NationStates Jolt Archive

If you wake at midnight, and hear a horse's feet,
Don't go drawing back the blind, or looking in the street.
Them that ask no questions isn't told a lie.
Watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen go by!

Nigel smiled as he turned his yach, the Marylin, towards the Lun Noir cost. It was a long journey, even on this custom Yacht, but it would be worth it. He thought fondly of home, and then thought of his cargo – two large crates stuffed full of what already became known everywhere where Allanean smugglers landed as “Allanean-quality” drugs – the kind of drugs made by a culture without a War on Drugs – and with modern industrial capabilities. In this case, it was MDMA. In Allanea, it was cheap and plentiful. Here, it would be worth over it’s own weight in gold, literally.

This, of course, created smuggling. The opportunity for profit, combined with the Allanean disdain for drug laws – or most other “victimless-crime” laws, generated enormous amounts of volunteers for the profession. Allaneans saw nothing in violating laws they saw as oppressive – in fact, they saw it as a good thing. Smugglers became cult figures. When they came home after a “run” – shipping illegal guns to Edolia, illegal drugs to New-Jersey, illegal sex toys to Iesus Christi, it didn’t matter – their families came out to greet them and girls from the neighborhood cam to hand on their shoulders: “Is it true you’re a smuggler? Neat.”

If they came back.

Many died, torn apart by coast guard machineguns, impaled on razorlink fence, executed in various countries for mere possession of stuff that you could biy at an Allaenean hardware store. But the glory and the profit lured many more in their stead.

Nigel was one of these smugglers. Every season, he would come here, stand by at 17 miles from the coast, just outside the territorial waters, and waut for his client, Brock Cormac, send some boat out for the goods. As with any place with Allanean smugglers, the Allaneans did their best to have a good connection with the people in a local “black market business community” – either by themselves or through their friends. This is how he made his deal with Cormac. A deal that meant he just had to wait here, Allanean flag raised in international waters, until a ship came carrying money and his contact would arrive - and pay good money for his stuff, too.

He waited. He could afford that.

Brock Cormac saw the Allanean flag raise at the edge of vision. This was probably the worst day of his life.

He liked Nigel, really. Good guy, nice sense of humor. He only saw Nigel once every 3 months or so. But their business had finally come between them.

Normally around this time, he would be looking forward to rolling in riches and wealth, distributing drugs to the remarkably high demand. But today something different would be traded. He was supposed to turn his friend in, in exchange for his continued citizenship and basic human rights. He knew what happened to those who defied the law, he had seen it on pay per view television. There were games made about it. Deathmatch arenas and of the like.

After double checking the tap inside his winter coat, he set out. The plan was simple enough, he just had to get Nigel to come up to land. Brown eyes checked over the "wrecked ship" set that had been laid out with the utmost care. He glanced at the van, containing many ingots of gold and a few cases of diamond.

"What's the holdup? You backin out on us?", he heard in his head. It was Officer Jarrod.

"No, nothing. Just.. nothing", Brock replied in resignation, speaking barely above a whisper. He knew they could hear it.

He climbed into the tiny watercraft and yanked the cord a few times, until the small engine buzzed to life. It was something of an emergency boat. It hummed along, carrying him over the waters at a fairly sluggish pace, and he came up towards Nigel's ship.

Brock was standing, waving both arms in the air and trying to get their attention.

Nigel blinked as he watched the boat approach. In principle, this was not supposed to work out like this. His contact usually came out to him, leaving territorial waters for the protection of international law. Two crates of drugs would be thrown from deck to deck, money would change hands.

This time, something went wrong - as it sometimes did. Often, gangs rivalling the one that would be making the purchase attacked a Smuggler's client, or otherwise bothered their trade. This only made the traidtional marks of an Allanean - his 1911 autopistol and FN-FAL battle rifle, in Nigel's case - more practical than ritual.

Today Nigel hoped not to have to use them. He stood still and waited for the small boat to reach him. He wondered what tidings his friend and client has brought.

