffed-cabbage mehshi. Gianni seems comfortable taking his cues from those he's relaxing with, good-naturedly accepting any correction with a smile and thanks amidst casual conversation. The Dominion folk, always appreciative of a good meal and fine hospitality, are impressed to say the least - highly complimentary of the hosts, and the delicious spread. All three once again take their cues by observing the 'Pendrans, not wishing to make any serious faux pas, though not at all uncomfortable with it. The rules seem to be no more stringent than the usual cookout etiquette, with the added caveat that the right hand is preferred for reasons which have become more or less obsolete in the modern day and age.

Nathicana tries to sample just a little bit of everything, which considering the amount of food available is a tall order, even with her extensive appetite. She sighs contentedly as she finishes a particularly succulent bit of lamb. "I have been thoroughly and honorably outdone, il Capitano," she says, smiling warmly at both Shorty and Timofeyev. "You wouldn't mind helping out with our next state dinner? I mean, I knew you could cook, but... il dio, this is delicious."

"Thanks." Timofeyev smiles broadly as his attention's diverted by a knock on the door; looking over his shoulder, he turns around and goes to see who's calling.

Opening the door reveals a grey-skinned woman in an equally grey trenchcoat and fedora and an older man in a comfortable checkered button-up shirt and khakis, both immediately recognizable to the captain. "Shodey, Leo." He blinks.

"Just crashing the party, Captain," Achilleo says with a smile as he steps inside.

"Not crashing if I had meant to invite you in the first place, sir." Tim steps aside with a smile. "Make yourselves comfortable; you made it time for the food."

The gynoid avatar hangs up her impromptu disguise and lets her hair back up. "Quite the crowd you have here. Hi, sis." She waves towards Nathi. "Get your workout for today?"

"Mia sorella!" Nathi says, getting up and making her way over to offer her sister-in-mind a warm embrace. "Aye, the Cap'n here is quite the slavedriver, but he certainly makes it all up in the end." This delivered with a wink and smile in Bondayehr's direction.

"Lies!" cries Tornatore from the kitchen. Oh yes, he has his ways to get revenge.

"Oh come now!" Nathi calls back, trying to stifle a giggle, while sneaking another bit of that lamb. "Working a poor old woman like myself all day!" Then as a quite aside, "And then feeding me like a queen... mmm. Good."

Timofeyev sticks his hands in his pockets and idly kicks an imaginary stone with the toe of his boot. "Yup, what else are friends for but embarrasing one in public..."

"This is hardly public, dear," Shorty mentions.

"Shut up, dear, I'm soliloquizing."

Chuckling, Shorty leans out, grabs Tim by the arm, and drags him into the chair next to her. "Well, stop whining to yourself and start eating. It is good, after all."

"Afraid it's in the job descrip, Tim," Nathi jokes, getting settled again, and waiting for the newcomers to get comfortable and take some food before starting in herself. Shodey snags some some menshi and carefully throws herself down in a chair in her usual manner while Admiral Bellarmine delicately picks up a few kibeh nuggets and a glass of wine, raises the latter in salute to Nathi, and then sits down comfortably. "I've always had a fondness for kibeh," he admits as he munches contentedly.

Nathicana nods and returns the gesture, still smiling pleasantly. "Good to see you, Ammiraglio." The boy certainly had a knack for making contacts, she had to admit. Damn fine ones at that. "I trust things are well with you?"

"Quite well, ma'am, especially seeing how there was an opening in my schedule for this." The balding man smiles broadly. "And you?"

"Likewise, despite previous claims," she replies with a mischievous reference to earlier teasing.

"Channeling Janus, are we?" Wink, glass raised in salute, and a sip.

Nathicana arches a brow, then gently shrugs, smiling slyly as she examines her glass before sipping slowly. "To thine own self be true, they say."

"An admission, even,"--this coming from Timofeyev--"I would've never thought the Dreeeeeeead Laaaayyyydy would admit to being two-faced." He downs his drink (soda, actually) and steals a bit of steak off Shorty's plate.

"There's more than one meaning to the reference, my dear Captain," Nathi says archly, tilting up her chin just a bit in what is an all too familiar gesture. "I prefer the one that refers to transition and fluidity. Only two kinds of paranoia, after all. Fortune favors the flexible."

"Yes, but invoking that one wouldn't get a rise outta ya." Tim winks and leans back comfortably.

Nathi tries to scowl, but can't seem to keep the wry smile from ruining it. "Bah."

Bondayehr motions idly towards the hookah. "Toooooooke. Peer pressure."

The Scalias watch the interplay quietly, not drawing any attention to themselves, though several curious glances are exchanged. Most definitely not the Dread Lady they had expected, given reports and reputation. Nath meanwhile blinks as the Cap'n makes his offer. "I ah... well, I mean I've never..."

"Tooooooooke."

"Yeah," Colonel Somalyi adds in from behind her root beer, "tooooooke."

She casually glances around at the others, one brow arched as she considers. Of course it's a challenge, which the younger man knows damn well - as well as knowing how she tends to react when presented with one. Damn his hide ... I suppose it couldn't be any worse than having to drink blood at Dev's party. Il dio, the things men put me through. "Just because some of you insist on abusing your lungs," she grumbles good-naturedly.

"I do not see you toking," M'sha chides good naturedly in her rumbly voice.

"It wouldn't do to be rude. When in Rome?" Nathi says, reaching gingerly for the nearest hose, and examining it skeptically.

"It's just strawberry shisha," Timofeyev explains, then thinks for a moment. "Flavored--one part tobacco, two parts dried fruit stuff."

"Hmmm. But I've not the faintest idea how to go about this properly, regardless of what you're smoking," she says, looking over at him then taking a shallow, experimental sample. It's smooth, vaguely strawberry-flavored, and nowhere near as irritating as more Western ways of essentially stuffing dried leaves in one's mouth and setting them on fire. Most of that is due to the water part of the water pipe, which burbles softly when one takes a proper drag from it. Nathicana is surprised at the initial lack of harshness, having been a tad prejudiced from her exposure to her minister's habits. She takes a more substantial drag carefully, then lets it out slowly, with just a bit of a cough, smiling sheepishly. "Interesting ... have to admit I'm not familiar with these more, ah, flavourful tobaccos. Dried fruit, you say?" Duty done, she hangs the hose back up on the stand.

Timofeyev grabs a napkin, scribbles a word on it, and holds it up for everyone to see. Applause and cheering breaks out.

Nathi straightens up at that, eyes narrowing as she tries to read. "What the..."

Bondayehr hands the napkin to Nathi. It says, simply, "Applause."

Nathicana crumples it up in a little ball and flips it square at Tim's forehead. "Imp."

The captain swats it out of the air with practiced ease. "You knew this already."

"You see what I have to put up with?" she says to the elder Bondayehrs, smiling wryly. "If it isn't this, it's subverting my military or muscling my..." She pauses, her smile turning more sly. "Citizens."

"Subversion and muscling?" Jeff says as he looks over at his son. "I'm beginning to regret teaching you 'Age and treachery will always overcome youth and cunning.'"

"Beginning?" Timofeyev scoffs. "You've regretted it ever since I shot out the head of your Uller from behind when I was twelve."

"That's true..."

"Damn proud of him," Nathi quips. "Sure you don't have a little Dominion in your background?"

"Not unless you count Risk, ma'am," Jeff replies with a laugh. "Never could beat the little bastard in that."

"He never was good at Monopoly, though," Catalina notes, sitting a little further away from the hookah. Given the open windows and the wide spaces of the apartment, it's not triggering her asthma and she seems quite happy.

Nathicana watches the three for a moment, smiling quietly. Now this was how life was supposed to be. Friends, family, together and relaxed. "So, I would guess that means Shorty here has the head for business of the two?"

"Definitely," Tim says with a nod.

Giovanni takes the opportunity to quietly clear his throat, setting aside the hookah hose he'd been nursing. "If I may thank you all for your most excellent hospitality. On behalf of ourselves, and our Family," he says, with very subtle emphasis on the word, "Welcome to the neighborhod."

The next Saturday afternoon a local courier delivers a note to the Bondayehr household. The note reads, "Captain, I humbly request permission to visit your new home to speak with you. Devon"

Despite the fact that "Devon" and "humbly" are two words that generally have nothing to do with each other and aren't even properly on speaking terms, Bondayehr lets the courier know that's just fine. When a verbal response apparently won't cut it, he shrugs, fishes a pen from a pocket ("a good officer always has a writing instrument," Cliff had said once) and jots a simple response on the back of the note."Permission granted. Signed,"and the captain's quick-form initials in English, looking something like a fanciful B with an overhanging serif on the upper left.

Treznor arrives half an hour later wearing semi-formal clothes in his usual silver-on-black colours. In his left hand he carries a large cooler, and behind him stand half a dozen bodyguards carefully scoping out the neighbourhood. He pauses with eyes closed, then reaches up to push the doorbell.

Timofeyev opens the door wearing his knock-around pair of combat boots, brown cargo pants, and a not-at-all-pressed green t-shirt spouting the slogan "VIVA LA SPEAKER REVOLUCION" and an ink-print of Speaker-Rrit modeled after similar Che Guevara prints in times of old. "Mornin'."

Treznor glances at the sky. Yes, that description would be accurate. He looks back to the younger man. "That it is. Thank you for agreeing to see me."

"Please, come in." Bondayehr steps back to allow Treznor and his probably well-armed retinue to pass.

Treznor turns and nods to the bodyguards, who spread themselves out to their assigned roles. Two stand near the front door, two head for the back of the building and two walk perimeter between them. He turns back. "Thank you." Once inside he offers the cooler. "Steaks, from my land. I don't know if you've had dragon meat before, but it has quite a bite to it."

Timofeyev glances with an unreadable expression at the meatshielding fanning out to patrol his home as he accepts the cooler. "Thank you. I'm certain it's delectable."

Treznor pauses to contemplate removing his shoes, but considering the boots on Timofeyev decides it won't be rude to leave them on. He quickly glances around and whistles. "Nice digs. Nath said you'd chosen well, but damn. I know Family members with homes less impressive."

The captain smiles thinly. "Speaking of, that's where we got them from. I'm sure you already knew, though." Another glance at the patrolling pair. "In Arab custom, it's generally considered impolite to assume the host hasn't taken care of sitesec. Not a big deal, just a heads up for future reference."

Treznor shrugs. "I knew. I just couldn't convince them of that. Ever since getting taken by surprise at a friendly event in a foreign nation, I've taken to overruling my captains less. I apologise for the insult, but there are only two types of paranoia after all."

Thinking momentarily of his rather large collection of loaded weapons stashed all around the apartment (the 25mm kzin-"carbine" stashed in a cabinet just to his right) as well as the Dorothy wire he'd retrofitted into his boots, he nods with no change in expression. "Of course."

Treznor pauses. "Speaking of which..." He reaches into his jacket and slowly pulls an automatic from its holster. Reversing the grip he offers it to the other man. "I don't know your rules on armed houseguests, so if you'd prefer to keep it during my stay you're welcome to it."

"You'd be foolish to do that unless each of your trained apes is packing an SMG or equivalent under those nicely tailored suits. We're all packing. Keep it."

Treznor nods and returns the weapon to its holster.

"I appreciate the gesture, though." Tim smiles diplomatically as he motions to a large overstuffed chair. "So, I'm sure you didn't stop by to deliver meat and discuss the niceties of armed society."

Treznor accepts the seat and straightens the line on his trousers. "Well...this is a bit awkward I admit. I know I'm not one of your favourite people, but you're definitely one of Nath's." He pauses to consider his next words carefully, and a shadow passes over his face.

Bondayehr sits in the recliner across from Treznor and reacquaints himself in his mind with the shotgun release option he engineered into it as he idly rests one hand on the recliner lever. "All water under the bridge, really. So, what can I do for you?"

Treznor looks up and banishes Carlos from his mind. "You know Nath and I are getting married, right? Has she talked to you about it at all?"

Timofeyev nods without breaking eye contact. "It's not exactly a state secret, and yes, she's brought it up a couple times. Congrats and all."

"Thanks. It was a lot of work." You have no idea how much. He sighs and closes his eyes again. Why is this so hard? The worst he can do is say "no." Then he looks at Timofeyev again. "I need a best man. I've been mulling over my choices, and I think you're the best candidate. So if you're willing, you'd be doing a great honour to Nathicana and I."

Now it's Bondayehr's turn to be thoughtful, although his expression remains one of only very slightly wry diplomatic pleasantness. "Mutual decision or your call?"

"My call. She picks her side, I pick mine. I have other options," he continues in a rush. "You aren't obligated to accept. But it would mean a lot to us if you were there. In any capacity."

Tim nods slowly. "Fair enough. It is an honor, after all, to me... and my House, heh," he says with an honest and slightly surprised chuckle, "so count me in."

Treznor blinks in surprise. "You...thank you. Thank you very much." He deflates a little now that the moment has passed and looks around. "Is the lady of the house in? I haven't had the pleasure of meeting her yet."

Bondayehr grins, lips parted just a tiny bit. "Well, I did have half an hour's warning and there are but two kinds of paranoia. Sorry, but she's out at the moment."

Treznor nods. "Okay. Well, some time soon I'd like to meet her. Maybe we can all get together at a little place I know." I'm pretty sure Benvito can handle a kzinret in his restaurant.

Captain Bondayehr: Miscellany
Engineering is Applied Science

*CHUNK!*

"Dammit!"

Shorty rumbles softly, mimicking a human sigh as she lies stretched out on the couch, idly toying with a strange abacus sort of thing that resembles a sort of three-dimensional squiggle with small colored beads with grooved surfaces that allows them to be shifted from line to knotted line. Well... it could be a three-dimensional squiggle, but looking at it too hard tends to just make one's head hurt. "I think I liked it better when your hobby was occasionally assembling and painting little miniature robot models."

Timofeyev looks up from the partially disassembled recliner across from his consort and smirks. "So did I. But the damn thing didn't work when I tested it after dear Devon's visit and if he had tried something silly I would've had a harder time properly ventilating him." He taps the entry shotgun sitting next to him, the one with the very short twenty-five centimeter barrel. "I can't be arsed to aim at a genemod faster than I am, Shorty."

The kzinrret looks up from her puzzle and shakes her head. "Sometimes I really do worry, especially when you start channeling your more paranoid friends in high places."

Making a quiet scoffing noise as he looks at the wooden pieces he's retrofitted to the recliner's frame, assembled to make a cradle for the shotgun. Triggered by the recliner handle, a spring should make the cradle turn about a pivot and pop the grip of the shotgun up out of the armrest of the couch, which has been modified so it will open up out of the way. Prying out the cradle and its pivot from where it has been nailed, he tries test-fitting it in a different place. "That'll work better. And yes, they are unfortunately right in some respects--two forms of paranoia. A man's house is his castle, Shorty."

Shorty leans over to idly pick up the transparent warsteel that Shodey dropped off along with the puzzle, the application of the Captain's hobby funds. Some of these clear sheets of three-millimeter thick starship-grade armor have already been put up over the more 'important' windows, reinforced with steel bars that connect to the extant frames. "Yes, but it shouldn't have to be a fortress."

"Stop quoting Calvin and Hobbes at me," Bondayehr grumbles good-naturedly, "and please hand me that wrench."

The Periphery #1
Shariahball

Walk up to a random person in the multiverse and broach the topic of "the Federated Segments of Scolopendra." What response would one probably get for that?

Probably a blank stare. The multiverse is a big place, after all, and not everyone can be arsed to care about some decently-sized space power when their huge intergalactic empire is currently fighting with its millions-of-ships-per-day against the Space Horde of the Week. That's understandable, but not entirely useful in a hypothetical situation like this.

So. Asking someone who actually knows that the Segments exist about what they think or know or think they know about Scolopendra will usually get something concerning idealism, a decent space navy, probably a relation to the Triumvirate, something about moons of Saturn (although it's sad how many get that one wrong, even if it isn't a completely correct answer), and perhaps something about secular government accommodating Islam and vice versa. All of this is more or less true and more or less accurate.

Still... countries are large superorganisms with something as many and varied for constituent cells as individuals; individuals that love, hate, like, dislike, think, and feel all in subtly different ways along a continuum generally defined by the heterogeneosity of the culture... and the Segments are nothing if not heterogeneous. The typical stereotype of the Idealistic Secular Muslim doesn't go quite as far as one would hope; hell, not even idealism is a perfectly universal national trait.

Ever since the Black Knight FTL jumpdrive went public however many yedecemi ago, the capability for people capable of scraping enough cash to get out of a social system they saw as so open-minded to be stifling provides a sort of pressure valve. While there will always be activist groups trying to actively change the Segments into what they want it to be--conservative Sunni wanting the sharia'h as national law, Nazis wanting to establish eugenic laws, Objectivists... well, there's not many of those left ever since the Shadow War--but the system indeed takes them into account, trusting that they generally negate each other in opposing hot air, so those that realize this and aren't idealistic enough to fight the unbeatable foe run out to the Periphery.

The Periphery, in the terms of the Triumvirate, are the worlds on the edges of the colonial system that runs in a rough sphere shape extending about five hundred lightyears out from Sol. The concept of holding that much empty volume as territory makes no sense, and likewise the concept of the Periphery as being the surface of that sphere also makes no sense. No, the Periphery is made up of those worlds one to three jumps out from the standard trade lanes, and usually make up subsidiary imaginary spheres centered around the primary colony worlds, those planets with populations in the hundreds of millions or billions and their colonization subsidized by Yut or the Segments or other governments. The 'Pendran sector of the Periphery, like the 'Pendran section of the Sphere, is in the rimward-spinward quadrant; the average Periphery world has a population ranging from a few hundred to maybe a hundred thousand on a particularly nice planet. Planets friendly to human life are generally few and far between, and they usually end up being primary colony worlds, discovered by the GEC and exploited by the Triumvirate as a whole, so Periphery planets are generally marginally inhabitable at best although sometimes one can get lucky and find a planet whose air won't poison or drown someone with extended breathing or buy the coordinates of one off of Triumvirate Interstellar Trading.

In the history of civilization, the farther away one gets from the centers of "culture," the more colorful the locals become... and the Periphery is pretty far out there.

* - * - *

TYCS Location Factbook: Dar al-Dīn
Location: TITS-09 VI, 157 LY (2 jumps) out from GECSS 18 [Hillary]
Parent Star: G7 III yellow giant
Planet Abstract: Fourth planet in the system, just on the edge of the inhabitable zone. Oxygen is slowly leaching out of the thinning atmosphere due to a slow plant dieoff and reaction with metals in the soil; surface pressure averages about 90 kPa. Aquatic ecology still plentiful. Vulcanologically inactive. Resembles what Mars may have been like as it cooled. Estimated three hundred years of habitability remaining; could be extended through solette construction or planetary orbit shifting. Local colonists opposed to such a move for religious reasons.
Cultural Abstract: Conservative Islamic Sunni culture following theocratic rule of an Elder Council and all laws are derived from the Qu'ran and the Hadith (sharia'h), resembling most the government and culture of the Islamic Republic of Iran on Earth-That-Was. Contact and negotiations should always be made by a male; contact parties should avoid including women to ease relations.
Relation to Us: Protected (Member via status as a Scolopendran Colonial Segment)* - * - *

"POINT!"

The cry of victory lacked any feel of such; simply an announcement registering the occurance of a fact. The two teams of rugged olive-skinned men ranging from nineteen to twenty-six nod severely, their uniforms being simple, modest full-body tunics and robes similar to those worn by Bedouin of times past--one half of the men wear white, the other half black.

The goalie, wearing black, retrieves the leather ball with the seriousness of a man carrying the urn of a loved one's ashes and hands it, a symbol of control, to his opposite number in white. Meanwhile, more of these monochromatic Bedouin footballers walk to the sides to shoo away children watching idly, admonishing them. "You'd be better off in the madrasa, learning the scripture like true People of the Book should, not lounging idly like the murtadd of Titan. Should we report you to the alim, eh, for kufr? Begone!"

Being threatened with an accusation of disbelief and heresy is a rather serious matter in Dar al-Dīn, so the children scatter off while the uniformed players switch sides--white taking the defense, and black taking the offense. The field is not marked; no lines to demarcate halves or bounds of play although the presence of only one goal suggests that they're playing on a single half. The historic fatwa (http://www.southasianmedia.net/index_opinion.cfm?category=Human%20Rights&country=WORLD#Shariah%20on%20the%20soccer%20field) that explains how true believers should play this most Western of Western sports--with nothing that associates it with kufr--and it is this which is in the minds and hearts of every uniformed player as an unspoken, unwhistled, unmotioned signal goes out.

It is time to play... if by "play," one means "train for the lesser ji'had" with the "lesser" casually omitted.

The two sides crash into each other with the ferocity of Fijian tribes out for each others' blood; the normal Western rules of arms and legs and football generally not being a full-contact sport need not apply to these mujahideen-in-training as the white defensive line collapses to the offensive's onslaught, football resembling oblongball as a flying vee of offensive forwards protect a runner dribbling the ball up the field with his feet. Running to within range of the goal he pauses, lines up, draws back...

...and gets promptly tackled from behind by a white-uniformed defensive center who picked himself up onto all fours and literally pounces into the backs of the kicker's knees, causing the man in black to buckle and fall backwards. One of the offensive forwards sees this and runs in to keep control of the ball, moving it in towards the goal, white goalie sidestepping to keep the ball in his sights.

The new runner gets closer, and closer, and closer, obviously interested in making this a close-combat match. He runs the ball right up to the goalie...

...and gets an elbow to the side of his head for his trouble as the goalie performs a check probably more appropriate to Muay Thai than football.

Bending over his fallen opponent to retrieve the ball, the goalie tucks it under his arm as he watches the two teams slowly pick themselves up off the ground. The elbow'd man staggers up himself, waving off the assistance no one is offering.

Good. The alim will not have to be called in to apply sharia'h law, then. "AGAIN!" shouts the goalie as he throws the ball back up the field, simply announcing the evolution of another fact.

The locals of Dar al-Dīn call it football.

Everyone else in the Segments, raised in the proper international rules, simply calls it Shariahball. It's actually catching on "back home," but in the form of rugby, which is generally considered less brutal somehow.

Captain Bondayehr: Will Reorganize for Spare Parts #1
Visit from the Orangebelts

Over the course of a few months and the stand-down from war production, the plans jokingly referred to as 'The Conspiracy' by Admiral Leo and Captain Tim go into motion. A centralized Quartermasters Command is formed as an expansion to the Dominion Transportation Command, forming a greater Logistics and Support Command; the suppliers and internal logistical elements of each service are told they have at most a year to comply to Central's standards among much grumbling under "yes, sir"s and reams of paperwork and plastic binders describing plans of transition from current systems to Central ISO-certified procedures.

The operative phrase here is "at most." Those portions of the services considered particularly troubled--including, for example, the AMD's quartermaster corps--are given a month. Coupled with a both overt and covert stepup of soldati observation to root out any embezzlers, black marketeers, or 'wreckers' (a term wryly suggested by Bondayehr hailing back to the catchall phrase used by the Soviet Cheka to refer to 'anyone causing a problem').

Truth and law and order hath prevailed, and the parts problem is solved as the new Logistics Command seizes everything the AMD's been holding back and promptly delivers it to the Scolopendrans. Colonel Somalyi, quite pleased--so pleased that she doesn't even hold it against the Captain when he completely reams her little M.I. squads with Bugs popping out right under them through the sand table the next game night--submits glowing paperwork and reports which wanders its way up the chain of command, leading two Advisors and one Lieutenant General to decide they made the right decision.

Then the said Lieutenant General gets a message from someone who would outrank her if he didn't work for the AMD, and then she starts doubting that decision for the first time.

* - * - *

Captain Bondayehr quirks an eyebrow as he walks in the door and sights the standing Sergeant Akayama. This is an oddity because the generally laid back Hacker is uncharacteristically waiting on his feet instead of reclining behind his desk as is his wont.

