NationStates Jolt Archive

OOC:
This RP is closed. Posters allowed are Xanthal and Triumvirate of Yut members. I'm thinking that I'll cut it off at three participants besides me, just to avoid overcrowding in the thread.

IC:
Second Alphin Eiko Oishi sits in her emergency office, deeply missing the view afforded by her downtown Jin Rin office in Xanthal's National Government Square. Since the attacks, staged by internal groups opposed to continued socialist nationalization, began two months ago with a bombing of the Council Building, barely one hundred meters from the Alphinic Building, there have been sixteen more attacks spanning all of Xanthal's four homeworlds, all on government targets, mostly on domestic operations centers like legislative buildings and ministry offices. She and virtually the entire national government have been living and working in this sealed underground bunker since that first attack, under heavy guard from ground, air, and space.

The radical terrorists, funded and supplied by sympathetic commerce and industry within the Republic, have taken blatant advantage of the Socialist Republic's minimal domestic security, belied by the seemingly omnipresent KGB, the Xanthalian police. The Private Interest Party-dominated legislature refused to take preemptive action, and recent security crackdowns have had only a minimal effect on the insurgents' momentum, leaving the government with only two choices: an all-out offensive on the leaders and suppliers of the centralized rebel movement or give in to their demands and loosen government regulation of business, guaranteeing continued private control of many sectors in return for the promise of disarmament. In a heated meeting less than an hour ago, Oishi weighed these very options with her two co-Alphini. In the end, over the intense objections of Third Alphin Hail to Glory, she and First Alphin Yatzil Omsai decided to bypass the Council by declaring a state of emergency. They both agreed that, with the threat of declared war on at least one other member of the Extra Solar Union of Systems and the possibility of public objection to deploying the Nahbule against its own citizens, calling for extra-national assistance was the best option. They had adjourned with the weight of four worlds upon their shoulders and a vow of opposition from the Third Alphin.

Now, the Second Alphin sits in her office considering her options. With Yatzil busy making announcements and working to capture the votes they will need to avoid a Council veto of the declaration of emergency, it has been left to her to contact other nations for help. Prudence demands that she wait until the inevitable legislative vote, but she knows that they will not stop her office from calling in help. The moderate Councilors are just as weary of the violence as anyone; the strong opposition of the Private Interest Party and the Democratic Capitalists with their scattered outside sympathizers will not be enough to outnumber those who wish to stop the violence and either do not trust or refuse to give in to those that would hold the government and people of Xanthal at gunpoint to get their way.

Now, Oishi has a decision to make. Her first instinct is to contact their ESUS allies, but many of them are tied up in their own conflicts, and being opposed to her nation's membership in the frequently unscrupulous alliance in the first place her mind drifts elsewhere. She ticks through a list of candidates in her mind, rejecting each for reasons either personal or altruistic. Flipping absently through her electronic mail, her hand suddenly pauses over the button that will delete the current message, a communique from a maintenance station in Sol. Her eyes focus almost on their own on one line of text, written in Galactic Standard: ...Industries towed to our facility for repairs by Triumvirate of Yut Combined Services starship, fee to.... It is an odd message. Generally, something of such trivial significance as a glorified towing report for a ship not even belonging to the Xanthalian government would never make it to her desk. This was obviously erroneously routed, yet in this moment of significance it seems little less than a devine message. As Oishi, like most Xanthalians, is not a religious woman, that is saying something. Considering briefly the consequences of her action, she makes her decision and composes a message.


International Communication
Text Message
Carrier: BDZ Courier Ship
Classification: Open Communication
Origin: Eko Oeşe, Jĭn Rĭn, Jĭn Rĭn, Merfăk System, Zănŧäl
Destination: Triumvirate of Yut Council, Titan, Saturn Planetary System, Sol System, Triumvirate of Yut
Translation Protocol: None.
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The Socialist Republic of Xanthal may be new to many of you, so I will briefly introduce it. We are a nation of approximately four billion sentients, spread over three home systems which contain four home worlds. We also control four extra-galactic mining outposts, though they are not generally considered a significant part of Xanthalian territory. Our government is composed of three branches; a five hundred member legislature that makes our laws, a nine member judicial head, which deals with law enforcement and interpretation, and a three member executive panel which handles foreign affairs, called the Council, Daiho, and Alphini respectively. I am an Alphin, elected along with my fellow Alphini and the Council by the people of Xanthal to represent them on the national, or federal, level. We are a moderate socialist nation that allows free universal political participation and suffrage. However, as I send this message I am effectively going over the heads of the Council by excercising emergency power, a privilege granted to the Alphini by Xanthalian law. The mechanics of it are complicated, but suffice it to say that by using this power we require only a majority of the Council to approve our actions rather than the normal two thirds.