As the small craft pulled up to the larger one, Brock steadied himself and began slowing down. He pulled up along the side of Nigel's boat and picked up a rope, offering it up to Nigel himself. He looked fairly upset.

"Mind securing my boat and towing it back to shore? I've got your payment, but my ship ate some rocks and sprung leaks while I was loading it, and this raft's the only thing I had available. It's not far."

He masked his uneasiness as best he possibly could, given the circumstances. At the very least, he was glad it was a cold season. Heavy clothes made perspiration more unnoticable, and everyone had to breathe more heavily anyway.

Nigel shrugs... if anybody else did it, he'd be suspecting a trap of some form. Of course, this time, things were different. This was his friend, Brock. But he still was uneasy about this. He reached down and undid the retention strap on his holster. "Sure."

He revved up the engine of his boat. It roared as the Marylin turned towards the shore, it's hull seeming virgin-white against the dark surface of the winter sea.

"Pretty bad storms in those parts, I see?" - he inquired, as the two small vessels made their way towards the "wreck". Soon, he would have his payment, thought Nigel. Then, he wouldn't have to worry about such things - until the next run.

"Storms? Nah. More like a streak of bad luck." Brock sighed to himself. He kept his eyes on the shore as it grew closer and closer, and generally remained silent.

Pretty soon the cracked and half submerged vessel with crates tied to it came into sight, as well as the van which had carried the crates.

It was cold. A soft breeze blew in from the west, carrying a chill to Brock. Superstition had it that the west wind brought misfortune. He silently hoped that it was merely referring to the current series of events, and not future ones.

As they got closer still to the wreck site, he spoke up. "How are things back in Allanea?"

“Wonderful,” replies the Smuggler, “in fact, great. Got myself a girlfriend, too. I don’t think I’ll ever convince her to marry me… says it’s too dangerous.”

He smiled as he thought of Alice, her brown hair, her big, blue eyes – like in those Japanese animated films his mother liked so much - each time he came back from a run, he spent about a thousand ALD on vintage DVD’s for her. He thought of himself telling Alice: “No, darling, really, it’s not all that dangerous.”. Then, he looked at the bullet holes in his “bridge” and chuckled.

"Sounds nice." All of this was wrong, and he truly hated the position he was in. But he knew if he didn't go through with it, he and his own family would be in for a world of pain.

As Nigel's ship pulled up to the shore and the wreck, Brock hopped out of the water and with rope, assisted with easing the ship to a stable position on the bank. "If you can just help me move the goods over to my truck, we'll load up your payment and you'll be on your way."

Silently, he was getting irritated, wondering what they were waiting for, what was taking so long. Why hadn't they moved in yet? He splashed his face with water once or twice, out of habit.

Nigel whistled happily as he hauled out the first crate onto the deck and then the second. With Brock’s help, he got the two crates down to the shore. “Now, all we have to do is get them to your truck, right?”

“Anyhow, this is the last trip, Brock. Sorry to tell you about it, but I won’t be doing this anymore. At least not to this country. Alice says I need to stop doing those runs if I want to marry her. Said she doesn’t want to be a widow. I don’t how how I’ll manage, but trust me on this one, if it’s a choice between Alice and the job, I’ll quit it – though I’m just as addicted to the job as some of your clients are to the stuff you sell them, if you catch my meaning.”

Brock was at war with himself. He wanted to see Nigel off to his girl, Alice. He wanted to warn his friend. But this was not his decision. He knew that his own and his families' basic rights would be whisked away in a heartbeat if this didn't work. He barely let out a whisper, "I'm sorry."

It was at that time that bright lights became visible. Two lights shone in from a distance from the coast, in the exact path that was taken to get to shore. Another sparked up closer, and was closing fast. Speedboats of some kind. Some flashlights turned on and became visible from around the truck itself. Someone shouted out on a megaphone on the speedboat that was closing in.

"This is Officer Granovich of Lun Noir First Response. We demand you surrender yourself for questioning peacefully. Step away from the boat, put your hands on your head, and get on your knees, both of you!"

Panic whirled in Brock's head. He stumbled a few more steps and fell to his knees. This was not part of the plan he was told about.