"Good morning, sir," the Sergeant greets pleasantly if slightly theatrically, just before dropping his voice to a more conspiratorial volume. "Valencias in your office, sir. Two of 'em."

Bondayehr sighs. Valencias, oranges, naranjas, orangebelts... Military Intelligence. Not exactly feared in a force as enlightened as the AeroSpace Directorate, but MilInt exists in a purely Boolean two-state relationship in the mind of the military: One, active, the sort of fearful secret police that the old NKVD exemplified; zero, inactive, a corps of inept misinformers who (while are right most of the time) manage to botch estimates to levels which could only be considered comical if lives weren't on the line. SASD MilInt tries to have its cake and eat it too by having the Office of Special Investigations folded into it; that does give it a sort of government g-man cache' and Akayama's unease suggests a worst-case scenario. "Orangebelts?"

The kitsune shakes his head and frowns. "Plainsclothes. OSI. Been doing anything... ah... rash, sir?"

"Plenty of things," the captain responds with a frown, "but nothing OSI should be concerned with. Definitely no horse rustling."

"'Horse rustling?'"

"I'll tell you later." Yes, no horse rustling. Just cow detonation. Walking past his now thoroughly confused first shirt, Bondayehr walks to his office as if nothing is the matter... because it isn't. Of course. The two (there's always two!) OSI agents, dressed in simple conservative business suits that look like they probably came from a secret service surplus store, stand up. One is a nondescript Asiatic woman unusually tall for her heritage, and the other one, a subcontinental male, looks to be a Sikh if the turban is any indication. "Captain, Captain," Bondayehr says with a smile to each before walking around to the other side of his desk, bowing diplomatically. "Beautiful morning. How can I help you two fine people?"

The Asian woman smiles wryly. "I suppose there's no need for us to introduce ourselves as OSI?"

"None at all, Captain." Timofeyev smiles more jovially than he has any right to. "So, how can I help the Office?"

"We've got a few questions to ask concerning how you've been working with the Dominion Air Force."

Bondayehr smirks. It would just have to be one of those interesting days, wouldn't it? "Perhaps our relationship wouldn't get any points for 'playing nice,' but at least now we're getting the parts we're contractually obligated."

"The General is glad for that," the Sikh offers politely, "but there is some concern that you may be working a bit too deeply to get that accomplished. For example, we've been tipped off that you may have some involvement in the creation of the Logistics Command."

"As a sounding board, certainly." Timofeyev shrugs. "One of my higher-ranking Dominion Navy contacts had the thought, bounced it off me, and it meets our needs so I figured it was worthwhile."

"We've been observing the political climes and attitude of the Dominion Air Force," the Asian woman counters, "and it seems that they've become even less likely to 'play nice,' as you said. The General has... concerns as to the stability of the Dominion's armed forces and concerns about the stability of the Dominion in general have been echoed by Advisors above her."

Bondayehr leans forward and nods, folding his hands over his desk. "Well understandable. It was for the stability of the armed forces and the Dominion in general that I supported the formation of Logistics Command in the first place, besides immediate benefits to us. You can't be telling me that the C.O. of the SASD is worried about me just offering an opinion."

"Well..." The Sikh frowns. "She's not worried about that. She's just received complaints from the Air Force's C.O. that names you quite explicitly with concerns about the... ah... lawfulness of your actions."

"That's rich, coming from a man who paid off the mob to 'talk' to me," Timofeyev scoffs. "Which we did, politely, over dinner because mobsters look better in cheap suits than bodybags." Either way, I don't think they'd be much amused about the cow. "I'll tell you what. If the General is worried about my motivations and what's going on, then I'll gladly report to her what's going on. If you've any specific questions concerning my conduct, then I'll gladly answer them too."

"We don't have any questions as of yet," the Asian woman replies politely.

"Very well then. I guess this is just a friendly meeting to let me know I'm being looked into?"

"You could call it that, yes."

"Alright then." Bondayehr shrugs. "If that's all, then I wish you two a good day and good luck in your investigation."

The two OSI suits stand up with polite bows and salutations, then filter out, leaving Timofeyev to lean back in his chair and frown a little. Not good.

Captain Bondayehr: Will Reorganize for Spare Parts #2
Following the Threads

Gharchdev folds his hands behind his head--a simple yet elegant motion practiced to instinctiveness so as to not disturb his turban--as he sighs quietly. "Just figures we get called in to investigate the White Knight, eh?" He smirks to himself, watching the terrain go by from his spot in the passenger seat of the verticar.

His partner, "Captain" Rakujochigusa Yayoi, listens quietly yet intently in the same manner she does in practically all situations; an attitude that, when mixed with her appearance, selected hairstyle, and rank of Major, has made it that she cannot work constructively with practically anyone familiar with the anime subculture of the Shogunate. That her name is but a single phoneme from being unfortunate didn't help growing up, and is probably part of the reason she's turned out to be the OSI's very own Uncorruptable Cast Iron Bitch. At least dyed blue hair isn't in regulations. "It is our job, Major. The accusations are rather severe, to have heard the General talking, and we have to follow up--"

"For the good of the Segments and the good of the Directorate," Major Arvinderjeet Gharchdev Khattris finishes quickly with a practiced roll of the eyes, slightly shaking his head. "Bah. We go over this every time. No heroes anymore, everyone's got a bad side."

"'Everyone who's ever had a statue made of 'em was one kind of a sunufabitch or another,'" Yayoi quotes, face hardening with just a touch more concentration. "If Captain Bondayehr has been making his particular SOB-factor a public issue, then it is our problem."

"Every time you pull out that quote," the Sikh says with with a smirk, glancing over at his partner, "I wonder what exactly your 'SOB' factor is."

"One, I'm not a son. Two, I have not and never will have a statue made of me, either physically or metaphorically."

"One for all," Gharchdev mutters.

* - * - *

Colonnello Giuseppe Parini nearly jumps out of his skin at the appearance of the OSI agents just outside his office; there'd been quite the crackdown with the transfer to that new damned Logistics Command and he'd been forced to be more... cautious in his business dealings. Then he listened to what his adjutant was actually saying. "What? Scolopendran? Yes, yes, send them in."

When 'Captains' Rakujochigusa and Khattris walk in, they see a barrel-chested yet slightly plump Dominion Air Force colonel sitting at his desk, hands folded, lips curled into a jovial, innocent smile. They don't even bother glancing to each other. "Please, come in, friends, and have a seat!"

The two bow slightly in unison and do as Giuseppe suggests, the Sikh noticably relaxing more in the overstuffed chairs than the Asian, who takes the lead in introductions. "Captain Rakujochigusa and Captain Khattris, Scolopendran AeroSpace Directorate Office of Special Investigation. We've been authorized by Maresciallo dell Aria Nucci to ask you a few questions."

"Buon, I have dealt with a few of your countrymen," Parini replies in a friendly yet noncommittal way.

"Was Captain Bondayehr one of them?"

The Dominioner stifles his urge to sigh. No delicacy, no art whatsoever, these people. "Yes. We had a... polite conversation concerning the parts issue, which has since been resolved."

"Did he do anything untoward to obtain your assistance?"

Panini blinks.

Yayoi simply fixes him with a disinterested look that could somehow freeze mercury.

"Err... certainly not directly, I don't think," the colonel replies slowly, caught well off-guard.

"Explain, please."

Giuseppe glances towards the Sikh, who just shrugs very slightly right back with a slightly commisserating look. "Well, there was a... ah... hm." Leaning back, he folds his hands and holds them against his chin, taking a moment to think and run the numbers, even if somewhat blatantly. These are 'Pendran OSI, not soldati... if they are to be believed. They can't harm me--if I play my cards right--but they could certainly harm him, OSI or soldati... yes, this could work...

But damn. They try getting his side of the story and suddenly they learn I made the first move with that stupid, stupid tape threat... and with the protected status of the Families, and him being a hero of both nations... Damn it to all the hells. "There was a possibly related, possibly unrelated interest afterwards which was rather, ah, persuasive if you get my meaning. Whether it was him in particular or someone acting on his behalf, I don't know."

The Asian is relentless. "Would it have to do with cows?"

Panini blinks again.

"The night before you signed over the parts to the 337th Wing, a cow exploded about five hundred kilometers south of here. There is no history of cow-related arson in the area and the timing is circumstantial at best."

"There was, ah, a cow involved, or rather its head... but..." Now the Dominioner was just confused. "It wasn't blown up. It looked more like something that would happen in a bad mobster movie, heh." Not a subtle hint, Seppe. Shut up before you get yourself hurt.

"Thank you for your time." Nodding to Gharchdev, Yayoi stands quickly, bows shortly, and turns to leave, with her partner following suit more slowly and leaving a completely boggled colonel in their wake.

Letting the woman out first, the Sikh looks over to Panini and smirks. "Oh, and Colonnello: a knight-errant raid on a post-Ardan installation pulled up some Phantom III parts whose serial numbers passed through your office never to be seen again." He glances back through the door and nods to the other plainsclothes visitors with a sly smile. "Have a good day, sir."

* - * - *

"Was that absolutely necessary?"

"Bah, he had it coming." Gharchdev smiles with just a hint of teeth at thinking about it. "Well, you were right--there's a cow connection. No head was ever recovered from that one."

"You also know it's still circumstantial. It may have been done for him, or in his name, but whether he was actually involved is uncertain." Yayoi frowns a touch, more out of concentration than anything else... which only leads her partner to wonder if there actually is a limit to how tightly she can wind herself. "Does he have any known Mafia connections?"

"You mean like, perhaps, the Dread Lady?" Arvinderjeet winks. "Same woman who hosted him and his 'ret friend when they got stationed here? I dunno about you, but I think that's a proper friendship right there. I could see her pulling the right strings."

The other Major shakes her head. "No, it doesn't fit. Why would the Mafia import a cow head from five hundred kilometers?"

Khattris leans against the side of the verticar and looks over the picturesque mountain valley that the town of Vassili lies nestled in. "Doesn't look like cow country to me."

"And why would they go to the trouble of blowing up the cow afterwards? Being the Mafia... they could just cut its head off and leave it there."

"They may have a little state understanding," he says with a slight smirk, "but they're not invincible. They can't just go around killing livestock for no good reason; that wouldn't be neighborly. They have to be neighborly for the Dread Lady to have both their support and the support of the wider populace."

"Unless... they offered some sort of compensation under the table. We know there is some sort of connection, Major," she says with a tone of finality as she turns to the verticar, "now we must determine how close it is. Time for us to fly south and get some answers from the locals."

Captain Bondayehr: Will Reorganize for Spare Parts #3
Green Acres

http://www.squashco.com/journal/archives/images/italy_cow_380.jpg (http://www.squashco.com/journal/archives/2005/06/italian_cow.html)

"Moo," Gharchdev inquires with a winning close-lipped smile, "moo mooo muurraaaaoooo?"

The Bos taurus simply looks back at him with its big brown empty eyes, not moving a single voluntary muscle as it stands there.

"I know Sikhism is about oneness with nature and the value all things have inherently due to being imbued with God's spirit but could you please take our mission more seriously?"

"Honestly, Major," he says, chuckling over his shoulder at the black-haired woman, "you said we were going to interview the locals and this is the only one I can see right now. Be honest; we're on the Directorate's whirr so if I was just standing around like you you'd tell me to start doing something."

Yayoi turns her lips down in an emotionless--or at least an unreadable--frown. "The rancher wasn't at his house and his wife told us that he'd make his rounds here by 1500." The frown doesn't so much deepen as it shifts its emphasis slightly. "That was thirty-seven minutes ago."

"Civvie, Major, and a bucolic one at that." Arvinderjeet checks his watch. "Huh. You got a chronometer stuck in there, Yay?"

The woman simply looks up at the sky, then down at the shadow on the ground. "Survival training."

"Huh."

The distinctive sound of a reciprocating Deisel engine chummers from up over the nearby hill, giving the two several minutes of warning before a battered red tractor crests it with the crunkling sound of dense rubber tires slowly helping grind the gravel into the fine white dust that covers the road. On the back, an aging man probably in his mid-sixties guides it down the path, pulling a rag whose original color has been lost to the mists of time from his coveralls to mop his brow under his wide-brimmed black hat before returning it from the greasy pocket from whence it came. As he pulls up, the two OSI agents stand together, Khattris' hands folded in front of him in that polite nothing-better-to-do-with-them way, Rakujochigusa's at her sides. The oily, slightly headache-inducing smell of the diesel wrankles the Sikh's nose and makes the Asian woman rearrange her frown again. To both, dry history lessons suddenly become more real.

Meanwhile, the farmer--whose hygene is actually impeccable for someone who has been working in the sun all day--frowns back a little bit, squinting from under his hat. Upon closer inspection, the grime of his appearance is simply the result of years of accumulation; none of the stains are fresh (except for the sweat on his undershirt) and his overalls are 'clean,' if accidentally dyed. "Goo' af'n'n," he says, his southern Italian accent common for the Campania region of the Dominion.

"Good afternoon, Signore Andretto," Arvinderjeet says cordially in proper secondary-school Italian.

"Mah tax's are 'n ordah," Andretto continues with a half-concerned, half-crotchedy frown.

"We aren't tax collectors, signore," Yayoi says simply. "I am Capitano Rakujochigusa and this is Capitano Khattris of the Scolopendran AeroSpace Directorate. We would like to ask you a few questions."

The farmer thinks about this for a few moments. "I ain' in tha fiel' o' knowin' bou' space n' such."

"Our questions don't concern space, signore. We would like to ask about a cow."

Andretto turns off the engine of his tractor then leans on his elbows over the wheel, looking at Yayoi as if she was a bright blue Seldane or some other form of alien, a bug-eyed tentacle being of the deep perhaps. He glances momentarily at Arvinderjeet, who simply shrugs very slightly. "Yes, I'd be i' tha' fiel', youn' ma'am."

"We're concerned with the possible cause behind the explosion of one."

"Oh, yep, 'at was one o' mahne." The farmer frowns a little more with a sniff. "I alre'dy tol' tha' cops wha' happ'nd."

"Yes," Arvinderjeet says with a friendly smile, "but we were wondering if you had any idea who did it. I guess it'd be too much to hope that they left a note." Broad smile.

"Well, act'ully, they did." Andretto sniffs again, leaning over his tractor with a smirk. "Bou' a week-o-two aftah wha' happ'nd I got a sack o' sov'rins and a note 'pologizing for tha trouble. 'Twas a heftah sum, too. Bit more than tha cow wa' warth."

The Sikh blinks. "Huh."

Rakujochigusa remains unfazed, of course. "Would you still happen to have the note? Was it handwritten?"

"Naw, toss'd it a whahle back. Kept tha money, tho. Na hahm's bee' done, sah I don' see na reas'n ta make any trouble fah so' sillah rich kid."

The Asian woman nods and bows shortly. "Thank you, Signore Andretto."

* - * - *

"Fits the modus operandi of a White Knight," Gharchdev mutters. "Writing an apology note and repaying plus some? That's not the mob, that's the knights-errant."

"It almost fits too well." Yayoi shifts her frown yet again in an infinite subtlety that leaves her partner silently impressed. "Get authorization from SIS to request Captain Bondayehr's transaction records from any local or transnational institutions he may use; I will check his history with the Directorate's credit union."

"We'll have to split up," the Sikh says with a nod and a sly smile, "unless you plan to cruise the 'Trix as you drive."

The black-haired woman grumbles silently under her breath. "It will take more time for you to get that authorization and do the legwork than it will for me to run the credit union numbers. Call the local embassy now and get a head start."

Avinderjeet sighs as he pulls the communit off his belt with the quiet snap of a steel belt clip. I swear. Chromed or a robot. Has to be.

Captain Bondayehr: Will Reorganize for Spare Parts #4
I See a Dark Sail on the Horizon

Arvinderjeet rubs his temples. "This isn't getting us anywhere."

Yayoi nods shortly, her frown shifting from thought to annoyance. "I can't argue that. Nothing unusual has shown up missing from Captain Bondayehr's paycheck or Directorate account."

"And while we know he's got a numbered account somewhere in the Dominion, thanks to the Dread Lady..." The Sikh sighs, looking over the paperwork. "The banks themselves hardly know who they're doing business with. I mean, it makes sense--we know this nation has close ties with Moneylaunderingstan--and the culture of the Dominion means people often want things a little out of the public eye. We could just walk up and ask the Captain..."

"But he is not bound by law nor regulation to give us something as sensitive as an account number."

"I was thinking more along the lines of just asking if he did it."

"And if he replied in the negative," the Asian woman replies, "we would still have to prove whether he did or didn't."

"SIS could crack this wide open if it wanted to," Gharchdev mutters, pushing papers this way and that with the eraser end of a pencil.

"They certainly have the means and would be willing to pass boundaries we aren't, but..." The frown shifts back to thought. "They have no interest in that. As far as SIS or IntRelate are concerned, no one in the Dominion save a dottering AMD general no one cares about honestly gives a damn about this exploding cow. Our job is just to make sure the name of the Directorate isn't sullied."

Looking at his partner, the Sikh man smirks with a wry chuckle. "Honestly, I don't see that happening. Captain Bondayehr's a hero and even if this AMD general went public he'd have the burden of proof. We're inside the system and we can't find anything to link it. He tries, and... well, I doubt that a government run by someone who owes their life to the man is going to make anything more than a for-show effort in investigating it. Hell, he could even be brought up on slander. No dice for him."

Rakujochigusa raises one eyebrow slightly in a motion half regal and half mechanical. "You aren't suggesting...?"

* - * - *

"--that we move the schedule forward, sir?" Lieutenant General Shri Nikunj frowns a little herself, albeit with quite a bit more human compassion to the expression as she folds her arms, looking at her visitor. "I've been wondering, after all, whether or not it's really appropriate... he is perfect in a political liason role, especially right where he is. Shipping him outsystem wouldn't help us there."

"He's stabilized the situation as we were hoping," Advisor Hawke replies, idly scanning the Loki model on the corner of the Commander, Scolopendran AeroSpace Directorate's desk, "and you know that it was always considered a temporary position. You even agreed, after looking over the record, that the Track would be a good idea."

The slightly stocky medium-dark-skinned woman nods, frowning a little more. "I thought it was Advisor Abd-al-Haqq's intent that he keep his position a while longer."

"While I can understand you two's interest in keeping him where he is," Lance replies, glancing out the window as the sunlight glints of his slightly greying dirty-blonde hair, "the needs of the Segments come first, for personal good or for ill. He has unfortunately rare experience that the Combined Services will demand if things go as poorly as the Sakkrans think. He also has connections in both the Herpitological Empire and the Dominion, which will inevitably aid our mission in the Antispinward Theatre."

Heartless bastard, the general can't help but think, one of those whose first and only love is to the Service. "The one thing he certainly doesn't have is the training or the requisite skillset. Fighter-jock was never his primary ASDSC."

Hawke frowns, something he's particularly good at with his stern, chiseled face which--while possibly winning beauty pageant awards in the past--is now hardened enough to remarkably show off every tensing, every tightening of facial features as muscles shift involuntarily. "I'm afraid you're not understanding me, Shri. We both share a bit of responsibility for the past, true, but I certainly didn't ask for wars and rumors of war. They're nearing now, though, and we need to be on our top footing--our previous plan goes forward. This goes all the way up to the PseudoEmperor.

"Get him his whip and make him hit the books. It's ahead of schedule, but he's going to have to pass the next officer ascension boards if this is to come off."

"And if he doesn't?"

Hawke sighs. It certainly could be a possibility, now. "Bump his clearance up a notch. He will."

Captain Bondayehr: Will Reorganize for Spare Parts #5
Set Under a Black Cloud That Hides the Sun

Major Gharchdev closes the file with a slap of e-paper and soft plastic cover, shrugging slightly as he looks over to his partner. "That's as much as we can do, Major. Without any money or paper trail..."

Yayoi shakes her head, arms folded, leaning back in thought. "There may be no direct connection, but we haven't talked to the local police yet. They probably haven't kept any physical evidence all this time, but they should still have some on file."

"So," Arvinderjeet says with a smirk, "another car trip?"

The Asian woman simply nods before standing up and quickly smoothing out her black business suit.

"Just can't let things lie, can we?" The scathing look he gets makes Arvinderjeet rethink his position quickly, following after his partner. "Right, right, for the Directorate..."

* - * - *

Timofeyev pushes open the door to the secure comm shack, nodding in response to the desk spaceman's salutation as he steps in. It's another usual grey Military Services office, but this one has red rotating light fixtures--currently inactive--like all secure facilities and heavy security doors in back leading to the communications equipment. This is where the QE teletypes are stored over in a bank on one wall past the security doors, and this is also where the coded telepresence stations are. While telepresence via standard ansible is commonplace, it's still a transmission that can be intercepted...

...and while QE is generally considered a low bandwidth system, it doesn't have to be, although making it not is a decidedly expensive task.

"Captain Bondayehr, replying to a priority conference request." The captain hands his identification card and the official onionsheet that got dropped off on his desk earlier to the spaceman; the enlisted man looks over it, nods, and taps a button on his desk. Timofeyev never sees or feels the low-power near-IR laser that scans his retina from an emitter concealed in the wall.

"Cleared, sir. Go through the security door, and then Room Three on the right."

Bondayehr nods, takes his identification back, then walks through the door as it is triggered from the inside. Operational security is the key to airpower, after all. Once through into another set of grey walls and doors, he looks for Room Three on the right. Twist a knob, walk in, close door, deadbolt top and bottom.

Punctuality is a virtue in the AeroSpace Directorate, and especially so for secure telepresence, given how it requires at least two people who may be on wildly different schedules to be in particular places at the same time. As Bondayehr turns around from securing the door, Lieutenant General Nikunj appears on the other side of the small room behind a steel desk also new to the decor.

Bondayehr quickly comes to attention and salutes. "Captain Bondayehr reports as ordered."

Shri returns the salute, smiles, then looks down at the papers on her desk. "Please sit down, Captain."

Timofeyev sits down at the chair thoughtfully provided in the telepresence room, all the while ignoring the going-to-the-principal's-office feeling in his stomach. He sits at attention--front third of the chair, hands making loose fists on knees, sitting up straight--all technically correct and to regulation, old SMISO habits showing through again.

The general looks up, chuckles slightly, then flips a page in her folder. "At ease, Captain. You're always so official."

Bondayehr shifts to sit in the chair more fully, actually making use of the back. "Ma'am, may I make a statement?"

"Okay, that's it," Nikunj replies, scratching the bendi between her temples, "rest. I'll not have a subordinate following regulations better than myself." Her voice has a slight tint of chiding to it; the captain can't tell if it's affected or intended to leave a mark. "Would you believe it actually slipped my mind that you're at attention until I say you're not? I swear, things recently..."

Timofeyev waits politely, quietly but intently watching.

The Indian woman looks just slightly off-center at the captain, raising one eyebrow slightly. "Your statement, Captain?"

"We have never spoken in any context other than an official one, ma'am." Bondayehr allows himself a slight smile. "Other than that, no excuse, ma'am."

"Noted. So, Captain, how are you feeling at your current station?"

Timofeyev doesn't allow the frown he's thinking appear on his face. It could either be an innocent question, or a precursor. "Excellent, ma'am." That much is very true. I really don't want to be reassigned now.

"Couldn't help but see that you've helped get the parts situation in order, Captain. Excellent work." Shri smiles sincerely, folding her hands on her desk."

"Thank you, ma'am."

"So, were you thinking about going to the next OAB in the spring?"

So the other shoe drops? "The Officer Ascension Board, ma'am? I made captain less than two years ago, and I'd have to hit the books hard to get through Air War College... honestly, I was taking it easy on that due to the whole two-year head start. According to the usual flowchart I should expect to stay here for five to seven years or so."

"Well understood, Captain." Shri smiles gently. "It's a good assignment."

Bondayehr nods. This can't bode well.

"Anyway, to explain why you're getting this directly from me: I've just sent your updated whip down to your station; it will be displayed on the screen in a moment--" She pauses as, on cue, the introduction slides appear on the flatscreen on the wall previously hidden by the darkness of the room.