I am contacting you on a matter of extreme national importance; and though I know that you may be apathetic because of our lack of existing relations I urge you to demonstrate your commitment to preserving order and peace in our interest. We have, in recent months, been stricken by a series of terrorist attacks from domestic dissident groups that object to the policy of the government, which is supported by a vast majority of the population it governs. These minority factions are attempting to use force and intimidation to force the majority to give in to their selfish demands and, despite our best efforts, we have been unable to rout the threat without using our military. We require help to avoid putting troops in the streets. We have no military police. If the Triumvirate or any member has police, civilian or military, that they can spare, I ask that you send them to assist us in capturing the insurgency's leaders and suppliers and restoring peace to the Socialist Republic. I cannot offer great rewards, but by offering your help you will gain the goodwill of the Republic and, I hope, a lasting friendship. Please give due consideration to and act on my request. The future of our democracy may depend on it.

Eko Oeşe,
Second Alphin of the Socialist Republic of Xanthal


The embattled executive, exhausted by her impassioned composition, sits back and reads what she has written. If this doesn't work, she will have no choice but to call upon the help of the ESUS. Nodding silent reassurance to herself that she is making the right decision, she dispatches the message to the Xanthalian Ministry of Communications. Courier ships go between Mirfak and Sol almost constantly, so with luck it should reach its destination by the day's end. The Alphin can only hope that it is read and responded to as quickly. Each attack kills more of the people she has sworn to protect and serve. Each attack kills a little bit of her, as well, as she continues to feel that she and the rest of the government have failed their people. She re-routes the message from the Sol maintenance station to Kawashima Medical Industries, the corporation that owns the damaged ship, and continues going through her mail.

On paper, the Triumvirate of Yut is an orginization of equals that works together to facilitate the shared interests of all, a sort of federal structure in that the leaders of each nation taken together (in the Council of Yut) can determine Triumvirate-wide policy that member nations are then beholden to. This is highlighted in that the Trium's 'government' structure consists mostly of the Combined Services, responsible for mutual defense and acting as supreme coordinators of allied forces in the theatres of its responsibility, with the Special Services, Diplomatic Corps, the 'federal' portion of a nascent Space Patrol and International Rescue, and a very small central bureaucracy to tie it all together making up the remainder. There are no governors or federal departments as would be expected from a true 'nation;' it has what it needs to perform its function and leaves the rest up to national sovereignty.

In reality, the Triumvirate is probably mostly run by the Federated Segments of Scolopendra, who puts the most into it and generally acts as the primary facilitator. Being one of the First Among Equals, this isn't overly surprising to members and, as long as the Segments don't involve the Trium in anything too big, they don't mind it overmuch. Members put resources in and get tangible benefits out; as long as that process keeps up there are no major complaints when, say, the Scolopendran-defined ideology and doctrines of the Triumvirate get it involved in a mission of mercy to some poor oppressed people threatened by genocide, simply extracting the targeted population and moving it somewhere else if possible. It's part of the reason the Trium extracts rather than invades; it's much less 'messy' that way.

The message arrives at the Council of Yut where it is immediately disseminated to all Triumvirate leaders as most messages of the sort usually are. While the Council chamber is technically in Port Aurora, most leaders actually meet there via telepresence because they are usually back at their own nations, which are rather spread out. Supreme Emperor Speaker-Rrit, like a few other Titanian leaders, takes advantage of proximity to stop by every so often to make sure all is well in person--out of tradition, as telepresence would be just as useful--and this time, he receives a hardcopy of Eko Oeşe's quietly impassioned message the moment he steps in the door.

Wandering over to the council chamber, he reads the onionskin printout in his big orange hands and muses, thinly furred tail swishing about. Now this is an interesting case. The Council chamber is a domed circular room, large but not overly so, very simply designed. Dominated by one large circular ring of a table with gaps every so often so people can pass easily into the center, the council members sit (or are projected) along the perimeter, simply emphasizing the equality intended by the Charter while listening to someone speak from the center. One point in the circle has three chairs closer together behind slablike low podium--these are where the First Among Equals and thus Speaker sits as he muses over this letter--and behind them is the simple insignia of the alliance inset on a black roundel, up on the curved wall. All in all, simple and traditional whilst not wasting time on any unimportant detail.