But his hands were on his head, regardless. Better questioned than dead, he hoped.

“Oh bloody hell.” – Nigel has been to self-defense courses – even studied the matter in school – and even was in many a rumble himself. There was one rule he would not dare violate. It’s too late to draw your gun when the other guy already got one trained on you – especially if it’s more than one guy. He dropped the crate to the ground, hoping like crazy it wouldn’t break. It didn’t. Neither did it hit his foot. So far, so good, thought Nigel, raising his hands. “OK, folks, I give up. Where’s the part you read me my rights and all that?”

He whispered: “Why did this crap have to happen on my last run, anyhow?"

The speeder pulled up to the site, and a man wearing a black and white business suit complete with tie, a megaphone and shades was standing at the front. He gestured to the two men, Brock and Nigel, and the two officers at the truck moved forward. One maintained a pistol and flashlight on Nigel, while the other moved around behind them to cuff them.

Granovich spoke up again, just speaking aloud instead of with the loudspeaker. "Your rights will be determined by your cooperation. We're going to go for a ride, and you're going to answer questions honestly and completely."

After the cuffs were secured, a couple flashes of lights on the boat caused the two further out to break away and head into the night. Where they went couldn't be told, as they cut their lights shortly after starting up movement again.

The truck hummed to life, and as Granovich stepped off his own boat onto the shore, the back of the truck had a light turned on. It was clearly re-outfitted to carry people instead of goods, as could be told by the bench seating. The officer adjusted his shades and stared past the two men on the ground to the truck. "After you, gentlemen."

Brock was a nervous mess. He broke down and started talking. "Nigel, I'm sorry, they made me do it, it was for my family and..." he was cut short by a hard punch across the face by the man who had cuffed him.

Nigel swallowed hard, as a lump started to form in his throats. Why did those people have to keep up doing that to him, to Brock, to everybody? He had always hated “drug warriors” – the was part of why he was doing this, after all. As long as he kept the flow up, he had always thought – of drugs, banned video games, whatever it was next time – then the prohibitionists, the puritans, the drug-and-gun-banners were losing.

Today, they had him. But what was terribly is what they did to Brock. Not only where they doing evil, they were pulling others into it, as well. He nodded sadly to Brock as he climbed into the truck.

“I know, Brock,” – he whispered – “It’s not your fault. It’s their fault. I don’t blame you. You shouldn’t be blaming yourself, either.”

He looked at Granovich. “So, officer, we’re waiting for you. Didn’t you said you wanted to go for a ride with us or something?”

Granovich smirked at Nigel, and climbed into the back with him and Brock. One of the officers waved from the drivers' position and they started moving.

"There are questions I need answers to", he started. "Your associate can assure you that being cooperative is the best thing for you. So, let's start with the basics. What is your name? What's your business? Why do you not register your ship and business before arriving here? What is your homeland and who is your employer that we should contact?"

The questions were written almost in the same language on a form that he produced from under the bench. His hand maintained a rather strong grip on a black pen. Those cold, unsympathetic eyes watched Nigel.

Brock himself was simply leaning forward, staring at his feet.

Nigel looked intently at the police officer in front of him. Oh well. It didn’t look as if they would let him get a lawyer, and people who don’t let you get a lawyer often beat you up when you don’t answer. So he took a deep breath and began talking:

”My name is Nigel Roark, Junior. I am a citizen of the United States of Allanea. I deal in allowing people such as Mr. Cormac and his clients to get hold of product which is illegal in their nation. I did not register with the local authorities since I had no intent of entering Lun Noir territorial waters and subjecting myself to local law. Mr. Cormac has arranged to meet me off-shore, as he has always done in previous times we met. This time, he has told me he had a malfunction with his ship and that he required my assistance. Knowing Mr. Cormac to be a good business partner, I rendered the assitance requested, namely helped him unload my cargo. This is what I was doing when I was arrested.