The ASDSC--the AeroSpace Directorate Specialty Code--that makes up the primary title means nothing to the Captain, though he can tell it's in Operations (his current specialty code, liason officer, puts him in Administration). The subtitle, however, is rather obvious. "Loki commander, ma'am?" He thinks for a few moments; if this is his War Information Preparedness Packet... "Permission to show incredulousness, ma'am?"

Nikunj chuckles politely. "Go ahead, I expected it."

Bondayehr smirks in the way he's grown accustomed to, the sort of completely wry half-smile that knows he is going to regret this. All of this. "I get the feeling that I don't want to ask what the rush is about."

"I'd be surprised if you haven't heard it through the grapevine yet."

"All my SMISO contacts are on patrol, ma'am." He pauses to think, frowning.

"You don't want to." The general smiles a little, slightly pained, and glancing at where the Loki model on her desk would be if she was actually sitting at her desk. "I can't blame you, honestly."

"No, ma'am, I don't." Timofeyev sighs. "But it looks clear to me: one, I'm getting an updated whip... not a big deal, generally, but two, I'm getting it directly from you. Which brings me to three, I will probably be ordered to go before the OAB and falling short may be career-limiting."

The Indian woman sighs softly. "I'd prefer to not make it an order."

Bondayehr feels his stomach sink, then thinks for a moment, looking down at his hands. Frowning mightily, he quietly gauges pros and cons and comes to a decision. "Ma'am, for the past three years I've been a puppet in other people's plans. While I'm honored for the attention... things have reached a point where I would not particuarly mind if my career becomes limited. Where I'm at, right now, seems to be a good match for my skills and network to get done what needs to be get done. I'll go to the OAB, but as it stands, I can't make any guarantees."

Nikunj nods sympathetically. If she thinks, or knows, that Timofeyev is preparing to take a fall to avoid advancement, she doesn't show it. "It's true there's strings being pulled, yes, and always have been. This... wasn't in the plan, though." She sighs, straightens in her chair, and her voice takes on a new layer of firmness. "As of right now, Captain, your clearance has been raised to TS-3. The update is because of a new situation; we need people with combat experience in command roles. While the TYCS has plenty of training, it hasn't been in a proper war for awhile. You have."

Bondayehr takes this in slowly, but in stride. "Right, ma'am. Who are we fighting? The Shadow War took care of the old threat."

"New age, new threat, Captain. The new one is known as the Antarans."

Timofeyev blinks. "The Sakkran fairy tale of evil planet-raping aliens?"

"Not a fairy tale, not anymore," Nikunj says with a sigh. "They've begun probing attacks to Sslaa. Your friend, Commander Sshrrakka, is in the middle of it if you need to hear it from someone closer to you."

The captain's jaw sets. That's playing dirty. So, friends and countrymen in danger and it's apparently important for the master strategy that me, who should be a nobody, go fly Lokis against some sort of ancient fell deathrace. Time to take another chance. "There are still strings being pulled, ma'am."

Shri sighs. "Yes, Captain, they are. It's just pushing ahead the schedule."

Bondayehr smirks. You win. "I'll be a Major by March, ma'am. If it's vital, I'll get a headstart on getting rated on a Loki as well."

The general nods firmly. "Excellent, Captain. Good luck."

All business now, humor dead. "Will that be all?"

"Yes, Captain."

Snap to standing attention, salute. "Good morning, ma'am."

Nikunj salutes firmly in response. "Good morning."

Captain Bondayehr, jaw quietly clenched, pivots on his heel and stalks out even as the door unbolts automatically and the room goes black again.

Now that is the way to blackmail a Scolopendran.

Captain Bondayehr: Will Reorganize for Spare Parts #6
Borrowing the Car

Knock twice. That's what the regulations say.

Nathicana glances up, then quickly stands. "Enter," she says simply, smiling as she heads towards the door. Even if Bondayehr was the one who asked for the appointment, the Imperatrice is the one that scheduled it and determined it. Open door, shut door, the measured 140-beat walk that is the 'Pendran marching pace to four paces in front of Nathi, salute. "Captain Bondayehr reports to ask a question, ma'am."

Nathi stops short as he enters, by now accustomed to his mannerisms and not about to ruin it for him. She does maintain a slightly mischievous smile as she returns the salute. "Of course, Captain. Take a seat?" she asks, gesturing towards the desk and its accompanying chairs.

The captain drops his salute after the Dread Lady drops hers, then sits in the chair as politely ordered at attention, only using the front third of the seat. The Dread Lady takes her seat as well, taking a moment to study him for any tell-tale hints. Of course, he's unreadable as usual. Damn his hide. "At rest, Captain. What can I do for you, mi amico?"

Timofeyev sits back immediately upon permission, using the chair as intended, then breaks bearing to go into a wryly smirking smile. "What exactly would I have to do to borrow your Loki to train on?"

She blinks, clearly having not expected this of all things. "Well ah ... hrm," she says, pondering what could have spawned this, and coming up short. She shrugs slightly, and smiles. "Ask?"

Unfazed. "All right, then. May I borrow your Loki to train on?"

"Of course. One condition, if you don't mind," Nathi says, reaching for her ever-present pitcher of ice water, and producing a second glass with a questioning look towards Bondaheyr--both for the offer of a drink, and the acceptance of the condition.

"Of course not." Don't let on that your choices are limited. He nods at the second glass with a curteous, diplomatic smile.

Nathicana smiles and pours, offering him the glass, then refilling her own, taking her time. "Be sure to take Shorty out with you as often as you like. Xeruyu really went all out on this model, and it has several rather pleasant amenities I think you both would enjoy." A sly little smile as she settles back and sips her ice water, one brow arching ever so slightly.

Bondayehr accepts the glass offered with a polite nod, then sips as he figures through the next step. "A condition easily done for a friend."

"Excellent. I'll make certain you have all the proper clearance you need for it then. Is there anything else I can do for you, or Shorty," she replies, deciding for now not to press the issue of 'why', though she can't help but wonder if it has anything to do with further mischief concerning the Navy.

"That'll do it for me, but I'll pass along your offer of 'anything else' to Shorty to see if she can come up with anything. Thanks for the help, though."

"It's the least I can do, Tim. I take it things are going smoothly, then? No one I have to send 'the boys' out to have a talk with?" She asks in a light tone, knowing he'll understand the joke, and the more subtle concern behind it.

"No one that 'the boys' would be able to handle anyway. Situation nominal, y'know." Bondayehr winks, then takes another sip of water. "I also think that lending out what is a very nice ten kayton DropShip is hardly 'the least' you can do. I'll make it up for you eventually."

Nathicana waves a hand dismissively as she takes another sip of her water, mildly disturbed at the vague admission. "I'll be having none of that, Captain. There is no 'making up' between friends. It's an honor to be in a position to be of service. Damn your Scolopendran hide for influencing that attitude. You and the rest of your cohorts." This accompanied by a wink and a wry smile.

"Indeed it is. Thank you again."

"Not going to tell me, are you?" she asks quietly, thinking further along the lines of 'none they could handle' comment.

The officer's smirk becomes a touch more wry. "Are you asking?"

"I am. You worry me sometimes, boy. If it's something you can't talk about, or would really prefer not to discuss, I will respect that. You've free use of whatever you need regardless."

Timofeyev covers some more calculation with another sip, jacking up the encephalon a notch to further multiply the time so bought. Seconding out to the TYCS, in response to a threat she undoubtedly knows about. Whips aren't normally classified... "My rather strange career is only getting stranger. My next occupation will be Loki pilot, and I will probably be shipped antispinward within the year."

Nathicana carefully sets her glass aside, her expression hardening. "I suppose there's some brilliant reason they've come up with for you not being able to achieve this here?" Antispinward ... damn, damn, which the hell direction is that again? She pulls her laptop over and begins typing quickly, trying to call up the right reference information.

"Sslaa," he says simply, "and combat experience."

"Oh the hell you are," she snaps, stopping mid-sequence in her typing and pushing the laptop away again. "Here I thought it was going to be a quiet little corner of the universe, but no. Boogey-man aliens popping out of the woodwork. What the hell are they thinking? It isn't as if the TYCS doesn't have ample recruits or active members. God knows they turn down more than they take on." It's clear she's just winding up. "You've just gotten yourself set up nicely here. You're not going haring off into the unknown now."

Bondayehr just barely parts his lips to speak, thinks better of it, and in the end just sits back to listen quietly with a wry look.

Nathicana stands up, pushing her chair away roughly, starting to pace and gesturing in typical exaggerated Dominion style. "I've a fair guess who's responsible for this bullshit, and by damn, I'm going to set them straight." She pauses but a moment. "Don't you give me that look, damn your eyes," she says holding up one finger, chin tilting up imperiously. "You've been through more than anyone has a right already. They don't need to be running you through another gauntlet."

He just barely parts his lips for a particularly witty remark, thinks better of it, and in the end doesn't look defiant so much as he looks willfully resigned. "Yes, I've been through a lot. That's the reason they're giving me for shipping me out; the Ticks is large but proper combat experience is a rather rare commodity. As for need, that's for them to decide. I certainly don't know the situation."

"Look, you know I'm all for you progressing and furthering your career in any way you see fit to take it. It's just that ..." She casts about looking more frustrated than anything, though still angry. "Alright, I admit I don't know much about the situation yet either, but still. It just doesn't sound good, not with so many unknowns. I know well enough how they frame their reasons--same way I frame mine. I don't have to like it."

"And neither do I."

She sits down on the edge of the desk, biting her lower lip as she tries to think of ways around it. "If you don't have a say in it, don't I? You've been invaluable here - I could get any number of signatures to petition it if need be."

"And, as harsh as it is," Bondayehr begins, pauses, continues, "the jurisdiction of the Dread Lady Nathicana D'Aquisto ends on the border of the dominions unto which she is Imperatrice. As a matter of war preparedness the Segments is assigning me to Loki duty; then they will probably second out that Loki unit to the TYCS. I'm certainly not the only rear-echelon benchwarmer who's going to be getting a rude awakening with a new whip assignment. It's simply a more extreme shift than most. And, if all goes well," Timofeyev shrugs. "It may not even be permanent."

Nathicana watches him as he speaks, the fingertips of her left hand tapping nervously on the edge of her desk. "I'm quite aware of where my boundaries are," she says more quietly, and calmly. "Doesn't stop me pushing where I feel it's warranted. I don't believe in just accepting what's handed out. 'Do not go quietly', you know. I suppose it's out of my control as well to guarantee you as much time as possible on that Loki?"

"Perhaps not; the ball is rolling smoother now and what tasks I do have I can delegate. While I don't much like it myself," he says with a smirk, "it is my duty. I'm not exactly the ambitious career-minded type and so it's better for my stomach if I don't think too much about the assignment after the next one."

"I won't hassle you about it. Just don't hesitate to ask if there's anything I can do, or have done, to assist - with any of this. I'm certain we could score you some of the regular military grade vehicles as well, though my ship is yours for whenever you want it. In the meantime, pointless or not, I will be having some words with a select few."

"I was trying to save you the trouble, but you just had to go on and ask." Timofeyev shrugs and smiles. "Thanks. It'd probably be a good idea if you came along once or twice to help me along... and that gives me a thought concerning repayment. Ever ridden in a Phantom III before?"

This takes her off-guard again, and cuts short the sarcastic reply. "No, I haven't. And of course I'll come with you. Why do you ask?"

"Want to?"

"Hell yes."

Bondayehr grins from behind closed lips. "Good. I'll book some flight time then to keep my qualifications up and I'll list the gib as an 'incentive flight.'"

Nathicana looks ... conflicted. "No fair providing a distraction," she mutters, giving him a half-hearted glare. "You know I'm a sucker for a rush. Don't think I'm not going to let those bastards slide on account."

"Who says they're related? You teach me to fly a Loki, I show off some of the finer points of 'Pendran aerospace fighters. Very quid pro quo, very Dominion. Whether you let my superiors have it or not really isn't my concern." He winks with a smile that, for once, is not at all wry.

"Imp. We'll do just that, then. Across the board. I don't suppose you and Shorty would care to join me for lunch later, over at Benvenito's? May as well make the best of this."

"But of course: τρώω , πίνω , και να είμαι ευχαριστημένος , για αύριο..." He smirks again. "Epicurius, before you ask."

Nathicana pauses for a moment as she puts it together, then shakes her head and offers the Captain a crooked closed-lip grin. "Indeed, my friend. Indeed." Besides, one can't work up to a proper rage on an empty stomach.

(OOC: If you see a lot of question marks near the end, your browser can't parse Greek letters in Unicode. Fix it.)

Interstel: The Not So Dashing Side of Space Exploration #1
To Lackadaisically Go...

One, two, three plastic bangs of a quite nearly ivory-white hand, thick-fingered in a way decidedly in contrast with its porcelain complexion, on a flat black casing announces Doctor Tjalf Barneveld's attempt to get the sensors package of the Remora-class scoutship Interstel StarShip Trincomalee to work like it said it would in the operator's manual. The flaw is not in Trincomalee's actual sensors, nor in the mechoptronic wiring that hook them to the central processing computers; no, the flaw is in a bit of loose solder in a difficult-to-reach juncture in the hinge that attaches Tjalf's flatscreen to its ergonomic repositionable arm. After a few shocks, power and data return and the screen flickers once, twice... then goes dead again on the third bang. "Godverdomme sensors."

"Don't worry about it, Doctor," comes an unasked response from the center of the relatively cramped bridge. Captain Mu'ammar Galvanoni, a man unshaven due to his mother's religion but carefully groomed due to his father's heritage, leans back in his chair, dark olive hands folded back behind his straight black hair, feet stretched out comfortably to press against the casing of an equipment-induced blister on the floor, offending soles exposed to no one. Stretched out like this, he looks quite relaxed. He would fit right on the deck of a eastern Mediterranean or maybe a Barbary galleon in past ages; right now, he's quite content to be master and commander of a small commercial scouter. "Take your time. If we're going to get Beaglefried I'd prefer not to know about it, and you're not paid by the hour."

Barneveld, a man pudgy to roundishness but nowhere near obesity, frowns mightily. The baby fat in his cheeks emphasize the lines in his face as petulant brown eyes glare back in a way that suggests an age similar to his build yet in contrast to the thinning brown hair on the top of his head. "Yes, I'm paid by the science, Moo, and I can't do science if the sensors don't work!"

"The sensors are fine, you baby." The accusation of imperfection in the ship's major systems of course requires that the engineer, 'Master' Ladyblossom Gilchrist, take up the poor lady's cause. While the Carribean accent has long since died in the Segments, the deep, rich West Indian voice hasn't, and Gilchrist carries it excellently just like her mother and her mother before her back in the Jamaican district of Nuha. Tall, very dark, with thick black hair kept in a ponytail behind her, she looks as if she could definitely live up to her lightning-god nickname if she was truly incensed. In this case, though, it's come up so often that it's just not worth the effort. "If you'd let me take apart that station I could figure out what's going on pretty quick, but no... paid by the science. Can't do any science if you can't see it, now can you?"

The scientist thwacks the monitor again; unseen, the loose wire slips back into contact with the optronics it's supposed to relay data to and sticks there. The screen blinks back on and Tjalf crows in triumph before reading the screen. "Ah, good, a near instantaneous reading. My tweaks to the computer algorithm must be working flawlessly."

Mu'ammar and Ladyblossom glance at each other. The captain hardly shrugs; the woman just rolls her eyes and mutters. "It's not like it hasn't had time for the computer to mull over while you've been bashin' the screen..."

Barneveld doesn't even hear it over his own muttering as he reads off the screen, speaking loud enough for everyone to hear. In his mind, he read the screen first, so this is his discovery. "One Bee-Four-Five star, point-five-seven-three Solar masses." Everyone knows this already. That much was on the star chart. That doesn't make it not his discovery. "Average stability, surface temperature around thirty-one thousand Kelvin."

That much is news, and good news. Unlike Beagle, whose run-in with colliding stars has become legend amongst the exploration and exploitation crews of Triumvirate Interstellar Trading ("Interstel" for short, given the unfortunate acronym), they would not be chewing on plasma anytime soon. This is good, because as a civvie scoutship they lack a Beagle-class research cruiser's warship-grade armor and would come out of such a situation less than half as well as Beagle did.

And Beagle got reamed.

"We are registering planets." This much was also known. "Seven planets. First six are rocky, with the last and outermost being gaseous."

Captain Galvanoni doesn't bother to quite nod. "Good. Anything interesting in this one? Any GEC beacons?"

"No, no evidence that the Exploration Command got here first. Spectrography suggests a lot of krypton in the atmosphere of the first to go with the methane... nitrogen, hydrogen, oxygen compounds in the hydrosphere. It's tiny, though, only two thousand kilometers across. Next one has a mostly noble atmosphere, also NHO compounds in the hydrosphere, but it's bigger, nearly Earth-sized. Third is Mars-sized, hydrogen-helium atmosphere, CHON in the hydrosphere. Fourth, hydrochloric acid skies and carbonic acid seas. Fifth, CHON atmosphere, ammonia hydrosphere, Mars-sized. Sixth, helium, carbon, oxygen atmosphere, hydrocarbon hydrosphere, a bit larger than Mars. Finally, a sulfur-rich hydrocarbon gas giant a bit bigger than Uranus."

Another not-quite nod. "Anything in the habitability zone?"

"Theory says the sixth planet is in the Terrestrial zone, Captain."

Mu'ammar smiles. "Goldilocks orbit, oxygen in the atmosphere, and ammonia oceans... wait. How would that work? Ammonia should be a vapor under those conditions."

Barneveld shrugs, leaning back from his monitor with a frown. "Hm. My hypothesis may have been a bit too hasty--I just saw nitrogen and hydrogen in the hydrosphere and said ammonia."

"Alright, then, I'm hooked." Galvanoni sits up, then adjusts his chair to match his new more upright position. "We'll have to visit 'em all anyway, so we'll go to that one first. Sailing Master Poðka, set a course and take us there. Maybe we'll find something shiny."

Interstel: The Not So Dashing Side of Space Exploration #2
What a Wonderful World

The vaguely Y-shaped form of ISS Trincomalee speeds along easily in the void, her least-expense reactionless drives from a manufacturer in The Territory leaving a soft blue glow in her wake, a fine false plasma caused by the drive displacing energy to where it shouldn't be in concentrations that exceed the permittivity of the vacuum at extremely small scales. Unlike most Triumvirate insystem drives, which are either so power-intensive that they make the ship glow like a black body in heat or their plume burns bright in the infrared, this drive outputs about equally in the blue, violet, and ultra-violet portions of the spectrum, making it relatively stealthy. That's simply curious trivia to the scouter's manufacturers; they just picked the drive because it was cheap, reliable, and durable, in that order of consideration.

Sailing Master Kazimiera Poðka would have found the purple mist she leaves behind quietly beautiful if she were in any place to view it; instead, she's content to sit stretched out behind her console in the empty bridge. Fair-skinned and dark-haired with features appropriate for her Finno-Ugric heritage, she actually enjoys this part of spaceflight. The long periods of going, the interminable waits between waypoints that most people simply find dull at best and torturous at worst. How she sees it, they don't know how to appreciate it. Just sit back, relax, and cease to be for a few hours while you watch nothing happen on your shift. She's made more than one aspiring Zen Buddhist more than mildly jealous.

A small beep from her console wakes her up from her voluntary state of nothingness; glancing at a flatscreen mounted above the windows in front of her shows that Trincomalee followed her program to TITS-9159 VI's sphere of influence and is beginning an automatic retro burn to enter a high orbit around the planet. With her part of the watch now essentially over, she leans in to press a button. Not exactly gentle but not particularly urgent, something like modulated birdsong, chimes sound throught the ship, calling the crew to their duty stations. Turning around in her chair, she watches as the people she was connived to share a ship with filter in through the airlock door in the back.

First through is the not quite portly Doctor Barneveld, so eagerly waddling to his station that politeness fails him; after that comes Master Gilchrist and Signals Master Takhir Cherdabaev. It'd been rumored--mostly by Barneveld--that the West Indian and the Kazak got along too well for 'just friends,' and they're still chuckling at each other by the time they get to their stations. Poðka knows better, though; there's no way to keep secrets between people on a small boat, especially one with only seven people on it. Boatswain Chwalibog Gaida comes next, hailing the helmswoman with a smirk before sitting down across the centerline console from her, basically filling a slot. The dark-haired, brawny, and bright Pole with a tendency to smile goes by the old Boatswain title to suggest what would be a senior enlisted man in the military; however, as the only enlisted man on a ship of officers he ends up doing practically everything. It could be said he knows Trincomalee better than even Ladyblossom, given that he knows how to run as well as fix any system on her.

Finally, Captain Galvanoni walks in, yawning and scratching the back of his head. His crumpled shirt, wrinkled trousers, and immaculately trimmed beard and pulled-back hair suggests that not only did the birdsong wake him up, he took the extra time to take care of his ablutions first. Kazimiera smiles at that thought, and Mu'ammar waves with an equivalent smile when he sees it before stumping to the middle of the bridge and sitting down in his chair. "So, Kaz. 'Sup?"

"We're there, Cap'n. Entering orbit as we speak."

"Good." The captain glances over at the science station and its mildly corpulent occupant. "Got an answer to that ammonia question, Doc?"

"One moment, Captain." The pudgy man looks into a scope mounted on his console, verifying the spectrographic read manually--half just to make sure and half because he's sure he can do it better than the subsentient knowbots in the combuter--then pulls back, blinks to get reaccustomed to the light, and reads off the screen. "Now that we're closer, our sensor resolution allows for density readings. Seas are on average one-point-oh-one grams per milliliter... nitrogen and hydrogen, liquid at a surface temperature of 40 degrees Centigrade... no, that can't be right." Grumbling to himself, he snatches a thick e-sheet binder off of his console, dials it to chemistry data, and starts looking up the tables himself.

"Problem, Doc?"

"Yes. The stupid computer is saying the seas are made of hydrazine. That can't be right." Tjalf flips through a few more pages and frowns.

"Hydrazine?" Mu'ammar thinks for a moment. "The blister agent rocket fuel hydrazine? Doesn't mix well with nitrogen tetraoxide?"

"No, the Old-Man-Petersen-sells-it-at-the-drugstore-on-the-corner-as-candy hydrazine--" Barneveld stops himself before he appends an insult to that, but Galvanoni looks as if he couldn't possibly care less. "Yes, like the rocket fuel. It fits perfectly. This planet, somehow, has seas of hydrazine."

"Well, that's depressing." The captain frowns just a touch; even if he knew the planet was probably uninhabitable from the start, the loss of a big thick colonization bounty is still a touch depressing. "So, what's the atmosphere like? Carbon dioxide and...?"

"No, actually. Light hydrocarbons--methane, ethane, propane, water vapor--and... an equilibrium of nitrogen dioxide and nitrogen tetraoxide." Tjalf frowns.

"Shouldn't that make the seas go boom? And the air, by extension?"

"One moment." The scientist taps something into his console, bringing up comparisons of expected to found results. "The surface temperature is about ten degrees higher than one would expect just from atmosphere constituents and the light from the parent star. What I think is going on is that there's a constant chemical reaction occuring--the levels of tetraoxide aren't that much, really, and they're not under extreme pressure to mix and ignite like they would be in a rocket--and that's building up temperature as well as producing... diatomic nitrogen and water vapor."

"So we've a natural chemical reaction that terraengineers could take advantage of to help make this place habitable. That's nice..." The possibility of getting a smaller, but still substantial, terraforming target bounty excites Mu'ammar's interest in this endeavor once more. "So, any possibility for life?"

"Not Terrestrial life, certainly. Nitrogen dioxide is poisionous, although not immediately. It'll also react with the water vapor in the air to produce acids."

"Still--and tell me if I'm too far from wrong--the hightened temperatures from the chemical reactions, the presence of efficient oxidizer and... oxidants in the atmosphere in bulk, and the presence of usable water as a solvent at least make some sort of reasonable life possible, right?"