Very interesting indeed. This is a matter internal to the Xanthalian government, but they are asking our assistance. They should be able to work this out themselves, being representative. Things have devolved into home-grown terrorism so compromise has probably failed. Folding his broad hands, he rests his white-furred chin on the arch they create, yellow eyes studying the paper. They are not asking for a purge of opposition in their government. They are asking for aid against home-grown terrorists. This is acceptable.

It may be a hard sell. The sovereignty bloc will not want the federal Trium to meddle in this. The TYCS is for defense, not policing other realms... appropriate response. We could send SPIR around to provide advisory assistance, however, and demonstrate the usefulness of that organization. If we can point out Trium-SPIR as non-'meddlesome' in a foreign nation, then the sovereignty bloc may warm to it. Current work as a sort of international bail-bond 'bounty hunting' organization with national chapters is... acceptable, but they are still not fully trusted. This could help.

Activating the console embedded at his seat, Speaker dials up the Space Patrol and International Rescue office with a few clicks of the keyboard and is quickly rewarded by the face of the SPIR Commissioner, who about a kilometer away reclines in his chair at his desk. Unlike the human Commander-In-Chief, TYCS (CINCTYCS) who--other than being of 'Pendran extraction--keeps a cloak of mystery about himself, Commissioner Roger Rock is big, blue, and quite personable. An Imnsvali seldane, he got the job for being a good cop, a better administrator, and a damn fine politico, all things considered: being jovial and friendly without being oppressively so gets one surprising places.

"Hello, Supreme Emperor, sir," Commissioner Rock says with a carefully close-lipped smile, "how's things?"

"Not bad, Commissioner. The Council just received a message from Xanthal; it looks like they want help with a home-grown terrorism problem. Do you have a Fireball free?"

"Got a few, yeah. We've been a little busy with some minor piracy and extortion rings around some of the Border Planets but I think we've busted them up for now. Let me see what we have." 'Border' Planets is something of a misnomer for the dozens of minor colonies scattered about the sphere of space a thousand light-years across that encapsulates the Triumvirate; indeed, the concepts of borders in interstellar space is inherently laughable. They do make up a Periphery in terms of economic importance and trade lanes, however; settled for political, economic, or religious regions and often having no more than a hundred thousand settlers scattered about the system, they are easy prey even for a few dishonest private citizens who buy a medium-sized civilian hull and manage to mount some underpowered weapons on it. In response to the eventual rise of these things, Trium-wide SPIR has the Fireball-class corvette, a very small and very fast WarShip that is nothing in a proper capship fight but can easily brush aside wannabe Space Blackbeards.

After checking something off screen for a few moments, Rock looks back through the screen at Speaker. "XL-7 has just completed refit after dealing with an Outsider extortion over Damned Cold. I can have an anti-terrorism tiger team on her and gone before the end of tomorrow."

"Gather up investigative resources as well," Speaker says with a curt nod, "and prepare to coordinate with local authorities upon arrival. I will let them know you are coming."

Rock nods and salutes in the Polish style, two fingers to eyebrow. "Will do, boss. Have a good one."

Closing the call, the kzintosh then sets himself to typing up a response.

* - * - *

Council of the Triumvirate of Yut
Triumvirate Building, Port Aurora, Titan

DD MMM YYYY

TO: Eko Oeşe (Jĭn Rĭn, Jĭn Rĭn, Merfăk System, Zănŧäl)
FR: Speaker-Rrit (Port Aurora, Titan, Saturnian System, Sol System)
SJ: Re: Your Request
Second Alphin:

On behalf of the Triumvirate of Yut, I am dispatching a police corvette of Space Patrol and International Rescue to aid you in finding the terrorists. The crew of TYPS-PCC Fireball XL-7 are all trained in law enforcement and, according to Commissioner Rock, anti-terrorism and investigative teams will be embarked.

As I am sure you understand, the Triumvirate of Yut cannot become involved militarily in the stability of an outside nation--that is outside the scope of our organization. We can, however, aid you in closing down the terrorist network and furthermore offer our assistance in mediating a settlement between the factions in your nation to eliminate the problems that caused this state of affairs.

Additional support from member nations will be forthcoming as they determine their course of action. May this aid ease your time of troubles.

Respectfully,

http://server106.totalchoicehosting.com/~tpjzdd/projects/nationstates/speeks-sig.gif
Supreme Emperor Speaker-Rrit
Scolopendran Delegate, Council of Yut
Triumvirate of Yut

P.S.: As SupEmp of the Segments, I can provide SMISO operatives to assist with the neutralization of any terrorist cells active or found, if necessary.