The cargo in question was two small crates of pharmaceutical grade MDMA, which I bought from a wholesaler in Allanea. It is virtually pure and lacks any hazardous additives to my best knowledge. There is also a certain amount of various substances on the boat which is for my personal use, in a desk drawer. I am currently armed with a 1911-type handgun, and there is a rifle in my boat Again, for my own use and not for importation into the country. I do not have an employer, except Mr. Cormac here, perhaps, who is more a client than an employer anyway. Would you like to contact my family, my insurance company or my lawyer?”

Granovich listened to the explanation intently. There was a long silence as they went along, connecting to a road and cruising down it. Traffic was sparse. There was a hiss and some murmured speech on the earpiece he was wearing, and then he nodded.

"When we get to the station, we'd like to contact Allanea's local law enforcement agency. Do you happen to know how to get ahold of them?"

Nigel shrugs: "Allanea has many law enforcement agencies on many levels. We have the Port-Allanea PD, the state troopers, the FBI. Keeps our government from getting too uppity. I do think you should call our Department of Foreign affairs and they'd direct you to the right person to talk to."

The officer nodded and murmured a request for a phone listing lookup into an unseen microphone.

After awhile, the truck passed through a security checkpoint in a chain link fence. It moved into a parking lot and stopped. Once the back of the truck was opened, a wall was visible, that of a two story building, and what looked to be a back door with a camera posted visibly above the door and a keypad. There were a number of jeeps parked in the lot as well, painted in the nation's colors, red and black.

Granovich stepped out of the truck and moved to the back door, punched in a code, and opened it. "Get a move on, ladies."

Brock and Nigel followed, and were greeted by a room with several seats, one taken by a man similarly cuffed with a black eye, and propoganda posters all over the walls. A monitor was displaying statistics on Lun Noir's economy in different sectors of the nation.

Granovich explained "Make yourselves comfortable, should be plenty of magazines to keep you busy. I've got some calls to make."

He entered another code into a different door further in, and entered what looked at a glance to be an office.

Inside, he had the number for the Allanean Department of Foreign Affairs waiting for him, scrawled on a piece of paper as he had previously requested. He tapped the numbers into his terminal and waited for someone to pick up.

Allanean Department of Foreign Affairs

This was an ordinary day for Norman Minetchik, a senior official in the DFA. A few more papers to sign. A few more hours of idleness. A regular day on the job. At least it seemed that way. Until the door opened.

His secretary was a beatiful – very beautiful – woman. At least from the perspective of her race. However, when Norman saw her standing there, waving a portable phone, shrieking in excitement and fear: “Boss! This is a call from abroad! They say it’s urgent!!” – he could only shudder as he grasped for the phone.

She was a very beautiful woman from her race’s viewpoint. Alice Shlieffen, Norman’s secretary was not human, however.

Alice Shlieffen was a Valaquine.

Granovich waited patiently for his call to be routed to the proper person, and finally he was sent to this Normal fellow.

Finally a voice answered, and he responded.
"Norman Minetchik? This is Officer Granovich from Lun Noir First Response. We've detained a citizen from your borders on the grounds of selling illegal goods to citizens of our fine nation." There was typing noise in the background. "Now, I understand that our laws and our ways may not be widely known to people of your fine nation, and this may just be a case of ignorance. But we're left with two issues. One is what to do with one Nigel Roark Junior, and the other is how we can prevent future misunderstandings between our two nations. I'll send you a copy of the report. The list of goods taken, the verbal statement given by the detainee, and so on."

He paused at that, but went on to pose a question. "So, tell me how you would like to see this resolved. I would understand if you didn't wish to see him back and we would be happy to put him up for permanent housing here."

Minetchik sighed. Somedays, his job could be simply terrible. "I would suggest you fax the report to me immediately. As you might know, no such crime as possessing or selling illegal goods exists in Allanea - the only thing that is banned in Allanea is weapons of mass destruction. The problem is that the more, how should I say, rebellious young men in Allanea are now often making a living of catering goods they legally buy in Allanea to places where those goods are prohibited. The profession of a smuggler is unfortunately acquiring a certain glamour here. For me, it means I have to be continiously rescuing boys such as Nigel. Speaking of Nigel, I would greatly like to see him back. I suggest you restore his property to him - although I will understand if you confiscate whatever was his shipment.