Tjalf shrugs. "We've seen all sorts of things in the multiverse. I'd expect that it would be possible to land on an airless asteroid and find life of some sort at this rate."

"I'm keepin' on this tack for one reason, Doc." The captain rubs his thumb against the tips of his index and middle fingers on his right hand. "We find something unique, we catch it, we sell it to Interstel--or give the middleman a miss and send it to universities for a bit more if it's really shiny--and we keep the polly for ourselves. Plus, if it's something like that... 'paid by the science,' no?"

Doctor Barneveld's demeanor turns just that more predatory at the captain's suggestion of not only money, but all the other laurels that come from being the first to publish the peer-reviewed paper. He can already see the biochemical reactions that could be possible in his mind, and he could name them all after himself. "There's nothing there that will harm us or the ship if we go down. We're not going to blow up the atmosphere or the hydrosphere by landing--it's stable enough."

"Good. Kaz, find a nice beachside spot and put us down. Bo's'n, warm up the terrain vehicle. We're going to go offroading."

Captain Bondayehr: Unexpected Opportunities for Career Advancement #1
Conspiracy Theories

“They’re making you a Loki pilot? I’m sorry, Captain, but I’ve seen you fly my Phantoms out there. Very conventional, no real spark. I don’t think you really have the chops for combat flying.” Colonel Somalyi looks vaguely embarrassed by her admission, quickly covering it with a brush of her hand to adjust her already perfectly aligned hairband-acting-as-a-hijab.

“I’d agree, ma’am,” Bondayehr replies, frowning into his second whiskey sour as he idly stirs it with the squat red straw included with the drink for that exact purpose, “but reading over the whip again it looks like ‘pilot’ is something of a misnomer. It looks like they’re training me up to be a Loki commander.” He barely emphasizes the last word.

“Same thing, Captain. ‘Commander’ is pilot and ‘pilot’ is co-pilot... or have the dropsies taken up ‘commander’ and ‘executive officer?’” Frowning in a way very much similar to Timofeyev, the professional fighter pilot idly draws a smirking face into the frost on the side of her mug of root beer.

“The latter, ma’am. I understand that in the Ticks they operate like boats instead of heavy airlifters--I suppose the Directorate’s just wanting to standardize. I dunno about you, ma’am, but...” Timofeyev takes a deep sip. It tastes like hard whiskey, which is good, and it tastes sour, which is better. It fits his mood. “I don’t like what this suggests. I’m not blind but I also don’t want to be accused of delusions of grandeur.”

“They’re shaping you up to be a capship officer,” the colonel replies matter-of-factly, taking a swig of her root beer. “That much’s obvious.”

“Yes, but why would the Lieutenant General contact me about it personally? Why would she suggest that it comes from higher up, which only suggests the F-t-A Advisor? I’m somebody’s personal project, I think.”

“You’ve been here too long, and that’s saying something.” Somalyi smirks, looking sideways at her subordinate. “The Dominion’s made you paranoid.”

“It made me paranoid a looong time ago, ma’am. You ain’t seen the half of it.”

“Really. Anyway, it’s common knowledge amongst us company-grades that the SASD is looking to expand the Defense Squadron once the Ticks reaches Vision Thirty-Exty-Six standards. They’ll want qualified capshippers, and ones they can depend on being ‘Pendrans first without being stolen by the Ticks.”

“Then why am I being seconded out to the Ticks, then?” That much doesn’t add up; wouldn’t it make more sense to put me on one of our capships’ Lokis and achieve the same thing in house?”

“There is that whole war thing, Captain.” Somalyi frowns. “They know you’re blooded from your snakecrawler days. They want you blooded in the skies too before they give you the serious concentration of asskick that is a starship.” She takes another drink, eyes going slightly distant, past the bar and the bottles behind it, but not a thousand meters past it. “Call it an interest in insurance.”

Bondayehr frowns and takes a deep gulp. It’s his way of avoiding staring in turn. “Oh, they have their insurance. I flew extractions enough for them to know how I fly under pressure; they also know how I command in combat conditions. I’ll stick with my paranoia, ma’am... you know as well as I do there’s only two kinds.”

“Hmm.” The colonel sips from her mug with a quiet nod. “Knowing whose circles you frequent, though, I expect someone’s catching hell...”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be half-surprised.” Bondayehr smirks, the dead dry wry smirk that he turned into a science back in SMISO. “I bet whoever’s getting it is lucky he’s not within arm’s reach.”

* - * - *

Interstel: The Not So Dashing Side of Space Exploration #3
Crunchy Candy Outside with a Creamy Nougat Center

The ruddy blue-brown sky, equal parts brilliant sapphire and vaporized dry blood, is what would qualify as a mostly clear, sunny day on the as yet unnamed sixth planet in this blue dwarf’s system. The occasional puffy cloud of water vapor, blue with the color of the light and tinted red through the murky smoggy sky, hangs easily on the breeze. On one of the flatter shorelines, craggy broken rocks to the east transition easily to smooth, flat sheets polished to a shine by the weakly basic hydrazine sea lapping over them gently. Further inland the terrain is decently post-volcanic; the crags of the coast apparently the old remnants of a vent associated with the long-dormant shield volcano that towers over to the south, a bulge simply pressing out from the ground on such a magnitude and with such a gentle slope that the eye fails to give it meaning other than a distorted horizon. To the west, the slope of the shield’s dome and the polished marble-like rock combine in a strange plain unnatural to human eyes, and all along the shore--more specifically along the boundary between the shore polished by the oceans and the inland rocks left more or less untouched--lies a field covered in shards of obsidian glass like millions of thin stilettos pointed skywards, a ragged line of black between the rough rock and the smooth marble.

A high-altitude cirrus cloud off on the horizon pops into two as a circular vacuole appears in its middle. A few seconds later, a muffled gunshot, and a few minutes after that, ISS Trincomalee passes a few kilometers overhead, her drives silenced by the distance. She passes over, banks, circles like a softly glinting metal buzzard, then spirals downward, looming larger and larger until she settles its vaguely graceful bulk on a flat expanse of rough grey rock, relaxing slowly onto heavily weathered landing skids. Trincomalee has seen better days; her ‘bare metal’ hull--actually bare metal coated with a clear anticorrosive composite--is coated in discolored streaks from where the occasional errant stream of hypersonic hot air heat-treated the skin, pits and tiny dents from hail and errant bits of debris. Her blue-painted trim has not fared much better. Nevertheless, here and there are portions of brilliant newness incongruous with the well-worn whole indicating places where hull panels or sensor components simply could not be jury-rigged back into operation anymore and had to be replaced out of Mu’ammar’s purse with a resigned sigh. Even so, if one were to put Trincomalee next to any other Interstel scoutship the untrained eye, not used to picking out the details of this scorch mark here, that new component there, would not be able to tell her apart from her sisters.

With the loud chunks of heavy pneumatic pistons a large rectangular portion of the bottom of the aft hull disengages from the rest, then descends with the high-pitched whine of hydraulics, looking like something out of a Saturday morning puppet-show of times past. The hydraulic lift lowers a stubby tracked vehicle to ground level, something looking like a blend of flatbed truck and main battle tank. Indeed related to armor recovery vehicles, the Interstel terrain vehicle features enough armor to deal with light small arms, large but well-armored vision slits that can be closed in emergencies, a dual-purpose eraser/stunner turret on top, and two heavy mechanical arms, one of which ends in an industrial manipulator claw and the other ending in a cylindrical affair with armored cabling running back to the vehicle and a concave business end. This six-person rover with an extended cab for field science work rolls off of the lift with the clatter of springsteel treads over metal and rumbles over to beneath the port side of Trincomalee’s long ‘neck.’ There, one of the cargo pods affixed to said neck disengages from its locks with another pneumatic thunk and, thanks to an electromagnetic winch in the hull, lowers down to terrain vehicle which accepts it with a few deft maneuvers of the industrial claw before holding it firm with its own smaller set of clamps.

“So,” Mu’ammar says, half-opening one eye but otherwise remaining motionless in his comfortable bucket seat inside the terrain vehicle’s cabin, “we’ve got everything set up. Now, where do we want to go? Doctor?”

Tjalf arcs his neck to get a better view out of the thin starboard window, more vision slit than windshield, and catches his eye on the patches of black glass on the ground. “There’s a crystal patch over there, Captain. It seems like the most interesting thing to look at right now.”

“Righto. You heard ‘im, Bo’s’n. Let’s go to the beach.”

“And I forgot to pack my swimsuit,” Chwalibog replies with a smirk as he takes the wheel and presses his foot down on the accelerator, turning the vehicle in a broad S-shaped curve to drive up alongside the beach. His eyes carefully scan the road ahead, hands turning the wheel a few degrees in mild corrections, avoiding running over the sharp glass or running along the rocky outcroppings which could cause the terrain vehicle to slip a tread. As he scans, something catches his eye and blinks, easing up on the gas; the terrain vehicle’s matter conversion engine responds by reducing the amount of sludge being force-fed into the decompiler with an audible reduction in its unavoidable chugging sound.
“Something up, Bo’s’n?” Captain Galvanoni raises a finely trimmed eyebrow, glancing idly out the vision slit. “Never seen you to be one of those five-klicks-under-the-limit drivers before.”

“Thought I saw movement, boss.” The Pole smirks. “Wouldn’t do to run over any ‘tentially profitable critters, no?”

“No, it wouldn’t, Mister Gaida,” Doctor Barneveld replies hastily, “and where are you seeing this?”

“Not so much as ‘saw’ as ‘thought I saw.’” Nevertheless, the boatswain slows down a little more. “Wait.” His foot completely leaves the accelerator pedal, eyes squinting a little in the unfamiliar and uncomfortable blue light. “There it is.”

“Where?” Tjalf nearly jumps out of his seat, held back only by the straps of his seatbelt.

Chwalibog glances at the scientist, then back towards the obsidian stiletto field. “Over there. See?” He points.

Captain Bondayehr: Unexpected Opportunities for Career Advancement #2
You Wouldn't Want to Live With Him Either

There are times when Timofeyev Mikhail Jeffreyovich Bondayehr gets short with people. Start with a basic psychology naturally attuned to the occasional bout of melancholy, mix liberally with a tendency towards the self-effacing, beat in two or three measures of life not at all going as planned and not in particularly good ways, and sprinkle with a splash of self-spite for ever needing to rely on anyone else at all and a dash of guilt for whatever hurt feelings his emotional rough edges can cause and one has oneself a recipe for what is colloquially referred to "quite the piece of work." People who work with the Captain understand that whenever the question "anything up" receives the quick reply "nothing important" or the simple query "anything I can help with" gets a wry "not really" with a smirk know by now to generally avoid him because in a week or so it'll have magically evaporated and been forgotten. What they generally don't know is that at times like these when he pulls deeper into his shell and attempts to present the image of the stalwart--if thoroughly angry at something--trooper that growls a little in pubic, in private he's What he would call an angsty, complaining, obnoxious, insensitive grumbler. At any given time in his life there has been at most one and only one person he has ever felt even vaguely comfortable showing this side to; first it was his mother, then it was his father, next a long period of no one he still holds dear at times, then a short series of best friends, and during the rough parts of SMISO--that is to say, essentially all of it--it was Sergeant Friedlitz.

Right now, much to her current chagrin and annoyance, it's Shorty. She reflects that she knew, in part, what she was getting into; Timofeyev was never quite as opaque as he either thought or wanted himself to be and it's readily apparent to most anyone who's seen him at his public worst that wrath is his mortal sin. There had to be something behind that anger she'd seen either displayed inwardly or towards some random inanimate object left no worse in the quick exchange, but it never lasted and so she always just attributed it, somewhat rightly, to evidence of a bad day and left it at that. During the month before he left for the latter half of SMISO training she'd gotten to know him quite a bit better but that had been a generally good month. In the past months since he'd gotten out of SMISO and they'd been transferred together in the Dominion she finally got to discover what the root of the problem is, and learned that generally just being a quiet, comforting presence was enough to smooth it over more quickly.

Still, everyone has a limit. Even if they hail from the race of Heroes. "No."

Bondayehr stops short, looking slightly puzzled. "No? It's a pretty plush Loki. It's the shuttle times a hundred. That should make up for me being part of the deal."

"I'm sure." Embassy-Representative doesn't quite keep the growl out of her voice as she turns her attention back to her portcomp. The senior D.O.'s letter to the Ministry of Trade won't proofread itself, after all. "You go get trained as you need; after all, I know the Dread Lady will have to go up with you once or twice as an instructor and I wouldn't want to get in the way."

Timofeyev looks none too happy at the suggestion, and indeed isn't. "It's nothing like that at all--just asking a favor from a friend. The same friend who specified that you going up with me once or twice is the cost of said favor." He frowns deeply, in a sort of inward way.

In her mind, Shorty ticks off her fingers. Counts up from one to eight, then back down. "I have a lot of work to do, Tim." More than you do right now, certainly. "The winter tourism season is in full swing and we've got a lot of countrymen wandering around the Dominion who don't realize just how much the flighty banter of diplomats makes it for them to stimulate the local economy without causing an international incident."

"It's all paperwork. I'm sure I can swing something so you can bring it along," Tim replies, completely missing the point as he is wont to do when in the middle of one of these moods, "it's the least I can do. You know how bad I am about working vacations, Shorty, so it's not like I don't understand."

The kzinret knows she's hit her limit of annoyances for a particular period of time when the word 'Shorty' as said by a damned monkey starts pissing her off. "Look." She closes the lid of her portcomp and locks onto the captain's eyes with one of those moderately disconcerting predatory stares. "I am not interested, for reasons of work and then some." The last three words slip unintentionally. Shit of the Fanged God, I'll never make D.O. if I keep doing that.

"'And then some?'" Bondayehr frowns in preparation, leaning back a bit in his chair.

Shorty sighs, an affected gesture. "Yes. I know things have been hard for you as of late and I've been as supportive as I can. Still, we both have cultures of duty and honor and no matter how much you don't like it and I don't like it, you have marching orders. I have mine. We've all got problems and right now may not be the best time for sharing them."

Timofeyev frowns a little more. "I suppose my sense of timing remains impeccable?"

"Just a little," Shorty understates. "You're constantly complaining and worrying about how you can't let anyone down. Fine. Then don't. I think I've been rather reasonable with my own complaints with you essentially being turned (yet again) into my mother, being whisked away for ten months out of the year."

"Huh. Hadn't heard that one. Must be listening about as well as I always do." Bondayehr gets rather quiet.

"Yes, stoicism is a Heroic trait and I do my best to live up to it." Shorty pointedly ignores the self-depreciation, although the current irony is not lost on her one bit.

"Sorry I'm not living up to Heroic standards. Stoicism's not the only place I fall short there, you have to admit."

"Oh," the kzinret snarls, "do just shut up already with the self-loathing." She pauses, opens her mouth again, and immediately regrets doing so in a professional sense. "Okay, fine--yes, you're a useless whiny pond-scum pervert monkey--happy now? Just leave me be."

Timofeyev blinks once, twice, nods slowly then gets up and exits as quietly as he can. Shorty grumbles in Hero's Tongue to herself, then returns to editing her superior's document with a passion, fingertips angrily beating the portcomp's keys.

Captain Bondayehr: Unexpected Opportunities for Career Advancement #3
Incentive

South of Devras lies Aviano, the local DAF airbase and home of both the 4° Stormo, the "Caccia Intercettori" (Hunting Interceptors), and the 331st Scolopendran Liason Wing "Bug Hunters." Just far enough off the coast that salt corrosion doesn't become a maintenance issue, the airbase sprawls as much as it can in the traditionally tight spaces of the Dominion coastal 'plains.' Inside its fenced-off perimeter lies many square buildings in equally square blocks, off-white and marked with medium grey numbers and signs out front; within an internal fenced-off portion lies yet more, except their signs are repeated in two other languages.

The 331st's section of Aviano is simply a smaller copy of the larger airbase; all the same functions in very similar buildings (or permanent quanset huts erected once it was discovered that the DAF wasn't /quite/ as willing to share as originally thought), and runs in much the same way except that the uniforms and the languages are different. And the planes.

Still, the Phantom IIIs taking off and landing every few hours look a lot like the F-4T Phantom II 2000s sitting out on static display at Aviano's main gate, so there's at least some similarity there.

The 'Pendran sanctum of Aviano has a main gate, just like the larger airbase, albeit smaller and with the kind of guardhouse one sees in Cold War dramas on the German border than the permanent tiny-house structures one usually associates with airbase main gates. Inside the little wooden guardhouse sits an M.I. private with, quite literally, nothing better to do than to watch the clouds go by.

Nathicana takes in the view with an appraising eye as she approaches the gate, quietly running over several lines of thought in her head, frowning slightly at some of the answers they arrive at or suggest. Would be a damn shame. She's dressed in clean Dominion fatigues that show a bit of wear, though the boots have a respectable shine. She readies her ID as she nears the guardhouse.

Granted, it exceeds in some ways the rank her uniform shows, but all things considered, she'd never properly earned more than Caporalmaggiore Scelto during her time with the soldati, and it simply wouldn't be appropriate to pretend otherwise.

The M.I. private detects Nathi stalking towards the guardhouse with a purpose, and so stands up and steps out, light-armor exoskeleton looking as if it should whir mechanically with each step even though it doesn't; powergun rifle slung easily over one shoulder guard and regulation cover brim hanging down over the trooper's monocle display. Just another step in the choreography.

She presents her card with a brief nod, taking a moment to look him over - though not in a speculative way. Ah but the 'Pendrans always have had such wonderful toys...

The Infantryman looks over the card, somewhat used to 'Minion toy-envy by now, and checks it out. Reads the name, looks at the picture, and to his credit, doesn't blink.

He pulls up the databoard on his hip, and sees written in the guest schedule between Mickey Mouse and Elvis Presley, 'Nathicana D'Aquisto.' Hm. Apparently it's legitimate. Nodding, he hands the card back after confirming the face on the picture matches the face on the person. "Go ahead, corporal-major. You'll want Building 13, it's the small one at the end of the street that's he first right from here." He points helpfully.

"Grazie, private. I really should get out here more often - would be more familiar with the layout if I did," she says, pocketing the card, nodding again before continuing on along the path he's laid out for her to her destination. She keeps the grin off her face til she's well away.

Across the street, a group of three spacemen twitch simultaneously and they don't even know why. Of course it was just a glimpse of teeth half-seen through the corner of their eyes, but threats become oh so more effective when they're only half-seen. After looking at each other strangely for a moment, they chalk it up to a Stupid OPO Trick and hurry on their way.

Building 13 is a little smaller than the rest, and the sign out in front labels it as the Political Liason Squadron in English, Italian, and Arabic. Past the doors and the ubiquitous plastic-scale doormat is a desk and a surprisingly slovenly-yet-heroic kitsune sitting behind the desk. Nathi would recognize him as Sergeant Akayama from the moving party, and the recognition is certainly mutual. "One moment, I'll go get the Captain."

Bounding away heroically behind a turn in the dull grey cubicle walls, the sergeant returns a few moments later from around the same corner with Timofeyev in tow. "Thank you, Sergeant," the captain says before glancing towards the 'enlisted' woman.

Akayama was too quick for her to offer a proper thanks until his return, which she offers with the habitual close-lipped smile she's become accustomed to around the 'Pendrans, save for those moments when she either forgets herself, or chooses otherwise. "My thanks, Sergeant. And Captain," she says, looking up at him with a bit of challenge creeping into said smile. "Thank you for setting this up. Been looking forward to it."

"Good afternoon to you too, caporalmaggiore. It's the least I could do." Bondayehr smiles while Akayama seems to heroically snigger just a little before going back to his desk. "Next stop will be the locker room," Bondayehr continues, "and then it's a flight safety briefing before a mission briefing and we're off. You wouldn't already happen to be rated for ejection seats, would you?"

That last takes her aback a bit. After all, she's the Dread Lady. Who's going to tell her no - in her own nation at least. Usually. Goddamn Jas. "Ummm ... officially? No ... is that a problem?"

"No, it just means that we'll have to sit through the full flight-safety briefing." Bondayehr leads the way out the door, holding it open for Nathi out of politeness. "It's really not that hard; don't touch any of the yellow-and-black handles until I tell you to."

"Well bugger," she says with a mock pout, though she murmurs a quiet thanks for holding the door. "I don't suppose you could just vouch for me? How hard can it be?"

"Safety first, corporal... and given what an ejection seat is and what it does to people who don't know how to operate one, sufficiently hard."

"Alas. Safety first it is then. Come to think of it, the only reason I've been able to jet around the way I have is position - the only schooling I've had was from vK and crew along the way, with as much opportunity as I was able to grab for trying things out. Not the safest approach I suppose. But hey - clean enough record, yes?"

"Clean enough, yes." Timofeyev smirks, eyes hidden behind aviator sunglasses and the glossy black rim of his green wheel cap. Already in a ASD-smokecloud-green flight suit, he glances up at the sunny sky. "Looks like it should be a good day for flying."

"Just about any day is a good day for flying in my book. It's about the only time I really feel free, you know? At least for a few moments. So how long does this briefing last anyway, il Capitano?" she says as they walk, glancing about, taking in the sights, making quiet note of this or that as she usually does.

"Flight safety should take an hour or two, tops. Flight and weather briefing should be about fifteen minutes." Bondayehr exchanges salutes with a pair of spacemen walking past. "It's nothing tricky; you should pick it right up."

"Right then. I've blocked out a good portion of the day as is. Not expected back til much later so unless something earth-shattering happens, God forbid, I think we're clear." Nathi offers a brief nod in the pair's direction as they pass.

"Good. What's the most gees you've ever pulled?" Bondayehr smirks.

Nathicana arches a brow, giving the Captain a sidelong look. "You know, I've no idea. Is this a bad thing?"

"Hm. Give me an estimate, at least. I doubt we can over-gee your augments."

"That's a disturbing thought. I'd guess two or less - not more than in any case." A pause. "Out of idle curiousity, why do you ask, and just how much ought I prep to expect?"

"Because the Phantom III is nothing if not a rocketsled, and more than you've ever felt in your entire life." Bondayehr grins with his off-white teeth.

Nathicana gives the Captain one of those curious-but-slightly-nervous looks, and ponders that as they continue walking. Well shit. Was he serious about 'over-gee' and 'augments'? Il dio ...

Timofeyev is quietly proud of his skill at disquieting others, especially someone with Nathi's reputation. "You'll be fine, no worries. It'll just be something to remember." He trades salutes with a lieutenant.

Nathicana snorts quietly, making a subtle dismissive gesture with one hand. "Of course I'll be fine. Who's worried? Just nice to know what to expect is all."

The Captain chuckles while the lieutenant looks back over his shoulder at the gesture, then just shrugs and goes on his way. "Can't kid a kidder, Dread Lady. Anyway, here we are." Bondayehr steps aside to open the door to the wing operations building with a polite after-you gesture of his free hand. "Pay attention, there will be a quiz afterwards."

Nathicana offers him a wry smile all the same. "Grazie, Cap'n. No worries - I want this ride, neh? Not going to let a little quiz stop me." She steps in, and takes a quick look around to get her bearings.

The briefing, like the accommodations, is nothing really impressive or exemplary. A major in the front of the room goes over diagrams of the safety systems in a Phantom III's cockpit: the one-hand ArmsCorp International medkit ("hit the button and ignore the stinging sensation"), the emergency locator beacon ("it'll turn on itself, don't worry"), rafts, floatation devices, and survival gear all stashed in the back of the ejection seat.

And then, of course, there's the ejection seat. It has three pairs of handles: one set of D-rings above the head, one set of levers on the sides of the seat near the knees, and a last set of D-rings between the knees. The overhead ones are preferred as a matter of course because they naturally demand the right ejection posture--back and legs flat against the seat, knees as together as is reasonable--but the others work just as well in special emergencies. Still, the message is clear: unless you really wants to walk away several centimeters shorter, keep your damn back flat against the seat.

Nathicana listens attentively to the directions, deciding right then and there that if there was anything she had to say on the matter, ejection was something she would never have to go through. One other question bothered her however. If all the 'save you' things were in the back, what happened if for some reason you couldn't reach them? Not wanting to interrupt, and worse, end up looking foolish, she made a note to ask Timofeyev after.

The major folds his hands behind his back, no longer pointing at the seat diagram. "Are there any questions?"

Blast and damn. Keeping her mutterings internal, Nathi raises a hand tentatively, one brow arched up.

In a room with only Colonel Somalyi, himself, Captain Bondayehr, and Nathi in it, the major needlessly points out the Dread Lady with a hand kept flat. Professional to a fault, 'Pendran style. "Yes, Corporal Major?"

"I just got to thinking, and then realized you 'Pendrans tend to be prepared for everything. In the case of the restraint release not releasing, I take it having a cutting tool close to hand is in one's best interest?" She wonders idly how augs would stack up to 'Pendran-designed restraints, and opts not to ask about breaking open the back in case of a jam. Not your average gal after all.

"The standard flight suit vest you will be provided includes a strap cutter. It's similar to what gets sold around here to cut through seat belts in cars." The major offers a smile. "Anything else?"

"No, grazie. Like I said - prepared for everything," she replies, smiling in turn. Might not always be comfortable, or pretty, but damned if not efficient, working, and reliable. Still don't want to test that theory on an ejection. Yikes.

The major nods. "All right. Colonel Somalyi will be going over the weather briefing in the ready room, then. If you please, Captain..."

Then everyone gets shuffled into the next room over, which is a medium-sized amphitheatre which could seat probably around two hundred. The Bug Hunters' wing insignia takes up most of the front wall behind the podium, with section, squadron, and flight insignia adorning the rear wall; the Scolopendran and SASD flags sit to the viewer's left and right respectfully behind the podium. Colonel Somalyi moves to the podium; Captain Bondayehr leads Nathi over to the front row to sit amongst six more officers in flight suits. Two sit singly; two more sit in tandem, one sitting immediately behind the other in the next row.

Bondayehr subtly gestures to the second row as he turns to sit in the first.

Nathicana nods and takes a seat where indicated, eyes flickering over the flags, insignia, and the others they're sharing the room with, curious if any are recognizable by any chance. It would seem I've missed rather a lot in the details.
"At ease." Everyone sits down, and the colonel starts off by bringing up a holographic map of the current operations area, mirrored behind her on a screen that descends to cover the wing insignia. Mostly it concerns prevailing wind conditions, rain probabilities, ionospheric effects, and the like. A few areas are indicated as no-fly, and others as slow-fly, mo and while all this is going on, Nathi can see that among the insignia are a dragon, a cobra, no less than three different types of bug, a lion, and a grinning tiger (clearly very controversial, that flight).

I'm glad the Cap'n is going to be doing the flying on this run. Whole different ballgame when not plugged in and working with a system that's a whole lot smarter than myself. She again makes a mental note to ask about those different flights, one brow arching up especially at the grinning tiger.

Further study shows that the grinning tiger also has a needly generic airplane sticking out of its teeth like a toothpick. "So, everyone got the briefing down?"

"Yes, ma'am," the fighter jocks, including Bondayehr, reply in unison.

"Good. We wouldn't want to ruin the Corporal Major's incentive flight. Dismissed."

Nathicana grins wryly, and shakes her head slightly as she gets to her feet, and straightens her shirt a bit out of habit. By all means, rub it in. When she has a chance, she leans over to speak softly to the Captain. "Let it never be said you 'Pendrans don't have a sense of humor. Nice insignia."

"Eh?" Bondayehr replies with equal softness.

She gestures subtly to the officer with the grinning tiger insignia. "I'm sure there's a story there, no?"

"Oh." Bondayehr chuckles. "That's probably the nearest thing to a standard unit insigna in the Sass'd. Pretty much every single top-gun flight in every wing adopts it, or some variation on it."

"Into the jaws of death or some such? Which is right where I'm hoping you're not planning on taking us, on this little jaunt at least," she says with a teasing wink.

"Naw." The Captain chuckles a bit louder as he leads Nathi into the prep room. "Top-guns are air superiority; they go in first. It's always best to be behind the grinning tiger." The prep room is just a locker room for flight equipment rather than proper clothing; Bondayehr quickly picks out a helmet, plunks it on Nathi's head, then gets one for himself. Same goes for a flight vest, although he just hands that to the Dread Lady rather than trying to dress her in it; meanwhile, he just slips his on over his shoulders and snaps it shut in front with the provided plastic buckles.

"Well that explains it alright." She fusses a bit with the helmet, unused to the weight and feel of it. Of course the lack of help with the vest offers a choice opportunity to tease, and she half ponders it for a moment with a mischievous smile, watching him snap his own shut ... then quietly mimics his actions, looking down to make sure she's getting it right, her smile turning to one more contemplative.

"Turn around." Bondayehr picks up a plastic box with the dimensions of a medium-sized textbook, easily twenty by thirty by five centimeters, and slides it into a pouch on the back of Nathi's back. The plastic rubberized hose that extends from it he threads through a little loop on her left shoulder, then plugs and twists the metal end into the front of the hard faceplate of her flight helmet. He gets another one for himself and repeats the process unaided thanks to practice. "This thing is your personal life support system. Unlike the movies, we fly fighters buttoned up so no one passes out if the cabin depressurizes.

"The faceplate folds up and snaps into the helmet, then the visor comes down and locks into that. You can release the visor with the spring-loaded clamp on the front; the faceplate comes off when you push in the metal lever recessed on the side of the helmet." Bondayehr demonstrates with his own.

"Grazie, Timofeyev," Nathi says, letting him work, then nodding in understanding, experimenting with her own helmet once he's shown her how to make sure she can do it. Oddly enough, she finds the added encumbrance and enclosure mildly disconcerting. "Don't you ever feel a little ... cramped inside all this?"

"Not really." Timofeyev frowns behind his closed faceplate and opens up Nathi's visor before picking up some flight gloves--basically work gloves with plasticized rubber on the outside--and putting them on. "Is that any better?"

"Mmmhmm," she murmurs, shrugging her shoulders a bit, turning her head from side to side. "Just used to flying as is, you know. Really have taken a lot for granted. Spoiled."

"This is military flying. A lot more contingencies, after all--if this were a hot mission, maybe the canopy would get a few holes in it or enough G's put on it would just cause it to lose pressure." Bondayehr shrugs, then tosses Nathi a pair of flight gloves. "So yeah, spoiled." His voice suggests a smirk.

Nathicana catches the gloves and pulls them on with short, quick jerks, nodding once in acknowledgement. "Always known it. At least I can admit it. We've all got jobs to do. Some just have more immediate dangers than others. Don't think I'm not appreciative of what those serving do for us on a day to day basis, Captain."

"Not suggesting otherwise, Corporal Major." Bondayehr chuckles, turns, and walks out the door that leads out onto the flightline. "After all, you said it, not me."

She follows him out, keeping further thoughts to herself along concerning deeper issues barely hinted at with that. Among those who serve, some had things asked of them more than their superiors had a right, and she counted him among them. Bringing it up would serve no purpose, nor did she want it to overshadow what promised to be one hell of a ride. "Aye, that I did. And you're encouraging the spoiling by treating me to this, so there."

It's still a beautiful day outside--an hour indoors hasn't changed that--and six aircraft sit parked on the ready strip of the flight line. Three are the two-seat Phantom IIIs with their distinctive winglets and inverted-Y tails, sharkteeth emblems on their noses pictorially representing the fruits of the open-bore linegun mounted in the fuselage. The other three are single-seat Excaliburs, somewhat flatter, vaguely blade-shaped, with massive engine nacelles embedded in the wings and four 'vertical' stabilizers tilting inward from the wing roots, which are graced with the distinctive two-pronged emitter heads of particle cannon.

Colonel Somalyi puts one helmet over her headbanded hair (why it should be headbanded is anyone's guess; it's already pulled back and tightly bound) and walks off to one of the Excaliburs; Bondayehr leads Nathi to the sides of one of the big ground-attack airplanes, then climbs up the yellow hook-ladder up to the front seat.

Nathicana slowly runs one hand along the side of the jet as the Captain climbs up, not bothering to suppress a shiver that for now has nothing to do with cold or fear. She climbs up the ladder and slides into the back seat, not worrying about the grin that's slowly growing. "Dead sexy ride you've got here, Cap'n. I do hope you plan on putting her through her moves."

"No argument there. Plan on it." The Captain exchanges some hand signals with the ground crew, who step up the ladders and start running checklists with him. While he's busy, Nathi can see the controls are probably somewhat more complex than she's used to. While civil aerospace tries to keep things limited to as few screens as possible, mostly for reasons of aesthetics, the military side is a bit more... in depth. A holotank dominates the top of the console to allow for three-dimensional visualization of the combat zone, and three large multifunction displays underneath it display a lot of information in very few letters and simple line drawings. Around and underneath those are buttons, switches, yellow-and-black safety covers, knobs, and a good number of electromechanical analog indicators left in for a margin of redundancy.

Peeking around over his shoulder, she lets out a low whistle. "Sweet Jesu, boy. Spoiled just doesn't cover it. How in God's name do you keep track of all those damn things?" She then remembers that perhaps questioning such things is unhelpful for one, silly for another as he wouldn't be up here flying if he couldn't keep track of them perfectly well, and she really ought to be getting herself strapped in. Which she then does, firmly.

Bondayehr chuckles and Nathi hears it in her helmet's earphones. "Half is training and half is the reason why we have a gib. We can jack in if we're so equipped, and more and more are nowadays, but in case that goes down we need all this information to let us know how the ol' gal's doing. APU power, check." He nods to the ground chief, who slaps the tech looking over Nathi's console on the shoulder and they slide down the ladders, then unhook them and get lost. "Clear?" A slight pause, then Nathi hears the crew chief's voice calling the all-clear over her headphones. "Ack. Main turbine spool-up."

The Phantom III shudders slightly, a thrum becoming a hum becoming a whine as the nuclear catepillars start spooling up their first-stage fans to suck in air. The turbine system will eventually retract once the flow gets started, but it has to be primed first.

Nathicana nestles back against the seat, hands clenching and unclenching, keeping quiet as the Cap'n runs through his checks. She takes the time to more closely study the console, using that focus to help steady that rush of mixed anticipation and anxiety the tends to have whenever faced with something new and potentially ... challenging.

With everything working well, Timofeyev flashes a thumbs-up out the window before flipping a switch. The fighter's canopies close, locking them in tight with the soft pressurized 'thump' associated with airliner doors. He eases the throttle forward, waiting until he gets some forward motion before steering his plane in formation with the three Excaliburs and other two Phantoms. "Squadron Lead, this is Deuce Lead. All systems go for your command, Colonel."

-Deuce Lead, Squadron Lead. Just like we planned; I take Awnce up first, you follow on tower clearance. Be careful, Pancake, you're in charge.-

Bondayehr chuckles. "Ack, Rootie. Will follow tower commands." A moment of silence save for the whine of the turbines. "Flip your radio channel to A, Nathi, so you can hear everything. Might be sorta interesting."

"Got it," she says, glancing around quicly to locate the radio switch ... and failing. "Vaffanculo. Don't got it. Which the hell switch or buton or toggle is it, Tim?"

"Lower left hand corner, first knob over from a set of alphanumeric turndials--the bit that looks like an odometer." Timofeyev has the politeness not to chuckle. "It'll set you up with all the tower commands and what everyone's saying over the tacnet rather than just me and our plane."

Muttering imprecations under her breath, Nathi tracks down the knob, and makes the proper adjustments, though not without her usual commentary. "One can't help but wonder why the damn radio would look like an odometer, rather than say, a radio." A pause. "Everyone, eh? Brilliant." Further grumbling is kept carefully silent for now.

"That's because you have to set the radio to the frequency codeset appropriate to the theatre," Bondayehr explains, "just like the presets in Tempest." The tower directs the combined squadron to a runway; the Excaliburs take their positions behind the go-line in a spear formation, then power down the runway and take off; then Bondayehr leads his flight onto the runway, forming the tip of the Phantom spear.

"Deuce, Flight Lead. Going for a DTO. Tower, are we go for DTO?"

A few moments. -Deuce Lead, Tower. Aerospace clear. Go for DTO and cleared for takeoff. Have fun, Corporal Major.-

"Hold on." Bondayehr pushes the throttle forward; the plane moves forward once again. A slight shudder as the turbines get retracted, and then the construction-paper-ripping of the atomic caterpillars builds up to full force, more felt than heard... and it makes a decent background noise, too, at least comparable to people talking a table over in a resturant.

It's a standard takeoff roll, total gees well under two gravities as the runway accelerates past the canopy, going faster and faster. The pavement rumbles through the aircraft, and then everything goes vaguely still with a stomach-dropping sensation as Bondayehr pulls back the stick and the Phantom III snarls into the air. A bit of thirty-degree climb, then electric whirrs and thunks as the landing gear get retracted into their armored compartments on the underside. "Rootie, eyeball confirm on DTO?"

-You're clear, Pancake. Have fun.-

The Captain smiles under his faceplate as he pulls the stick back and pushes the throttle forward with authority. Which means he puts it balls-to-the-wall in about a second after he has the Phantom in a ninety-degree climb. The accelerometer on his helmet-mounted display, and one of Nathi's screens, quickly goes past three to four, then five, then levels off at just over six gees.

Unlike Nathi's shuttle and her Loki, constant inertial dampening is turned off for now.

The question about 'Pancake' dies on her lips as Nathi is pressed back into her seat, though it doesn't stop a yelp of surprise that squeaks out. "JesuMariamadredeldio," she manages to gasp quickly, fighting off a momentary rush of panic at the sudden increase in pressure.

Earlier shadows of claustrophobia come right to the fore, what with being sucked flat back against her seat, with pressures hard enough to feel her skin being pressed back and the steady weight pressing against on her chest making it difficult to breath

Whatever wispy cirrus clouds there were are quickly left behind as the bright blue sky gets darker and darker. Stars start poking out of the dusky twilight as Bondayehr pulls back a little more on his stick. He keeps his course inside the boxy gates projected inside his helmet; Nathi, her visor up, sees that they aren't quite perfectly vertical anymore but instead head-down. A quick check of the artificial horizon in front of her would confirm this. Earth adopts a curvature, and, less than two minutes after the start of the climb, Bondayehr quickly eases the throttle back and finishes pulling the Phantom onto her back, the Dominion taking up ... well, what would self-referentially be considered 'up.' "Welcome to low Earth orbit, Nathi."

Nathicana takes a moment to just breathe, and enjoy the spectacular view while relaxing back from the tense 'hold-on-to-your-ass-while-you-still-have-it' stance she's been in since the initial thrust. "This sight will never," she murmurs quietly at last, "lose it's magic for me. Jesus, boy - you weren't kidding about the moves."

"Told ya to hold on." Bondayehr smiles and looks up. "You know, back on the ground ears are probably still ringing."

Nathicana chuckles and nods. "Yes, yes you did. Certainly do know how to make an exit." She traces a gloved hand across a section of the canopy, expression thoughtful for a moment. "It all looks so peaceful up here. So perfect. Even the firefights up here are pretty from a distance. Pity the truth can't match the picture."

"Yeah, 'tis a shame." Bondayehr sighs.

"At least here and now it's everything it appears. So how best to enjoy it, eh?" She tries for a more perky tone. Memo to me: keep less than happy thoughts to self, idiot. You talk too much. "Though truth, I'm not sure how you plan on topping that takeoff."

The Captain chuckles. "Would you like me to?"

"So long as 'topping' it falls well short of 'going out in a blaze of glory', I figure I'm at your disposal, no?" Nathi replies, though not without some measure of trepidation.

"You're the Imperatrice." Bondayehr pulls back up on the stick and pushes the throttle forward... but not all the way. The Phantom III finishes its leisurely backflip to nose-down, then screams its way back into the atmosphere. Hypersonic reentry of course entails lots of fire and noise and a good amount of shimmying. "One blaze of glory, coming right up. After that how would you like to recreate a recruitment poster?"

Nathicana launches into another brief string of muttered curses that she quickly cuts short. She's not upset after all, just ... surprised a bit. Again. Damn his hide. "I said 'short of' - WELL short of!" The craziness of the situation along with the mix of adrenaline rush and understandable fear, and she ends up giggling a bit as they plummet downward, punctuated by little shrieks.

Having nothing else safe to hold on to, she grabs the restraint harness strapping and grips tightly. "Oh hell ... you're not serious, are you?"

Captain Bondayehr: Unexpected Opportunities for Career Advancement #4
Just a Little Bit of Peril

Bondayehr doesn't reply, concentrating instead on flying. He eases back the throttle, the gravities lessening to free-fall while he gently aileron-rolls to the right until west is pointing 'up.' Engines to idle, he pulls out, keeping the pull-out at around seven gees without letting the accelerometer distract him. Leveling off at about three thousand meters, he dives a bit more shallowly down to thirty meters before pushing the throttle full-out again, speeding down the middle of the Mediterranean at Mach six, pressure wave kicking up a conical spray behind them.

Nathicana has never in her life been on any sort of ride quite like this. Eyes flicker over the gauges and instruments, and the view outside as it goes screaming past, what she can see of the Captain's helmet moving about in front of her, all the while feeling like she left her stomach back in low orbit, and a good deal of strength has melted out of her legs somehow.

She clenches her jaw tight to keep from completely losing it and letting loose with a proper roller-coaster scream, though the hum that slowly builds up in spite of her efforts soon reaches a peak and cuts off in a squeak.

The Captain easily gently climbs the bird to a hundred meters, then deftly inverts her, bright blue Mediterranean now making a ceiling and puffy white clouds the occasional ground, all rushing past at a speed that by all respects would be considered much too fast at this altitude. The Phantom III absorbs tremendous heat and pressure loadings without so much as a creak or even a glow; engines roar dully, vibrating through the seat, but other than that there's no indication that ten years ago Dominion aerospace engineers would have sacrificed their firstborn for something like this.

Nathicana is thankful once again for 'Pendran engineering - in particular, the harness that's keeping her comfortably in place as she gazes up...that is down...oh bother, -at- the Earth below the jet and above her head. "That's ah ... quite a view," she finally manages between clenched teeth. "Do you usually get to have this much fun when you go for a spin, or is this a special occasion?"

"Latter." Another aileron roll to right the aircraft, then gently pulling up to altitude before pulling back on the throttle, allowing for a relatively gentle Mach three bank with the southern coast of The Vast off the starboard wing.

She feels her stomach lurch again with the roll, still feeling that odd mix of anticipation and 'oh-god-we're-all-gonna-die' sort of thrill. She doesn't think too much about it, enjoying the ride even if she's wound so tight it almost hurts. "Well I'll say this, boy - you sure do know how to put a girl's head in a spin," she says wryly, pressing back a bit further against the seat.

Bondayehr looks left and right out the canopy, watching the other two Phantoms pull into an extended formation; off at one-o'-clock-high, three glints of metal evenly spaced out betray the presence of the Excaliburs.

"I suppose I could give you some pilot-in-command time..." The Captain grins under his facemask.

"Ah..." Nathi's brows go up, and she whets her lips nervously. "I'm not familiar with--that is, I tend to fly jacked in. And I've never messed with anything like--" Here she gestures vaguely to the mass of controls. "Well, this."

"That is why you will not do anything I don't tell you to."

"Il dio Tim. You are one bastard. No, really." She pauses for a moment, biting her lip as she ponders, and looks, and fusses. "If you really think this is a good idea ..."

"I'm jacked in and Shodey's encephalon in my head is jacked up to maximum. I'm pretty sure I can keep you from killing us all."

Nathicana nods briefly. "Right then. Lead on."

"Squadron, Deuce Lead. Gib incentive pilot-in-command." The radio responds with a few -Acks- and the nearby fighters fan out even more, giving Nathi a good five kilometer sphere of wiggle room.

-Don't let the gib kill us all, Pancake,- Colonel Somalyi says with clear amusement over the radio.

"I won't, ma'am." Bondayehr chuckles. "Okay, Nathi. Hands on stick and throttle. Experiment a little with gentle motions, get a feel for the bird. You are some flavor of pilot, so it's only fair."

"If I was going to do that, it wouldn't be in the air," Nathi grumbles good-naturedly, gently placing her hands where they need to go, tightening her grip comfortably. "Incentive my ass." She very gently moves the controls, trying to see just how responsive this rather fine piece of machinery is - which as it turns out, is very. All quite simple, nothing daring.

"Next, aileron roll. Just jam it left and pull out after a one-eighty."

"Just 'jam it'? How very technical of you." She mutters a choice phrase under her breath, bracing hersef, and then doing just that, pressing sharply to the left with a little cut-off shriek. As the sky and earth switch places, she pulls it back - perhaps a bit overshot, but respectable enough all things considered.

"Again."

Nathicana responds quickly, pulling out of it when things realign themselves properly, this time without the shriek. The helmet obscures the more serious expression she gets - putting the game-face on so to speak. This is, after all, a competition of sorts, even if it's only with herself.

"360 aileron-roll, right."

A moment of hesitation, then she takes it to the right as directed, remembering to pull out where she left off, though she has to adjust slightly to level out. "I think I left my stomach back with that one," she says, wrinkling her nose slightly. "And my nose itches, dammit."

Bondayehr chuckles. "Care to try a loop?"

Nathicana gives the back of his head a very flat look. "Are you more insane than I
"What, think you can't do it?"

"Did I say that?" she snaps defensively. "So, are you going to explain the proper way, or do I just 'jam it' again and hope for the best?"

The Captain chuckles and clucks his tongue. "Tsk tsk tsk. I'dve thought that you'd at least try one hands-on in Tempest. Ah well--just pull back until you hit a good rate and hold it there. I understand, though, if you don't feel up to it..." The voice over the radio is clearly teasing.

Nathicana responds with action rather than any one of the comments that first come to mind - right about the same time he trails off. In her own head it's different 'feeling' it and simply 'doing' it. She doesn't let that stop her, though.

The Phantom pulls up and over on its back with a roar, wings waggling with a bit of Dutch roll as Nathi doesn't quite keep the stick centered. A few more moments and the horizon once again crosses the nose, the blue sea far below filling the view ahead. Both the Dread Lady and the Captain are pressed more heavily into their padded seats, gravity adding into centrifugal force as the fighter pulls back up towards the horizontal.

Nathi lets out a quiet breath between clenched teeth, easing up a bit on the grip she's had on the controls - and admittedly, grinning a bit to herself. "Well ... seem to still be in one piece, Cap'n. Quite the ride you've got here. How much do these go for again?"

"More than I will ever be paid in my entire life. That's all I need to know." Bondayehr chuckles.

"Come and work for me, and we could see about changing that," she says dryly, brow creasing as she reflects for a moment on that thrice-damned Hawke and the current situation that's sparked this particular joyride.

"Sorry, 'fraid I can't do that. I've got a duty to fulfill. Thanks for the offer, though," Timofeyev replies with a smirk behind his mask.

"Ah well, won't be duty all the time, no? Keep it on the table, should you ever be in need of, say, options. What's not to like, after all? Scenery, setting, Saturday afternoon cappuccinos at the Piazza ..." She keeps her tone light, whilst eyeing the control panel, and what she can see around them, trying to get a better feel for the rather impressive piece of engineering they're flying in. "Whither shall we hasten to next, oh fearless leader?"

"Not for two months of the year, it won't. If you're comfortable with the idea, I'm sure I can get one of the wingmen to lead in a game of chase. Failing that, there's always teasing the Daft--more passive on your end, but it should still be fun."
Nathi grins broadly at that. "I'll take whatever you care to dish out, boy. Short of 'firey freefall of doom followed by spectacular finish', that is."

"Hmm. Well, it is our job to train the bluebellies, so..." Bondayehr toggles channels with a thought. "Deuce, Deuce Lead. We got any Dafts on the scope? My gib's not rated."

-Deuce Lead, Deuce-Two. Checking, Pancake. Hm... looks like we've got six Flashes on patrol over the heel. Three elements, two-ships each.-

"Right. So, Rootie, you game?"