As per a long-term solution... the power of our governemnt is limited. Congress can't ban taking goods to Lun Noir if they wanted to. However, perhaps something else could be worked out... "

Granovich's Office

Granovich listened to the explanation as patiently as he could. He scanned in the document and ran it through the fax machine. It hummed and buzzed joyfully as it read in the letters and transmitted the data across to Minetchik's office.

It was a fairly thorough report, detailing the evidence and verbal statement given by Brock as well as the verbal statement given by Nigel. It went on to cite which laws were broken. Possession of illegal goods. Profiting from the sale of illegal goods. Entering the nation's borders without a pass or citizenship. Possession of an unregistered vehicle inside the nation's borders. Not filing proper trade paperwork.
Finally, there was another entry 'resisting arrest' that was marked out.

"I understand entirely. Perhaps you should do something about your youth. By themselves, they get into trouble and are no good for anyone. Give 'em jobs and they fall right in line." He let out a sigh of a breath, fairly aggitated that he wasn't allowed to keep Nigel prisoner. "In the mean time, we will have Nigel escorted back to your borders. His ship will be kept as a fine."

He thought for a minute, and then added: "What 'long-term' solution do you think could be worked out, exactly?"

Quietly he murmured something into another comm device.


Waiting Room

Outside, Brock sat idly with Nigel and listened to the radio, which was effectively full of non-stop advertisement of products and patriotic propoganda. He looked to Nigel.

"Hope I haven't caused too much harm. I woulda warned you but I couldn't", he explained as he pulled the miniature microphone bug from his chest. There was no point keeping it secret anymore, the jig was already up. "They apparently want to hire me on as a desk worker now as some kind of community service payment."

Minetchik replied: “I don’t know exactly, really. I would think an explanatory program would work well, where we will provide some… counteragent to the popularity of smuggling. I think we ought to be warning youths against this kind of foolishness… and I most certainly will suggest that the government fine anyone who will get caught in some foreign land. This extradition stuff is expensive if nothing else.”

* * *

Nigel shrugged as he looked sadly at Brock: “Oh, I understand. What I don’t understand is why you should continue to live here… in Allanea, you’d even find a good job. And you’d be a free man. A truly free man.

* * *

Somewhere above Sisgardian waters, a small aircraft sped out towards Lun Noir. In the aircraft – a light civilian sea-plane – sat Minetchik, and two guards with small CAR-15 carbines. Next to the window, shuddering with tears, sat Alice.

"Yes, please do. Thank you for your cooperation, and I will be seeing you shortly", Granovich said. He hung the phone up and stared at his desk for awhile, rather irritated with the whole situation.

************

Brock looked up at his friend, Nigel, fairly surprised at the question. "I.. Well.. It's just not really an option, especially now." He let out a long breath and shook his head. "No, I've heard bad stories of people who try to dissolve their citizenship..." He looked pale, he felt cold. He was about to say something else when Granovich stepped into the room again.

"Nigel", the officer started, "Come on, we're going to see you off. Mr. Cormac, you're to stay here for further questioning." He waited for Nigel to stand before leading him to the door and heading back over to the truck.

On approach to Lun Noir

The small, white plane began to descend, startling Alice. She looked at the other passengers:

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, dear Alice. We’re landing at sea. You will see your fiance soon.”

Granovich rode in the back of the truck, with Nigel. The rode once more out to the coast, where a boat was waiting. He pointed Nigel to the boat.

It was a small police speeder. Upon boarding, the boat's pilot nodded tersely and started the trip out to international waters. It wasn't long before Nigel could see the seaplane that had made landing in the waters.

It was a bit cold, the sound of the boat's engine and the plane's propellers being the only break in the silence. But then, they were up to the seaplane.

The officer flashed the lights of the boat as he came to a stop just before they left the national borders, at least according to the onboard GPS. Then he gave Nigel a life jacket, clapped him on the back, and said in a rather condescending way, "Hope you had a good visit, but don't come around here no more. There's your plane, go swim."