-Sounds like a turkey shoot to me. Once-Two, form up with Deuce-One. Pancake, you take Deuce-Two. Combat speed, people, strike from high.-

"Just how much 'teasing' does this encompass?" Nathi asks quietly, brows arching up.

"Roger." Bondayehr returns to manual controls, disengaging Nathi's with a toggle in front of him. Banking to the east-southeast, he pushes forward the throttle and the Phantom leaps ahead. It feels more subdued now, mostly because now the g-dampers are on combat ready. "Ever have a East-West Cold War equivalent in your history, Nathi? I forget."

"Not really, no ... ample infighting, but generally short-lived. Some occupations here and there, but …"

"Ah well. You'll see, then." A flick of the wrist and the fighter is on its side after a quick ninety, Bondayehr looking over the starboard wing towards the southern coast of the Dominion. His helmet-mounted-display--and Nathi's--indicates six radar contacts flying in three lines of two each. "Deuce-two, Deuce-Lead. Take the one on the left, I'll get the one on the right."

-Roger.- Bondayehr tips his plane over another dozen degrees and pulls back, bringing the Phantom into a diving high-speed bank apparently aiming to get behind the red Dominion fighters. The AMD Talon pilots hear their tac radars screech at them and immediately break formation, trying to scatter in a controlled way. Bondayehr just follows his target down to the deck trying to keep the waterfalls on his display lined up with the Daft's sleek wings.

The Talon pulls right, then left and up, trying to force Bondayehr to overshoot. Timofeyev pushes his throttle forward and pulls the stick up, aiming to use the Phantom's greater power to his advantage. The Talon sees this and pulls right, using his better turning radius to reduce the range between them and force it into a turning fight.

A quick half-turn in the climb lets the Captain bring his fighter's powerful climb characteristics to face the incoming fighter. The Talon has gotten too close; Bondayehr puts the Phantom on its back and slams the throttle, blasting above the pulling-up Dominion fighter before it could ever elevate its guns high enough.

-Splash one,- the Colonel's voice comes over the radio. -Is he giving me the finger?-

"If he is, whatcha gonna do about it, Colonel?" Nathi asks, stifling a laugh that she just knows will come out all too nervous, all things considered.

"I never was as good at this as you all," Bondayehr jokes as he rolls another one-eighty and pulls up again, exchanging kinetic energy for potential and height as he reacquires the Dominion pilot, still trying to climb and come over. He won't stall, but while he has better dexterity than the Phantom III he doesn't have the raw power. Timofeyev pushes down on the stick, jinking his fighter up relative to the ground and getting higher than the Daft fighter just now getting inverted-level. The Dominion pilot sees this, and betting on his turns, pulls to his left, the Captain's right. Seeing the other fighter commit, Bondayehr follows--he has more speed and can do more, and has the distance. Pulling up, he keeps his nose in front of the Daft fighter as his own slips to the outside of the turn, banking more and more to keep his nose where he wants it.

-I guess I'll just have to put the gun camera footage on the 'net,- the colonel responds somewhere in the middle of this.

Any further commentary from Bondayehr's partner is kept quiet as she holds on tight to the harness holding her secure, eyes wide as she clenches her jaw, and tries to keep track of what all this damned crazy 'Pendran is pulling off with what seems a rather dangerous game of not-quite-tag. One, distractions are not conducive to better flying. Two, she's not entirely sure if she'll sound enthusiastic, or panicked at this point - feeling rather a good deal of both.

Land and sea off to the right, the Dominion craft is now ahead and just above Timofeyev's plane. Bondayehr continues to ride low, leveling out when the Daft plane does, still low and behind. The Daft plane waggles--it's lost him--then inverts, which is usually a good idea, so one can see what's under them. It's the wrong move here, though--he should've just banked hard in whatever direction he pleased. Bondayehr inverts too, puts the waterfall of his open-bore coilgun right on the Talon's fuselage, and pulls the trigger. The digital gun camera rolls as the coilgun's rangefinder laser, tied to the same avionics controlling the pulse lasers' traverse, pings off the Dominion craft's hull and scores a return. "Splash one," Bondayehr says, "tankgunned." He immediately pulls up and forces the throttle forward, getting more speed.

He instinctively rolls right as the status screen registers target ping on his left wing, then glances over as another Excalibur swoops down on the Talon that was sneaking up behind him. "So, am I out?" A quick check of the target ping reads out to just two medium-class lasers. "Nope, doesn't look it."

-Splash one,- the other Excalibur pilot reports. -Where's Wick?-

-I'm out,- the pilot referred to grumbles sullenly, -bastards got smart and ganged up on me before the last of you air-sup flyers took them down.-

-They're disengaging, and we've had our fun. Wick, I'm going to have to talk to you,- Somayli says sternly, then laughs. -Hell, even Pancake took one down.-

"Yup. Didn't even get shot down for my trouble. Forming back up on your lead, Rootie."

"I'm reminded again why it's nice being on the same side of things," Nathi mutters, grinning all the same. Pancake ... what in hell did he do to earn that nick? Not sure I dare ask. Not in the air at any rate.

A quick supersonic jaunt over the Adriatic soon brings the 'Pendran fighters back to Devras; the Phantoms less Bondayehr land first, then the Excaliburs, then finally Bondayehr brings his in for a landing. It's practiced, a lot softer than most airliner landings. Taxi off the runway, power down in the ready-return slot. The mixed roar paper-ripping sound that pervaded everything through the flight clips off, replaced with the slowly lowering hum of a slowing turbine before everything goes quiet. Bondayehr opens the canopy, puts out the safety stop, and pulls off his helmet. "So, whatd'ya think?"

The Dread Lady slowly pulls her own helmet off after a moment, brushing stray strands back from her face, and smiling radiantly. "I think, that I could get used to that ... every now and then," she says with a wink. "Damn, but you had me going there a time or seven. Damn sharp flying there, Cap'n."

"I'm not really that good. Not exactly my professional track, you know... whatever it really is." The thump of boots on the wings announce technicians hopping to their tasks, giving some indication of the heat dissipation qualities of the bird. Hookladders appear on the side of the cockpit, and Bondayehr undoes his straps and starts coming down. "Thank you, though."

Nathicana shakes her head and smiles. Damn self-deprecation. Knows well enough not to press by now. "No, thank you for an absolutely thrilling afternoon of flying. I'll even forgive you for all those times I thought I left my stomach behind us somewhere, or was afraid my heart was going to up and stop." This of course, delivered with close-lipped smile after she makes her way down the ladder after him.

And that's when the same technicians mentioned earlier, the ones with the cooler of sports drink, proceed to fulfill tradition. All over Nathi.

The diminutive woman lets out a shriek, and spins first one way, then the other, trying to wipe the liquid out of her face so she can see. She goes from full on Dread Lady mode, imperious glare and all, to shoulder-shaking laughter in about a quick count of ten. "I don't suppose you'll be as willing to help me clean up as you were to get me all wet?" she finally asks, smiling mischievously. Then to Bondayehr. "You didn't mention cold showers, boy."

"Tradition demands I don't." Bondayehr chuckles and winks whilst the enlisted--and the other officers who were flying before--have a good laugh.

Nathi grumbles good-naturedly ... and promptly shakes off as much in his direction as possible.

Timofeyev simply shrugs. Cold sports drink ain't nothin. He opens his mouth to speak, then Somayli pulls rank. "GROUP PHOTO!"

"What, looking like this?" Nathi blurts, both brows up, still dripping.

In something that could only be staged, the ground crews pile around on the Phantom whilst the officers hop in-frame and Bondayehr wraps one arm around Nathi whilst the other gives the V-for-victory to the spaceman with the camera. Where'd he come from? "Say cheese."

Nathi gives the Cap'n a sidelong glance of suspicion whilst offering a wry smile. "I'll get you, my pretty," she says, lips barely moving. To emphasize, she reaches back and gives his ass a firm but gentle enough pinch.

"So you say," Bondayehr says behind a smile as the flash goes off.

"Alright, people, we've got a wing to run," the colonel declares in an impressive command voice, "now get back to work!" She maneuvers herself around to the Captain and Nathi, bowing shortly to the latter. "It's been a pleasure, ma'am."

Nathicana smiles and offers her hand. "Likewise, Colonel. Appreciate the indulgence."

Somayli accepts and shakes firmly like a jetjock should. "Anytime... Corporal Major." She winks to Nathi, then addresses the Captain. "Captain Bondayehr, you are the political liaison officer, right?"

"Yes, ma'am," Bondayehr replies simply.

"Well, this could be a delicate political situation. Please do what you can to ensure it isn't an issue. Consider that your order of the day."

"Yes, ma'am. Will that be all?"

"That'll be all, Captain."

Bondayehr snaps to attention and salutes. "Good afternoon, ma'am."

The colonel returns the salute--"Good afternoon, Captain"--bows shortly to Nathi again politely--"Good afternoon, ma'am"--then walks off to get some much needed paperwork done.

Nathi nods, and waits for a bit of distance before asking Bondayehr the obvious question. "What do I need to do to assist on this 'delicate' business, and where can I get a copy of that picture?"

"Well, all you gotta do is not yell at us for the gatorade, and I'll be sure to have PA send you a copy." Bondayehr smiles.

"Then I believe we have no problems," she replies, smiling in turn. "All the same, getting un-sticky would be a step in the right direction."

"Right. Showers are in the building over there along with lockers and the like." Bondayehr points with the flat of his hand towards the same blocky building which held the ready room, unsurprisingly.

She nods again, then fiddles a bit with her wet ensemble. "Is it possible to impose on you for a borrowed change of clothes? Not knowing Tradition, you kind of caught me unawares."

"Already ahead of you there. Requisitioned some fatigues and already have them strategically placed off the showers."

"See? Now this is why I'd like to have you around. You think ahead. Grazie, Timofeyev. See you in a few, then?"

Bondayehr nods. "Certainly. See you later."

Captain Bondayehr: Unexpected Opportunities for Career Advancement #4
Working Lunch

Institutionalized dining halls, not being shaped by any real market interest, share basic qualities throughout. Decor is minimal, the settings and furniture optimized for durability at low cost, and the food quality varies as a function of the staff and how much the institution cares for those it is instituted for, metered by aforementioned cost. With this in mind, the liaison wing's mess hall, while the same boring greys throughout as everything else, has decent if simple food. Oddly enough, importing cooks turned out to be less expensive than making a contract with the local catering corps, especially when multilinguality was an issue. Besides having circular tables arranged in irregular rows across the large dining hall, the walls are decorated in the occasional fighter mural and squadron insignia.

Nathicana smiles across the table at Bondayehr, idly toying with her coffee, stirring in ample cream and sugar. Silly 'Pendrans and their functionality and form concepts. Still, the change is a pleasant one. "Thank you again for the fun today, even if you scared a couple years off me in the process," she says with a wink. "And for indulging me with a bit of downtime like this. How've you been doing, anyway? It's been a while since we just talked."

"Been better, been worse," the Captain replies, studying his souvlaki. "Pretty much the same." 'Just talking' means 'not opening the hangar doors,' at least not yet.

"I don't suppose there's anything I can do to help?" One brow arches slightly as she takes an experimental sip, then adds a bit more cream. "As in, 'how can I be helpful', not 'here, I've decided this is good for you, so take it'." The last turning her smile a bit wry.

Well, she opened 'em first. "First snag is that I won't be able to hold up my end of the deal for borrowing your Loki. My fault there." He takes a bite of the Grecian dish.

The other brow goes up. "Well, it was more a hope that the two of you could have some fun before ..." Nathi gestures vaguely and curses quietly. Awkward, this. "In any case, what's the problem? Not wanting to add any stress to the situation and all."

"I added sufficient stress to the situation to kill any interest, for the moment at least." Bondayehr shrugs, and takes another bite, the care required to eat his food with some semblance of manners precluding him from making eye contact. "Nothing more serious than that."

Nathicana nods slowly, and takes the opportunity to grab a bite of the club sandwich waiting on her plate, chewing thoughtfully before replying. Awkward indeed. "Well ... I suppose you'll just have to un-stress it a bit when you have a chance. Making up can be fun, after all, whatever the problem is." A pause, another small bite. "I know it can't be easy on either of you, all this."

"If I had my way, you wouldn't have to worry about it. Unfortunately, I don't always get my way. Don't you dare let that get out."

Bondayehr shrugs, pausing long enough to glance up. "Eh. It's what I signed up for. I've just always been horrible at dealing with future-problem stress. Once I get shipped out I'll be fine."

"Bah. You've earned a rest from all of that. Your 'superiors'," she places ample derision on that word, scowling slightly. "Are a pack of bone-headed, stubborn sons-of-bitches. Damn whatever agenda they're pressing right to hell, I say. Retire, stay here, enjoy life for a switch. You know you've got ample amnesty if you need it."

Bondayehr stops chewing, puts down his souvlaki, and leans forward slightly. "That's irrelevant, and you know it." He speaks quietly, but distinctly. "There's a war out there, and I am a signed-and-sworn soldier of the Federated Segments of Scolopendra. It is my duty to go out there and fight that war if ordered to, and for whatever reason, it was. My superior officers may have ulterior motives; for me, I'm shipped off to war not only because that's the definition of a warfighter but also because my country and friends I owe a lot to need protecting, or at least help. Whatever the person signing the orders was thinking, the fact I don't desire to, whatever I've been asked to do in the past, and whoever I have as friends are irrelevant. This was the risk I accepted by taking the oath, and I'm still accepting of it."

"I know, Tim," Nathi says quietly, again stirring her coffee to give her hands something to be busy with. "I know, and everyone else knows that come hell or high water, you will do your duty, because this is who and what you are. And I do respect that. It's not as if I'll be offering any of my own servicemen or women a choice in any of this either. So, I'm a hypocrite." She shrugs slightly, watching her slowly-swirling coffee.

"Sherman probably had a reason for saying 'war is hell' whilst sitting in the general's chair." Bondayehr leans back and gets to eating quietly. "I've given orders that've gotten people under my command killed. Those were tragedies. The higher up the ladder you go, the likelihood of death increases, and so it goes from being a tragedy to a statistic... while one can let it color their thinking, one can't let it keep them from doing their job."

"Heavy the head ... I've had that discussion before. Years later, and no better answers now. I'm still waiting for the 'wiser' to come with 'older'." Nathi slumps down a bit in her chair, munching on her sandwich halfheartedly. "At least I know I can help by not bringing up options again, even if they remain, regardless. Admit I wouldn't mind a few ... colorful reminders of displeasure to find their way into a few particular bedrooms, all the same." Here she smiles just a bit, glancing over at the Cap'n slyly. "Pity we don't know anyone who specializes in that, eh?"

"I thought you knew plenty of local talent that way." Timofeyev smirks in response.

"I wouldn't know anything about that," she replies archly, taking a slow sip of her coffee. "Besides - those I'd like to remind aren't exactly local."

"'Course you wouldn't. Still, the Universe is getting smaller by the day." Bondayehr drinks some bluish juice from a cup in front of him. "Still, going to miss the Wing. I think some of them are actually jealous in a sort of guilt-induced fashion, really."

"I could always see about having them go do something more productive, I suppose. Things seem to be going smoothly, thanks in no small part to yourself. May not be a need to continue as we have been." She glances idly about the room, brow creased slightly. "Perhaps it's time to make a change. And look into the possibilities that come of a slowly shrinking Universe."

Now it's Bondayehr's turn to raise an eyebrow. "History shows that the successful aerospace forces are the ones who maintain a good training pipeline by moving expert pilots to train new ones to proficiency. In terms of warfighting, there's nothing 'more productive' than that."

"Well, if experienced pilots are so needed for this latest ..." She shrugs slightly and takes another slow sip of her coffee. "Unless the claim is empty, of course, and just a convenient cover. I wouldn't worry about it, Cap'n. You've got more than enough on your plate to deal with as is. Speaking of which, all arrangements have been made - ship's yours whenever you want it. Let me know if you ever need some company, eh?"

Bondayehr puts his souvlaki back down. This seems to be a sign. "What exactly are you up to now? You saw how it went earlier today--your forces are improving, but still need work. The best place for the experienced pilots of this wing, a category in which I am not classified, is right here."

Nathicana responds in a quiet yet casual tone, though her chin tilts up slightly as she speaks. "I' not 'up to' anything, boy. There's been talk for some time concerning the cozy relationship between the Dominion and the Segments. Politics, you know. As I said, I wouldn't worry about it."

Timofeyev clearly moderates what he's about to say, given the pause and the few moments taken to think. "I respectfully beg to differ. If it is politics, I'm still the political liaison officer up until I'm relieved. So, what's the situation?"

Nathi counters smoothly, idly gesturing to his plate. "And you've been given other duties to attend to in the meantime. Eat your lunch before it gets cold." The question after all, was not really whether or not to remove the wing and the like so much as how far could she let displeasure be known without shooting herself in the foot. If possibilities got leaked through various avenues, so be it. "If there becomes a need, we'll discuss."

"Of course, Imperatrice." He makes no effort to hide looking like he'd just been slapped in the face, but does bite his tongue about several witty rejoinders on whether he has to put the Dread Lady down for a nap, perhaps with some warm milk. He makes no move towards his food. Still... two can play the game. "Can't help but think, though, how unfortunate it could be for people who have worked so hard on the special relationship if something were to happen to it for whatever reason. Could drive them to despair, one might think... but, you know me. Always worrying about the angles." Now, he reflects, none of this is particularly wise but she did join the battle first. I wonder if she's ever read any of my psych reports.

"Well, as there's nothing to worry about at present aside from idle talk, such worry about angles and the like would be counterproductive, and a waste of time and energy." She manages not to wince, though she does have the good grace to offer an apologetic, slightly sheepish look. It's hoped he understands, at least a little.

"Besides. Anything that could possibly happen to develop would only illustrate just how important it is to have the right people working on said relationships, and just how invaluable they have been, and should continue to be in that capacity."

Bondayehr chuckles with a shake of his head before sipping again from his glass. "And I'm sure such people are quite honored by such high esteem but, probably given their service-oriented natures--being the right people and all--would prefer that any 'possible developments' be kept to as much of a minimum as possible through the action of self-deterministic free wills. No need to will harder troubles on ourselves when things are already difficult, neh?"

"Of course," Nathi says, nodding slightly. "And if perhaps more effective and less 'difficult' methods were to be suggested, I'm certain they would be quite welcome. In the event of, and all. Always prepared?" She allows herself a wry smile, thinking back to an earlier discussion. "Though I'm not sure even waking up to a glassy-eyed Bessie, or parts thereof, is enough to shake that bastard Hawke. I think he's dead from the brows on down."

Timofeyev shrugs, returning to finishing off his souvlaki, cold or not. "I suppose the old appeal to 'national sovreignty' won't find an audience here..." A wink, aided by a smirk. "As for the Advisor, that comes as no surprise. He was part of the 'get it over with and just bomb Arda into the mantle' school of thought."

"Alas ... hindsight. Probably should have done it," she says, repressing an involuntary shiver. "Everyone has their buttons, though. Just a matter of finding them. And in some cases, un-pushing them. My gardens are still at your disposal, should you need." She finishes with a soft smile, hoping that perhaps at least one thing can get resolved - if not today, soon.

The captain replies with a nod, remembering to relax slowly so as to not make a scene of it. "Depends on who you ask if we did or didn't. But yeah, I'll work on bringing Shorty around, which is a function of me being more stoic for a few days, and then we'll see about taking you up on company."

There had been many rumors, yes - some more far-fetched than she wanted to give creedence to. Best not to think too hard about it, all things considered. "I hope it goes well." Another pause as she finishes off her sandwich, watching him quietly for a moment. "I am sorry, Timofeyev. For lots of things really. Can't really ask for forgiveness, and there really isn't any making up for things, but ... sorry all the same. Whatever happens in the next while, I know you'll do well. And I'll do whatever I can to help from this end - so long as said help is welcome. Dinner at my place when you're done?"

"Thanks for the support. It's appreciated." Bondayehr nods gently, more of a subtle bow. "And this question will sound daft--done with what?"

"With all this other, of course - though you're welcome up any time you like. You should know that, though."

"Let's not make it official. War movie superstition."

"Right then. Will just keep it as that open offer that already stands. Fair?"

"That's for the best. So, when are you free for my first dropship flight lesson?"

"I'll make time, Timofeyev," Nathicana says firmly. "I don't run this place by myself, even if I'd like to. Bastard Ministry and that thrice-damned Calabrese can bloody well earn their pay if needed. Besides, not as though they can't get hold of me if I'm really needed."

"Err..." Bondayehr blinks. "I don't doubt any of that but it doesn't exactly answer my question, which was a perhaps unfortunately phrased attempt at 'when would it be most convenient for me to take my first lesson?'"

"Ok then, how does tomorrow sound?"

"That will work nicely." It's true, and even if it weren't, he's quickly realizing the uselessness of debate at the moment.

"Excellent. Same time, executive entrance of the airport - you're already cleared. And hey, it's fairly close to home so it should be a short trip," Nathi says, smiling warmly, albeit close-lipped out of habit.

"Excellent indeed. I'll be there."

Captain Bondayehr: Unexpected Opportunities for Career Advancement #2.5
Earlier That Day...

Nathicana paces back and forth through her office, occasionally pausing to take a sip of her ever-present ice water as she goes over several arguments quietly, working herself up to a right proper Dread Lady frame of mind. "Right then."

Sitting down down at her desk, she initiates the connection request to a certain office in Scolopendra, sitting tall, chin tilted up in that imperious manner all too familiar to those who know her.

The call gets picked up by a junior civil servant who probably has no idea what he's in for. "Junior Civil Servant al-Aqsa, Foot-to-Ass Section Frontdesk. How may I help you?"

"Nathicana D'Aquisto, Dread Lady and First Imperatrice of the Dominion," Nathi announces in clipped tones. "I wish to speak with Advisor Hawke. Now." The last word is delivered with an note of finality and an expectation of immediate satisfaction of her ... request.

One moment," al-Aqsa says with a smile, "please hold." He takes the handset from his ear, presses the transfer button on the cradle, and then counts to ten elephants before punching in the code for Hawke's office. This has two effects: one, it is a silent rebellion against the Dread Lady thinking her 'now' means jack shit in the Segments, and two, his boss will probably get it even harder in response. Schadenfreude is the purest sort of joy.

Nathicana takes those moments to more carefully compose herself, refraining from tapping her fingertips against her desk, though the corner of her mouth twitches once in irritation. Damned 'Pendran pain in the arse ... please hold? Only thing I want to hold is that thrice-damned Hawke's neck. Tightly.

Meanwhile, a billion and a half kilometers away, Hawke idly tabs the switch underneath the blinking yellow light mounted on the box on his desk before returning to his work. "Hawke. Go ahead."

"Buon giorno," she begins, at least starting off with some measure of politeness. "I hope this is not an inopportune time?"

Lance puts down the lightpen he was using to fill out e-sheets on his databoard--amazing how far things go, they still resemble the quills and parchment of days past--then folds his hands, recognizing the voice. "Not at all, ma'am; simply an unusual one--I usually don't get these kinds of calls. How may I help you?"

"You could help me understand why you've chosen to rob me of such a valuable asset as Captain Bondayehr who has been serving honorably and effectively in his position in the Dominion, choosing to send him off instead on an unneccessary and ill-thought out assignment," Nathicana says firmly, for now still attempting civility.

"I'm afraid, ma'am, that I don't understand where you're coming from." Hawke's granite face remains impassive."

"Keep up, Hawke. Where I'm 'coming from' is asking what in hell you boys were thinking reassigning Bondayehr to some damn fool venture in the Ssslaa system, flying a Loki no less. Clarity achieved?" she snaps back quickly, not missing a beat.

Hawke grins in a half-smirk. "I'm afraid your complaint is more of a matter for Personnel than Administration, ma'am, although hopefully you can understand my confusion. You see, as far as I am aware, Captain Bondayehr is an officer of the Segments and therefore I can't see how a transfer would be 'stealing.'

"Now, if he's gone and broken the uniform code of military justice and sold himself as chattel, or if he's gotten a commission or an enlistment in your armed forces, please let us know so we can take appropriate disciplinary measures. Failing that..." He spreads his hands.

"Perhaps you can look a bit closer, take into consideration all his past service and performance, not to mention how many officers you have at your disposal," any emphasis on that particular word was most definitely meant to be noticed. "And see that there is no goddamn need to send him off like this with both insufficient training, and removing him from a position where he's of much more use to both our governments."

"I disagree with your estimate, ma'am, that his current position is of the most use to the Segments. As you well know we are gearing up for a conflict against an advesary which is probably our military superior. In such a situation, we need elite command and control to overcome any technological divide. While I have the utmost faith in my other officers and their training, they are simply that--trained."

"They are not tested, unlike Captain Bondayehr, and I must in addition belatedly thank you for providing the opportunity to not only test him, not only find him a suitable combat commander, but also bring his skills to our attention." Hawke smiles evenly. "I am certain you do not give medals to underperforming assets, and I know we don't."

Nathicana glares at Hawke's hologram image as if she could make him burst into flames with just that look. "He's done enough for both corps and country. You've got plenty, and you damn well know it, whatever else you might claim. Take him out of the Dominion if you must, but I insist you keep him the hell out of that combat."

Hawke folds his hands. "Sorry, ma'am, but I've a war to win and I don't believe in holding back assets when it comes to winning. Captain Bondayehr is no different from any other officer who is being tagged by a whip to go into combat command; from where I sit, he's a statistic with the requisite skillset to meet the objectives."

"I suggest you weigh your assets and statistics carefully then, Advisor. I would hate to have unforseen actions shift the balance and throw your precious figures off," Nathi says coldly, one finger idly tracing along her desk.

"To put it bluntly, ma'am," the Advisor replies with the quiet air of a schoolteacher preaching to an errant student while trying to make it not look like preaching, "that is the definition of my job."

"If you follow through with this you heartless son of a bitch, I swear you will regret it," she replies, clearly not impressed, and predictably letting her temper get the better of her.

Lance nods appraisingly. "It's not the first time I've been called that, but it's something of a maxim of mine that cold warriors generally can't afford such things as bleeding hearts. Nevertheless, your protest is noted. Is there anything else I can help you with, ma'am?"

"A warriors heart bleeds just as easily as the rest when properly pierced, Hawke. If orders haven't changed within the week, you'll be given instructions that will 'help' me with everything I need. Terminating connection," she snaps, shutting it down with an angry click, barely stopping herself from further venting by throwing her glass against the opposite wall.

Meanwhile, Hawke shrugs and goes back to his current bit of paperwork, which consists of listing strategic targets of enemy interest in the Triumvirate in terms of megadeaths.

Timofeyev Bondayehr: The Horrible Life Of, #1
Too Much Plotting Over Too Little Time, Blue Side

Aboard the Longship-class Triumvirate of Yut WarShip Shatt El Arab

"Oh, now this is just too much, ma'am." Bondayehr folds his arms and leans back in the regulation TYCS chair, blue-upholstered and adjusted (with its many spring-loaded buttons, recessed into the side to prevent accidental actuation) to fit his human frame of moderate height. "El Arab is going in for a six-month total overhaul and refit, and I was looking forward to the downtime. I really was. The promotion, no, no surprise there. The fact I'm to get one of the new Puma III destroyers? No, again, no surprise. But I start my training cruise, outsystem, next cycle?"

He shakes his head. "Now I know I've no place to talk. People have been running relationships around our weird five-months-out-one-month-home cycle system for freaking ever and we've still got it better than, say, Hornblower's Royal Navy. But with some sort of manipulation in my career essentially admitted to, is it so much to ask for one cycle to at least recouperate with the one person who keeps me sane and human? Hell, I'll go on reservist half-pay if I have to."

The hologram image of General Shri Nikunj, commanding officer of the Scolopendran AeroSpace Directorate, sighs. She understands, and she is honestly glad that her junior officer is comfortable with--or at least pissed off enough--to complain; in her eyes, he has every right and knows that he'll still follow orders if it comes to that. "I don't think it's too much to ask, but the Advisor insists. And we both know what 'insists' means."

"Nathi's right, he is..." Bondayehr pauses. "Is this on the record?"

Shri smirks. "No recording, no evidence, no Uniform Code on statements."

"A conniving meddling bastard. I get all this 'special' attention for being a hero or something and real officers who really would make good Sky Marshals are forced to make their grade the hard way." Now, no one had ever said this was the goal of the fiddling. But it stands to reason.

The general sighs again. "Have you ever met Sky Marshal Pandousco?"

Timofeyev ponders a moment, then shakes his head. "No, but I know he's in charge of the rimward Ticks theatre. Heard to be something of a social inept, but he's been getting better since all that weirdness in the Shogunate, so scuttlebutt goes."

"It's true," she says with a sigh, "and he's a product of Hawke's. Not completely, of course, but Hawke put him on the fast track when he had my job. Scuttlebutt from the general staff suggests that Pandousco may be retiring eventually due to, well, finding something of a soulmate in Captain Sierra of the Shogunate. She's got a little thing for a daughter and, well, she's been taken care of communally whilst her mom's been shipped out. Something you'd know about via M'sha and Embassy-Representative."

"Hrm." Bondayehr frowns. "Well, thanks for the heads-up, though I know you don't really offer tidbits like this without reason, ma'am. Sky Marshal I expected. Duty-driven houdou zombie, not so much."

"He's got your records, Tim." This is the first time she's ever used his first name. That it's the short, personal form gets the twenty-nine-and-a-half year old's attention right quick. "He knows what your psych profile says, who you're connected to, what their internal and external motivations and motivators are. He's also got rubber-stamp authority on all assignments."

"Do I know about that rubber stamp..." Bondayehr grumbles. He ponders what's been said, doesn't like the conclusion, and doesn't like it so much he turns the conversation back around. "This sounds like even more of a reason to throw a wrench in the gears and for me to go half-pay. Arguably I have the right."

"Yes... but regulation only confirms that right for people with over ten years in-service. Grade has nothing to do with it, and you're just short of the demarcation." Nikunj frowns. "All the more reason behind the timing, I'm afraid."

"Nek ni. Fine. If I'm forced to go a-boating, need it be outsystem? Something I could commute to and from would be nice. Wink wink."

"Arguably you're being thrown into the Periphery because of what happened in Kekkosama."

"Don't remind me... but you don't buy it."

"I know my COs, Major. He's a cold warrior who plays the long game and doesn't mind machination, no matter how blatant. I think it's part of whatever scheme he's running this time."

"I'm not about to ask about the particulars of this scheme," Bondayehr says with a sigh. "Just give me the opportunity to be around to combat it."

The general sits silently for a moment, musing, chin resting on steepled fingers. "I'm a meddler too, Tim, and I guess you figured that out with your Dominion posting and how it happened to mesh with a certain civil servant. Nadjiba and I had a little talk. General Waverly of the Mobile Infantry and I talk too. He's gotten the strangest request concerning the Sea Corps as of late and I don't like the sound of it. It clashes with my own meddling.

"With that in mind, as long as you're on a starship as a commander-in-training I don't think the good Advisor will notice if I do a little paperwork stacking of my own. I think it's about time Destroyer Vespoidea got reassigned to the Second Heavy Core we keep around Earth. You know, because it will have just gotten out of rebuild to Puma III standards and we should spend six months working the kinks out. Just in case."

Bondayehr grins behind closed lips, beaming broadly. "Just in case, ma'am, most agreed. And..." He sighs, composes himself, and looks straight into the hologram. "Thank you, ma'am."

"You're welcome, Major," Shri says with a smile, "but never mention it."

"'This need not be said,' as the proverb goes." Bondayehr nods. "Will that be all, ma'am?"

"That is all, Major."

Lieutenant Colonel-elect Bondayehr reports out, salute and all, then leaves the darkened secure comm cubicle aboard the starship feeling much better than he did going in.

For once.

Timofeyev Bondayehr: The Horrible Life Of, #2
Too Much Plotting Over Too Little Time, Red Side:
Or the Poor Sap Who Qualifies as Such

It's just another day in the life as Lieutenant Colonel G'reer-Captain steps off the shuttle and onto the tarmac of the Stazione Navale de Devras and looks into the sky. The sun's not artificial, and it's close, and if he had made his career in the rear-echelon brigades in the Saturnspace 'coast guard' then perhaps he'd find this new. No, it's just habit is all. The sky is a little bluer than on Bright Morning, where this 'tosh made a name for himself with the first Up-And-Out deployed squadron of Gyrinidae-class submersible battle monitors. Once WarWANCC had come up with a real mission for a wet navy in a space war scenario, the Mobile Infantry Sea Corps had something of a renaissance, and G'reer-Captain is a man... tiger... thing product of that renaissance.

So it was just a bit of debris that his ship, FSMIS Chester Nimitz, plugged in orbit of Bright Morning. Still, as Officer of the Watch it was his responsibility to put the ship at Event Condition One, surface, and engage the target identified by the tacnet as a potential threat and showing no signs of habitation. It was by the numbers, by the book, and very well received. He got a major commendation for it, and then a half-name. In what was generally considered the orphan child of all the arms of the Military Services, he's managing to make a name for himself. Suits him just fine; he's always liked sea air. Something about the brine smell and the suggestion of infinite fish, he thinks.

Shouldering his mobility bag, he checks his blocky communicator for the next step. It was a little odd that he'd be transferred to Earth defense service, given how the Menelmacari had that locked up tight. Still, there were Gyrinidae home-ported in both Elfland and the Dominion, and apparently the Sea Corps had finally set up a training agreement with the Marina Militare for cross-training, given how MISC's bastard-child status meant that what naval tradition it had ever had died quite some time ago. Getting tips from a proper navy makes sense, G'reer-Captain thinks, and he's not about to question why. Better training makes him a better soldier--sailor--and a better Hero.

Next step? Contact the current liason officer in charge of the Dominion-Segments naval cooperation, one Capitano di Corvetta Tornatore, to find out what ship he'll be serving on and how he's going to be accommodated. Normally he wouldn't mind just bunking on-board or in barracks, but given that his schedule includes 'visit consulate with O4 Tornatore' it looks like the Sea Corps has already arranged some sort of civilian housing. Well, he muses, naval traditions apparently contain a large sense of officer privilege. I don't know if we want to adopt that... but...

Yawning dismissively, he walks with an ingrained sense of purpose towards what apparently acts as the naval station's air terminal. It wouldn't do to keep his contact waiting, and he would finally get the chance to see if the KCTS translator and vocaljacker headware he spent his last paycheck on was worth the investment.

Timofeyev Bondayehr: The Horrible Life Of, #3
The Biyearly Tradition

337th SASD Liason Wing Flightline, 0900 Hours (Devras Local Time)

Pitching his mobility bag to the side, Timofeyev leaps from the side door of the Scarab shuttle with all his might, half-tackling and half-wrapping around the kzinret standing at the bottom of the disembarkation ramp. The canvas bag hits the ground with a soft 'whump' and almost rolls a quarter of the way around before its contents settle in such a way where its rolling moment of inertia increases dramatically, adding with the loss of rotational energy to deformation and friction to bring it to a full stop. Shorty staggers back two steps; while she has about two feet and easily fifty kilograms on the human there's still momentum to be conserved here on the surface of Earth, where people must still generally obey Newtonian mechanics in their everyday lives.

"Hiya," Timofeyev says quietly, smiling at the 'ret, turning the grapple into more of a hug for a moment.

"Been a while," Shorty replies in a similar fashion, stepping back again as Bondayehr hops down and Picard Maneuvers his broad red fabric belt with a quick tug. Within the space of a moment the two are well back within prim and proper regulations. While the flight line is technically a no-salute zone, she does anyway. "Good morning, Major."

Major Bondayehr investigates the glint of metal on the collar of Embassy-Representative's service coat, notes that she no longer has circular rank patches on her arms, and nods approvingly before returning the salute with practiced snappiness. "Good morning, Officer. The promotion went through, I see."

"As did yours, Lieutenant Colonel-elect, if Spaceman magazine is to be believed." Diplomatic Officer Embassy-Representative's ears twitch. "May I get your bag, sir?"

"If you'd like, Officer." Bondayehr steps aside to let everyone else debark the shuttle, their glances be damned. "It seems we've both been holding some news from each other."

"Some things are best said in person," the kzinret says with all seeming officialness as she shoulders the large bag, more of a satchel compared with her.

"Indeed, Officer," Bondayehr says with a nod.

* - * - *

Officer's Club, 0930 Hours

"Passed the service exam with flying colors," Shorty says with no small amount of pride, "and with previous service performance reports taken into consideration got into the Diplo Officer Corps at O-3 equivalent. I didn't do quite well enough to get a pip," she says with a slight grumble, referring to the single pip inside the olive branches that O-4 through O-6 equivalent D.O.s get in their insignia.

"It's still an achievement. Any time the Services let anyone skip any grade, much less two, you know how much of an honor that is." Bondayehr smiles sincerely. "So, what's your new posting?"

"Same consulate here in Devras, servicing mostly the legal and military communities. I work very closely with Ciro now, who has your old job but on the Marina Militare side." The kzinret flits her ears. "As it turns out my connections are working out well--while I would prefer to get a little further away from the military aspects, being the DiploCorps observer to the Military Services/Marina Militare coordination mission--I am getting deeper into the legal issues and disputes we have with the Dominion. On an individual level," she says in response to Timofeyev's raised eyebrow inbetween bites of falafel. "Enough of my exploits, though, Colonel--I assume things are going as according to conspiracy theory?"

"Ha ha," Timofeyev says with a not totally humorless smirk, "very funny."

"I do listen, even if growlingly now and again," Shorty says with a hint of concern. "Without conflict..."

"No growth, I know. Anyway, yes, am going to be shipped into destroyer command. The Loki path apparently checked all the boxes that a executive officer tour would've." Bondayehr sighs. "On the fast track, as predicted."

Shorty frowns expressively. "Well, we have dealt with this for years now; we can manage still."

Bondayehr frowns. "Pressure from your mom?"

"Of course. The Sky Marshal always needs her contingency plans in a row. Military career, House operations, all of that."

"Well, on the up side I did push back. Rather than getting shoved to the Periphery the shakedown cruise will be in Earth orbit, most of the time, so I'll be able to visit more often. Far more often than this one-out-of-six foolishness."

"Any chance they'll put you behind a desk again? The liason elements are still missing you."

"I figure I'm going to have at least four years before they can even think about shoving me in front of another board and going for cruiser. By that time I should be able to argue that I'm in a perfect position to go back to working with the MMD. Plenty of similar operational experience and all."

"Four years." Shorty sighs. "I'll be thirty-six then."

"With lifespans being what they are, the biological imperative isn't quite so," Timofeyev replies apologetically. "Nathi's managing despite essentially single-parenting it, albeit with a horde of hired staff. We don't have the luxury of the latter and I don't want to do to your kids..." What M'sha did to you, he leaves unsaid.

Shorty nods. "No argument there. There are the other options we've discussed."

This always comes up, Bondayehr says with a sigh. Sharing is good, isn't it? That's what they taught us in kindergarten, at least. "Any headway there on alternate... err... additional consorts?"

A slip of the tongue, a new bit of innovation in the responsorial. The kzinret quirks an eyebrow. "Alternate?"

"Well, you know me and my fears." Timofeyev starts fiddling with the edge of the table. "Ever see a family with a newborn? Completely bonding experience, if their attitude's correct. With that going on whilst I'm in the Up-And-Out, I'm afraid that no matter how hard we try I'll be left on the outside looking in." Why did I even bring that up? I've been thinking about it ever since a year after the idea came up.

Must've been what Nikunj said. "I think we both know how I would take that." Bondayehr grimaces as he plays his hand a bit too openly, but communication is the key to airpower. That and she hasn't found any suitable 'toshes yet.

"I assumed as much," Shorty says with a gentle smile, "But it's a possibility we have to keep open. You've got your meddlers and your duties, I've got mine."

"Granted. Any prospects?"

Shorty shakes her head. "No."

Well, that's good. Timofeyev sighs and smiles. "What's left on the agenda?"

Shorty nibbles on her side salad, then smirks. "I think that's the last of the touchy subjects between us. Time to stop being so damned formal."

"Thank God." Bondayehr grins behind closed lips. "This is the part of the tradition I like least."

"At least we don't ignore it, like some do," the 'ret replies introspectively.

"Which is why we work. Now, on to better and brighter things!"

* - * - *

Downtown Devras, 1100 Hours

Two spacer officers having a day on the town, shopping, browsing, and generally having a good time. Bondayehr makes sure to wave to any plainsclothes soldati he knows, just like he always does, and Shorty fills him in on any changes that have happened in the local area over the past five months. Most of these were described in correspondence, certainly, but a refresher never hurts.

"Old Lady Propenzicotti's in the hospital again?" Timofeyev hrms as they enter their favorite bakery. Propenzicotti is one of those old women who seem to constantly age and bend over just a little bit more, but never fade, something like the oldest tree in the woods. Despite being almost bent over double, her energy always surprised Bondayehr, at least so far as he remembers. That and she makes the best Italian bread in Devras, which immediately puts her near and dear to his heart. "What's up?"

"Oh a bit of the flu," Propenzicotti's son Eleuterio, a full-grown man with a family of his own, says from behind the counter of the shop. "It's got to her lungs and is just a touch of pneumonia is all."

"She told me she remembers when this was all orchards, as far as the eye could see," Bondayehr replies, "which means she probably had Romulus and Remus as grade-school crushes. That you take 'a touch of pneumonia' so lightly staggers me." He doesn't say it with heat, just total confusion.

"Eh, Mama's had worse. I think it'd really cheer her up if you two visited," Eleuterio says. "She was asking about you just the other day. 'It's getting to be about that time of the year,' she said. She's real sorry that she doesn't have a batch of her special bread baked up for you like she usually does, but, well, she refuses to tell me the secret. Swears she'll take it to her grave."

"A positive crime, I think. Still, she's good for visitors?"

"Like I said, only a touch of pneumonia." Eleuterio smirks, then chuckles jovially. "Tim, I've seen my mother fight off two different kinds of cancers. Admittedly the second was helped by medicines from space and all, but this is nothing. Trust me."

"Well then." Bondayehr looks up at Shorty and smiles. "Tomorrow I'll have to bake some of my own banana nut bread and we'll have to bring it in to her, won't we?"

"And if you let her know ahead of time," Shorty says to Eleuterio, "I'll wear your ears on my belt."

Eleuterio laughs. "Oh, you've got my silence. Oh, look, the bread's hot out of the oven. So that's your ulterior motive for talking to me for so long."

"It always is," the two 'Pendrans say in unison. It's tradition.

* - * - *

"The Pallazzo," 1400 Hours

"Ah, it's good to be home." Bondayehr climbs up the stairs, familiar two-hundred-year squeaks somehow sounding like music to his ears, into the air-conditioned comfort of the bedroom. Finally back to some semblance of where he belongs, with Shorty right behind him to finally toss that mobility bag into the corner where it will be forgotten in until tomorrow. They could have just stopped by earlier to drop it off... they could have also changed into mufti while they were at it.

Firstly, that wouldn't be tradition, and secondly, it'd require more self-control than two people who have been resisting their baser natures for nearly half a year would ever like to manage--the so close, yet so far aspect of it. They considered it once, three years ago, then glanced at each other, fidgeted a bit, and decided that if they did their day would end several hours too early.

One hand tosses the standard-issue duffel bag into the corner, the other one pushes--in a most friendly way--Timofeyev onto the bed. "I'm going to go get the usual pitcher of water. Don't go anywhere."

"As if I would," Tim teases back as he settles back on the bed fully dressed (complete with powergun still on his hip), hands folded behind his head.

Now, this part of the tradition... well, it wasn't exactly his favorite part--he's not that crude--but it's definitely up there.

Timofeyev Bondayehr: The Horrible Life Of, #4
No, Not Maverick At All, Are We?

"Good to see you healthy and in one piece," Ciro says in his native Italian with a smile as he waves down a waiter at the little seaside cafe. Then again, given just how much of Devras is technically seaside, maybe that's not very descriptive. The white stucco-fronted building with the yellow parasols over the tables in front has a commanding view of the Adriatic and Devras' seaports, making it a popular spot for fleetwatchers and off-duty Marina Militare Dominion officers, of which Tornatore sort of qualifies at the moment.

He's on his lunch break.

Bondayehr, on the other hand, is on mandatory leave. He's just wearing his fatigues out because they're the only things that look decent at the moment, and he doffs his cover as he ducks under the parasol and takes the empty seat across from Tornatore. "Miss me, mi caro?"

The joke is so old Tornatore is well beyond blushing now. Damn Scolopendrans and their shamelessness. "Shorty isn't the only one who worries about you, you know. You've quite a few friends in the area, and we all know how the Directorate should be brought up on charges of slave-driving."

"Bah." Timofeyev waves off the statement, even if he occasionally agrees. "You've got six-month tours at sea."

"And six months off. We're decent enough to have two crews for each ship."

"Mediterranean laziness."

Ciro makes a face. "Spacer heartlessness."

"Anyway. What's up?"

A waiter comes up with fresh ice-water for the two, glasses and a pitcher. Tornatore politely thanks him and sees him on his way before responding. "You're back in town. Do I ever need more reason than that?"

Bondayehr chuckles. "Not really. What's the news, then?"

"We're making great progress on the whole working-together thing." Ciro cants his head out towards the ocean, where out near the horizon the dark shapes of submarines sink and surface on maneuvers. "In fact, welcomed one of your Mobile Infantry--so odd--commanders... er... lieutenant colonels the other day. Shorty and I took care of his inprocessing."

"Oh, really? This is news?"

"Well, it's not like I see that many kzinti. Allow this poor Terrestrial some sort of sense of awe at the vaguely unusual. Anyway, monstrous thing. More tightly strung than you."

"He's a squid, what do you want?" Timofeyev smirks and shrugs. "If he's in the MISCellany, a ratcat, and an officer then he's either half a washout or a total career blood-and-guts go-getter."

"Definitely the latter. Surprised you haven't heard, though, how this colonel... G'reer-Captain? and Shorty talked."

"Well, Shorty knows how jealous a lover I am." Bondayehr shows no external sign of the sense of unease growing in the back of his mind. "Nothing to a little shooting of the breeze."

"Not that I can make heads or tails of their horrible language--"

"Hero's Tongue isn't that bad."

"I speak a Romance language; it's my solemn duty to insult all lesser languages."

"Sorry, but spoken Swedish still sounds more musical than Italian."

Ciro looks dryly at the man across from him. "May I?"

Timofeyev smiles incorrigibly. "Please do."

"Anyway. I'm a sailor, and even if they're not human some things are constant. Putting the moves on is practically one of them, and it sounded more like they were talking shop."

"Probably Patriarchy stuff, then. They left it in the Tongue so you wouldn't be bored to tears with 'I am so-and-so, son of Thorin Oakenbeard, line of Dwili, slayer of Tiamat, blah blah blah.' They're worse than the Norse that way... and have you ever heard Freodians talking about their lineage? They just do not. Shut. Up."

"Or dwarves, going by your example... and no, I can't say I have." Tornatore chuckles. "You Saturnians have everything, don't you."

"From the ninth century to the exty-third century, damn straight we do. So. You call me out here to suggest hanky-panky between my girl and some dashing submariner puke?" Bondayehr winks.

"No, just thought you'd like to hear about a fellow countryman, officer, and member of the Patriarchy showing up." Ciro ponders. "Where the hell do you fit in all that, anyway?"

"Line of Hgrirrh via consortship with Embassy-Representative, lineage of Bondayehr--grandfathered in, in an odd way. Full-named, also grandfathered in." Bondayehr scratches the side of his nose, saying it all with the same emphasis your average soldier would give name, rank, and serial number in conversation.

"It'd be a step down, then. This one's a half-name."

"So I noticed. Honestly, Ciro, why?"

"Sorry. Speculative saucy conversation is a cultural thing, plus it's not often I have something to tease you with that will get under your skin so much as your 'old flame' gag used to get under mine."

Bondayehr makes a face right back, nearly a picture-perfect copy of Ciro's previous sneer, before returning to facial normalcy and nodding to the ships on the horizon. "So, I guess the 'competition' is out there on maneuvers, then?"

"Most certainly. That's one cat not afraid of the water, I can say that much."

"Well, then, Corvette-Captain, let's go find a corvette for you to captain and go visit. I've always wanted to see a submarine up close." Timofeyev smirks.

"He... does outrank you, Major."

"Lieutenant Colonel-Elect, thank you very much. At the end of the month I get stuck into flying a WarShip, which is more tonnage than any MISCellany's ever gonna see. And a national hero. A bi-national hero, even. History book national hero." Bondayehr hears some pops in the distance. "And there's already VIPs about."

"No, not maverick at all, are we?" Tornatore chuckles. "Seriously, Tim. He just seems like a nice guy and a potential friend, if a little stuffy."

"Then let's go see him. He'll be honored, or I'll have his ears." Timofeyev winks. At this point even he's not all too sure how serious he is. He does want to see a sub, and paranoia is as good an excuse as any. "You can make up for giving me the idea by briefing me on everything not-'tosh-related on the way there."

Ciro sighs good-naturedly. "Now it's my fault for bringing it up?" He ponders for a moment. "Okay, maybe it is. Still, how do you propose getting a boat, and permission to enter an exercise area?"

"Simple. Same way you do anything in the Dominion." Timofeyev grins.

Tornatore waits with a quietly suffering look.

"Call a friendly superior, ask a favor, then drop names." Bondayehr points to himself. "National hero. That happens to have CINC-CENTCOM on his speed dial."

The Dominioner nods and shrugs with a concessionary smirk. "Point." He thinks for a moment. "Either this is really bothering you, or you really want to see one of your fancy space submarines up close."

"I'll let you know once we get there," Bondayehr replies truthfully, "because sometime around half an hour after first contact with the 'competition' I'll know myself."

Ciro looks concernedly at his friend. "What's eating you, Tim?"

"Forward intelligence from a reliable source. I'll let you know on the boat."

* - * - *

Bondayehr steps off the gangway onto the rubber-coated hull of FSMIS Francis Drake, comes to attention, and salutes snappily while silently puzzling at how much more stable the big ten-kayton submarine is in the water than that little motorboat he just disembarked. The big kzintosh in his Class As returns the salute, then chuckles with a whiff of breath through his nostrils. "An unexpected surprise, Major."

"A redundancy, sir." Bondayehr smiles. "Hopefully none too unpleasant a surprise."

G'reer-Captain shakes his head and flicks his ears. "Sorry. Do I get demerits for bad grammar?"

"Not at all, sir. This is a friendly visit."

"Then it is a pleasant surprise."

Timofeyev tilts his head and looks over the assorted sailors in fatigues assembled on deck. It may just be... no, it indeed is almost the ship's entire hundred-man company. This is something of an accomplishment, because something Francis Drake does not have much of is deck space. Especially not in the narrow slope between the central HNPPC turret and the aft rotary autocannon turret. "I think you're expecting someone other than me, sir."

"Hrr hrr, indeed." The 'tosh does seem rather stiff in his uniform, but he is unusually cordial, all things considered. "An inspection, actually."

"No worries, sir, I'll be quiet and not get in your way. Just always wanted to see one of these things and saw the opportunity."

Something clicks in the 'tosh's head, and he switches to the Hero's Tongue out of habit. "You are Embassy-Representative's consort, no?" Inferior-Superior tone, of all things.

"Caught that in the mutual exchange of lineage, eh?" Teasingly replied in Superior-Inferior, then on in Informative. "Yes, actually."

The kzintosh chuckles. "Congratulations. That one will go far." Still Inferior-Superior.

"If you don't stop using the Submissive tone I'm going to have to start assuming you're being sarcastic," Bondayehr grumbles.

The 'tosh looks honestly shocked. "I'm sorry... rrr..." He changes tone to Indicative. "I am sorry, but full-names..."

Bondayehr raises his eyebrows and shakes his head. "Oy." Then back to the harsher language. "It's all right. Take it easy, big guy. Communication is the key to air... err... seapower." Finally he coughs and reverts to English. "So, who are we waiting for?" What an odd fellow. I see what Ciro meant about being tightly wound...

G'reer-Captain, to his credit, recovers quickly and scans the horizon with yellow eyes. "Off the aft-port quarter. Bo'sn," the 'tosh switches to a roar, "help this boat cast off and make weigh. Aft gunnery," he continues, and Bondayehr notices a helmeted human head sticking out of a hatch on top of the aft turret, "prepare to greet scheduled dignitary. Seventeen, on the step."

A series of "aye ayes" reply across the deck. Not "Actings" or "on the bounce, sir!s" but actual "aye ayes." That's a new one on Bondayehr, and he simply files in alongside the 'tosh with Ciro as he quietly watches the boatswain help the motorboat's crew lift up their gangplank and shove off before the boat putt-putt-putts away and the rating gets back into formation with the ship's company. Meanwhile, Tornatore gets a nod of acknowledgement from the colonel, which the Dominioner replies to in like kind and the aft turret slowly rotates to point its guns harmlessly out to sea.

From the aft-port, as predicted, comes another motorboat, a small Dominion military kind. Timofeyev doesn't know ships but he knows this doesn't qualify; it's a boat, maybe a launch of some kind, given how it's essentially a small militarized cabin cruiser with a fifty-caliber machine gun with on the bow for dealing with the occasional drug dealer. Other than the Dominion naval ensign it flies, just below, a gold flag of the Dominion admiralty with three stars and an anchor. Someone important, then.

He recognizes the someone important while the boatswain, again on the 'tosh's roared order, helps extend a gangplank. The recognition is mutual, and both visibly suppress a wave although the important admiral ends up smiling even more than he's prone to. With the gangway in place the Dominion admiral walks over with a lifetime of practice; the instant his white shoe hits the deck the helmeted sailor in the turret hatch kicks his comrade down in the turret (lightly) in the shoulder, and said comrade shouts out an order. Some other rating squeezes and releases a trigger seventeen times, and each time the twin seventy-five millimeter rotary autocannon in the turret belches out a burst of blank fire. That the odd combination of tank gun and buffalo fart is deafening would be something of an understatement.

The three-star admiral blinks behind his sunglasses, paused momentarily, then continues up to the kzinti colonel, who salutes snappily. "Lieutenant Colonel G'reer-Captain and ship's company of Federated Segments Mobile Infantry Ship Francis Drake ready for inspection, SIR!"

The rotund little admiral seems about to roll over with the forceful delivery of 'sir' but instead keeps his footing and returns the salute. "Very good, Lieutenant Colonel." His English is accented, but crisp.

"RAISE THE ADMIRAL'S COLORS!" The kzintosh roars without any warning at all. A three-star flag identical to the one on the motorboat pops up the sensor mast sticking out of the central turret with almost comical immediacy.

The admiral blinks again, looks at the mast, then looks over at the motorboat where the few Dominion ratings are still hastily taking down his flag. "I thought naval tradition was not a strong suit of the Scolopendran Mobile Infantry Sea Corps," he says tentatively.

"SIR, may I make a statement?"

Bondayehr looks at the kzintosh in disbelief. The seven basic responses? With...

The admiral shrugs. "Go ahead, Colonel."

"That is something I hope to rectify on my vessel, SIR!"

"Well, you're doing a masterful job so far. Your officers?"

"Currently in formation with the ship's company, SIR!"

The admiral duck-walks to Bondayehr, who happens to be standing next to the 'tosh. "Hi, Tim."

"Hi, Leo." Timofeyev smiles.

"Please don't tell me they're putting you here."

"Oh no, Leo. I'm an aerospace puke who's just visiting. They're going to stick me on a WarShip in a month."

"Oh? You'd be a... lieutenant colonel, is that right? That would put you in command of a... Puma destroyer, now in its third mark?"

"Yup." Bondayehr shrugs.

"Those are nice. Four heavy particle cannon, no? With the Tiburonese upgrades?"

Timofeyev makes not-so-subtle motions with his eyes towards the 'tosh, who seems about to turn beet red. Or at least redder than a quarter ton of muscle and bright orange fur already is. "Yes, and very far away from old Maui. No need to rub it in, Leo."

Achilleo Bellarmine chuckles as he shakes his head and duck-walks over to the next in line, Ciro. The two merely exchange salutes. "Well, then," Armada-Admiral Bellarmine says, turning around, "it looks like your crew is in usual Scolopendran trim. Best to get them to their duties, then."

"COMPANY," the 'tosh once again roars without warning, "TO STATIONS!"

Bondayehr had never seen a deck clear faster. Admittedly, he'd never seen a deck (on a boat) clear ever before but truly this was as if it was some magician's vanishing act. Hatches previously concealed in the deck open and ratings jump down a deck or through doors as if chased by the very demons of hell, or at least as if their commanding officer were coming at them with a fork, a knife, and a bottle of ketchup. The last one through closes each hatch or door with a muffled slam and the distinctive rumble of being dogged.

"Shall we go up to the tower... err..." Leo looks at the imposing central turret that acts as the ship's sail. It looks something like a conning tower. Sort of. "Well, the nest in that turret. My word, submarines with turrets. Just doesn't seem right." Seeing the look on the kzintosh's otherwise fuzzily steely face, the Admiral waves one hand. "Oh no, not a commentary on your ship, Colonel. Just an old dog wondering aloud."

* - * - *

Four officers, two from each country, stand up in the nest on top of Francis Drake's central turret. Two, a Scolopendran lieutenant colonel and a Dominion corvette-captain, scan the beachside with binoculars. The others, a Scolopendran major and a Dominion armada-admiral, lean up against the opposite side, half looking at the backs of their comrades and half looking out to sea.

"So, Leo." Bondayehr speaks sotto voce. "You're the wizened sea lord. Why are they scanning the coastline?"

Achilleo shrugs eloquently before responding in like kind. "It's a tradition, followed universally but written down nowhere. When you've got a populated beach, you look at it through binoculars. I did it plenty of times in my life. That's how I met... oh, I told you that story, didn't I?"

Timofeyev nods and chuckles. "Well, I can understand what Ciro could be looking for. G'reer, on the other hand, not so much."

"Wishful thinking?" The admiral chuckles right alongside. "No, something has to be piquing his interest or else those sails of his"--Leo points to his ears--"would be burning at our talk."

"Hmmmm. I'll take your word for it." Bondayehr looks at his watch. "Speaking of ears burning, don't you have maneuvers to get to, mister master boat guy?"

"Watch it, Tim, I'll have you know that you're standing on the literal flag ship"--he says it as two distinct words--"of the Central Command fleet. I can have you thrown overboard."

"Don't forget the chicken wire, Leo. If you're going to cause a diplomatic incident, the least you can do is do it foolproof...ly. Which is a word, because I need it to be right now."

The admiral shakes his head and steps forward. "Colonel, if you would be so kind, I would like to see how Drake dives in formation. Signal the fleet to prepare for dive..." He pauses, and something makes him add: "...if you please."

One would think that the old man had yanked the ratcat's tail, given how quickly the binoculars go down and the intercom telephone comes up. "CIC, CO. Dive stations. Signal dive stations to fleet. Coming down. Out."

Well, at least he didn't roar this time, Leo thinks to himself as he follows Bondayehr and Tornatore down the ladder, G'reer-Captain behind him to close and dog the hatch with his stereotypical kzinti sense of urgency and strength. Looking around, the admiral waves to the helmeted gun crew--basically two men at two consoles on either side of the massive firing chamber of the particle cannon--and smirks. This is also the first time I'm gone down a conning tower and ended up in a turret.

A few minutes later, he thinks a bit more. And this is also the first time I've entered a submarine and ended up in a starship. The Combat Information Center is practically identical to the command room common to all Scolopendran warships, except in that it is arranged more tightly and limited to a single deck. Officer's semicircle central, strategic indicator board and monitors fore, technicians aft. "Sir," G'reer's executive officer, a slightly balding dark-skinned and muscular man in his fifties, snaps, "ship at dive stations. Fleet reports at dive stations."

"Very good." The kzintosh folds his broad orange-furred hands behind his back, turns on the balls of his feet to the admiral, and reports. "Sir, ship and fleet reports in at dive stations."

Leo stifles a chuckle, looks over at the officers' chairs, and puts one hand comradely on the 'tosh's elbow. "Very good, Colonel. You may want to sit down for this next order."

The 'tosh blinks, sniffs the air momentarily, then spins his seat in the apex of the semicircle around and slips into it with feline grace, looking made for the position. "Yes, sir?"

"I know it's tradition to go from ex-oh to cee-oh to flag officer," the admiral explains gently, "but I just heard the man say it. You are doing an excellent job of following all the unwritten traditions and regulations, far better than most of the Dominion captains and commanders I've inspected today. But for your health, my dear boy, relax. She is your ship, after all, and you'll learn that when I inspect, it's less an inspection and... oh... what would you call it..." He looks to Bondayehr.

Timofeyev immediately says to the 'tosh: "An oh-arr-eye." Then, to explain to the admiral: "Operational Readiness Inspection. Perform as you would during the mission, without any unnecessary foofaraw... am I right?"

"That works, yes," Leo says with a nod.

The kzintosh looks at Bondayehr. Not accusingly, not angrily, just... questioningly? The major shrugs. "Well, sir, you see I'm on a first name basis with the admiral here and, yes, I'd call him laid back in a professional manner. It's not an insult, he's just a career man who likes real operations more than funnels and bunting.

"Beyond that, I'm just an aerospace puke. I recommend pretending I'm not here, sir."

"After all," Bellarmine says with a jocular smile, "this is Central Command, not some Forrester or O'Brien novel. It's not the age of sail, your crew isn't made up of poor bastards hit over the head one night and on a ship the next, and all of the artificiality of those then-necessary traditions aren't really required. By all means go down flag to cee-oh to ex-oh to crew if that's your way, but I'm not so old my ears don't work. So far, you're passing with flying colors, G'reer-Captain. Relax."

G'reer, for his part, mulls this over before taking a moment to assimilate it. "Yes, sir. Still awaiting your order to dive."

"Good, at least you're not roaring 'sir' in a pressure vessel like a damn marine." Leo chuckles good-naturedly. "The order is given."

G'reer-Captain nods, then rotates one-eighty in his chair to scan the situation monitors. "Sensors, report?"

"Clear of traffic straight to the bottom a hundred meters below, sir. Dominion tacnet sonar is on battlespace display, collated with own sonar and gravy density scanners."

The 'tosh nods. "FleetCom, signal the order to dive to fifty meters five seconds after mark. Mark to be given upon reciept of message by all assets. Helm, stand by to go to fifty meters five seconds after FleetCom mark."

More "aye ayes," and Leo leans over to Bondayehr. "You know, he may just have a future in this line of work. If you're running a ship, he may be worth getting apprenticed to."

Bondayehr smirks. "'Great minds,' Leo."

Timofeyev Bondayehr: The Horrible Life Of, #4
Regularly Scheduled Checkup

"Turn and cough."

Lieutenant Colonel-Elect Bondayehr ignores the delicacy of the situation even while the absurdity of it parades in front of him. Nothing else to do, really, but follow orders: he turns his head and coughs.

S.H.O.D.A.N. nods, steps back, and records her findings mentally as she washes her hands in the alcohol sink. "Right. Back up on the table."

Again following orders, Bondayehr hops backwards just a little up onto the examination table. The butcher paper, firstly, doesn't do anything about the cold metal and, secondly, is butcher paper. He's had physicals with 'Doctor Shodey' for long enough that the unfortunate semantic coincidence has long past any sort of humor value or squick factor, but he thinks about it all the same. "I was just thinking..."

"Hmm?" S.H.O.D.A.N. looks over a table of medical instruments, all quite benign in purpose but of the kind that would give someone afraid of hospital the creeps.

"With medical science being what it is, there has to be better ways to detect hernias than that."

The mechanoid chuckles. "Are you accusing me of being archaic, after how many times I've had to put you back together using only the latest technologies, given how resistant you've been to cyberneticization and the nature of your Sakkran training?" Then comes a mischievous smile. "Or are you finally showing signs of shame?"

"No. Just seems odd is all."

"Well, the maneuver is still the perfect position for ultrasound emitters, and the cough allows me to see various body cavities in motion. It's actually much better than trying to passively trying to see things in near-infrared, and prevents me from having to fill you full of various kinds of fascinating radiation like active sensors would." She shakes her head with a half-smile as she weilds a tongue depressor. "It's nothing personal. Say 'ahh' and let me have a look at your upper respiratory tract."

Timofeyev smirks. "And probably analyze my breath simultaneously?"

"I don't hear you saying 'aah,' and while I have all the time in the world to get this flight physical done I think you'd rather be out of here."

Bondayehr sighs. "Why the hell am I even getting a flight physical?"

Shodey raises one fiber-optic eyebrow, glowing green, smiling with a touch of humor. "What, you think being a WarShip captain excuses you from keeping fit and hale? No, the rules still apply. They just get less stringent with age, is all. I'd almost think you don't want to see your ol' pal Shodey." The gynoid affects a mild pout.

"Bah." Bondyehr fidgets slightly on the table. "Actually, I've been meaning to get your advice."

"Oh?" S.H.O.D.A.N. grips the human's left forearm, rather tightly, then slowly begins to ease the pressure.

"It concerns Shorty, her biological imperative, and the social imperative coming down from her mother the good Sky Marshal."

"Hm. Well, your blood pressure's fine despite it. Are we coming up against the age-old issue of the biological clock going off?"

Timofeyev sighs. "Pretty much. And you know my opinion on the entire thing."

Shodey nods. "That I do, and having seen your genome I understand your opinion, even if it is a bit needlessly extreme."

"Well, you know me. If I'm going to do something..."

"Yes." S.H.O.D.A.N. sits back on a stool and listens.

"Hm. You know that as far as that goes, there's not much I can personally do about it. Plus I'm loathe to have... dependents whilst I'm out gallivanting across the stars instead of staying home like a proper father should. However, there's a situation ongoing that's..." Bondayehr frowns. "Changing my mind. For all the wrong reasons."

"A competitor?"

Timofeyev has learned not to question Shodey's knack for knowing, guessing, divining, or otherwise coming to acknowledge things that she has no right to know. "Potentially. One that could, with the best of intentions in nearly all parties involved--all except the one pulling the strings--accidentally end up taking my place. I'm selfish enough that I don't want to see that happen."

"As well you should be," the gynoid says with a level, measuring look. "Acting in self-interest in something like this is not exactly detrimental to your character, especially considering how out of the pale such things stereotypically are for you. It shows you actually care about the consequences."

"Yes..." Bondayehr sighs. "But considering children simply as a means of cutting off the opposition's move in some sort of shah mat."

"That is not your sole consideration, is it?"

"No... but it is the one that, as said previously, is changing my mind. It would also be putting the most important person in my worldview under quite the burden for nothing more than me being... selfish." He sighs again. "You can see why I'm looking for advice from several angles here."

Shodey chuckles. "Asking a mind with a background in motherhood out of a sense of expert opinion, and making sure that mind is an admitted Machiavellian with a hand in the death of billions so that she could never in her right mind say 'no' to something as benign as impregnating and running?" She ignores the flat look Timofeyev gives her and continues. "You and I both know those are parts of the psychology involved; however, I do know you trust me to give you a fair evaluation. If I say it would be a bad idea, you won't do it. If I say it's acceptable, you probably will. It's a way to offset responsibility, in a way... but all asking for advice is, especially when it's asked of 'experts.'"

She shakes her head and smiles gently. "Inevitably you'll feel horrible about yourself no matter which way you turn on this issue... so step outside of yourself and use a little empathy. Embassy-Representative has been ignoring mind, body, and lineage in trying to keep you happy on this--you know she wants to do it. She's posited it as a matter of 'need' from her mother to ease your sense of forcing your will, which you're already pretty much doing. There's no avoiding it. You'll make the Sky Marshal quite happy, and your own parents as well."

Bondayehr smirks. "I think my parents were more looking forward to human grandchildren."

"Yes, but from what I've heard of them and seen from them--yes, Tim, I've met your parents, I'm your doctor--I don't see it as being a long-term issue. It's something you'd have to get to eventually--trust me--and you have plenty of a support structure via family and friends that you are not going to be the equivalent of a deadbeat father, especially once the Combined Services finally drops the emergency manpower personnel scheduling regulations. Yes, there's been quite a bit of argument over it, and it's on the down-slide. It will still be a five-out-of-six month cycle system, but there's also going to be three year rotations--three years on, three years off. Of course, favor will still naturally be given to those who opt out of such rotations... but the Services are going to do its best to moderate that."

"Even better." Bondayehr grimaces in wry humor. "That would even deepen the shah mat."

"Perhaps. Tim, you're still an idealist despite everything that's taught you otherwise." S.H.O.D.A.N. shrugs. "This is something of another lesson. You're concerned about doing the right thing for the wrong reason; very Kantian, and while I know you disagree with his philosophy in this case the moniker fits."

"Is it the right thing?"

"I think so, yes. Otherwise, you're only putting off the inevitable to a tomorrow which may never happen, and you run the self-admitted risk of inviting harm to yourself and your loved ones due to simple lapses in judgment and shifts in attentions over time. Or you'll simply put it off too long, and curse yourself for the delay."

"So if I can't win in my own mind one way or the other, I may as well lose in the way that profits me and everyone else best, despite the challenges." Timofeyev shakes his head and chuckles darkly. "Well, I suppose I'll be asking your... assistance then."

"I anticipated this eventuality," Shodey says, getting up and opening a medicinal cupboard to extract a vial. "You'll be wanting this, then." She hands it to him with all the pomp and circumstance of handing someone a container full of vitamins.

"Uh huh." He looks down at the small glass test tube in his hand. "Well, given that my genome is on record, I suppose you could have translated it."

"It took some doing, but it was an interesting experiment. This is the best I could come up with; running under simulation it produced someone similar to you about seventy-five percent of the time. Your paternal history of anger management and anxiety issues, well, those pretty much came with the species so I'm afraid there's none of the improvements on the original you would have probably preferred."

"In simulation..." Timofeyev plays with the things in his hands, idly watching the liquid inside go back and forth. "You're suggesting that you actually simulated the lives of people with this genome?"

"I do it all the time, actually." S.H.O.D.A.N. seems to expect something, eyes waiting.

"And given the amount of computronium available to you, given that lives are hardly mathematical models, and given experience in, well, virtual reality..." He frowns. "Let me guess. Turing-positive."

"It wouldn't have been much of an accurate simulation otherwise."

"A virtual entity creating virtual entities to test a physical agglomeration of chemicals." He holds the vial up to the light. "Of course, the word 'virtual' in all cases applies only in the meatspace-cyberspace distinction. I suppose they were real people too, and I don't want to ask how many."

"No, you probably don't. Seventy-five percent similarity with a confidence interval of ninety-eight-point-five percent. I'm positive the twenty-five percent anomaly rate were due to lifestyle nurture effects."

"I was wondering about that 'billions' crack. Not that many people died in Allanea, Citadel, and Von Braun combined."

"I am slightly hurt that you put the Allanean Intervention in the same breath as my rampant periods."

"Well, not only will I not sleep tonight, but I'm now forced to see that people didn't live and die in vain. As I am sure was your intent." Timofeyev glances over at the mechanoid queen, who merely nods. "You're a real piece of work. Layers upon layers."

"Even if it wasn't intended to be complimentary, thank you." She pauses momentarily. "I suppose it won't make you feel better if I insist that I did not interfere in any way, for better or for worse."

"Of course you didn't. That would have made the simulation unscientific." Bondayehr sighs, and mutters a quiet little koan he's never had to refer back to since SMISO. "Well, let's get this physical done then."