Back in Jin Rin, Oishi recieves the message a little more than a day after it was sent. She quickly composes a reply and makes arrangements for the foreign vessel's arrival. A single shipload of reinforcements may not be much, but every little bit helps; and if they are indeed experts on terrorism, a field of expertise almost nonexistent in the Xanthalian ranks, a few good men may be enough to tip the balance. Leaving the details to be worked out by the KGB, she makes a call to the National Chief. The communications delay leaves little time for preparation as the gears begin to turn between government departments.


International Communication
Text Message
Carrier: BDZ Courier Ship
Classification: Open Communication
Origin: Eko Oeşe, Jĭn Rĭn, Jĭn Rĭn, Merfăk III, Merfăk System, Zănŧäl
Destination: Supreme Emperor Speaker-Rrit, Titan, Saturn Planetary System, Sol System
Translation Protocol: None.
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It is with the deepest regret that I must ask for outsiders to put themselves in the line of fire for my own cause. I cannot expect you to do anything at all for the Xanthalian government, which blatantly advertises its weakness through its inability to counter such problems on its own. However, as a leader, I respect that our situation stems from our willingness to give freedom and trust to our own people. That some individuals use that confidence to hold the people hostage, sacrifice their own brothers and sisters, and break the domestic order and peace we have enjoyed for years to achieve their ends is deeply regrettable. However, with the help you offer us, you give us the chance to end the madness that has arisen out of self-motivated hatred without compromising the liberty of our people. That alone deserves the thanks which I give you on behalf of myself, my government, and all the citizens of Xanthal.

Eko Oeşe,
Second Alphin of the Socialist Republic of Xanthal

Nathicana made a vexed noise as she read over her forwarded copy of the communication. Such a cumbersome method of governing. All those checks and balances and majority and parts. Such a waste of time and effort. Unable to deal with the situation with their own forces? Weak. Inefficient.

Well, at least to the Dominion mind.

What interested her was the request. Out of the ordinary, to be sure. And frankly, none of the Dominion’s business. If a non-allied nation were unable to control their own populace, it was hardly their place to step in to solve problems for them. This was not the first time such situations had arisen in the international circle, after all. But then, such a request hadn’t been made to the Trium as a whole to ask for assistance during those times either.

She was certain her more idealistic allies would be scrambling to come up with some solution, bless their well-meaning but meddlesome little hearts. Certainty that Dominion forces were well-equipped to assist was without question. As was the fact that time-tested methods would likely be too harsh for the more delicate tastes both of Xanthal and aforementioned idealistic allies. That, and sending in soldati like that smacked of an invasion and occupation, even if at the request of the supposedly majority-supported government. There was not enough intel on this to proceed with any surety in that direction.

An interesting request, yes. And interesting dilemmas that came with it. The most reasonable solution then, was the one first pursued.

To Eko Oeşe, Second Alphin of the Socialist Republic of Xanthal, salutations.

It pains us to hear that your nation finds itself in such an untenable situation as this, and we deeply sympathize. However, until we have more in-depth information, it would be irresponsible of us to become personally involved on the level with which you have requested.

We propose that a team of our operatives be sent both to ascertain more of the situation as it stands, and to gain more background information to assist us in further decisions concerning aid. In addition, said team will be equipped and prepared to assist in passing on techniques and training that we have found useful in avoiding and where necessary, quelling such problems in the Dominion.

Should this be an acceptable offer, please advise so that we may prepare our people, and have a clearer understanding of what humanitarian aid would be most helpful.

With regards,

--Nathicana D’Aquisto, Dread Lady and First Imperatrice of the Dominion


To: The Council of the Triumvirate of Yut
From: Nathicana D’Aquisto
Re: Xanthalian Request

We cannot at this time in good faith send troops as requested by the Xanthalian government, however, we feel that something ought to be done to assist as may be. In keeping with the tenets of our organization, assistance to peace-loving nations in need ought not be outside the bounds of our capabilities, so long as we take care in how such assistance is granted.

Having only the word of the government currently in control, however tentative their grasp, to go on, we feel it would be in our best interests to gain more information on the situation by sending in a group of consultants, who would engage in both a fact-finding mission, and attempt to assist the Xanthalians in making suggestions on how best to utilize their own forces to take control of the situation, and perhaps train them in some of our own methods.

Such an offer has been forwarded to their government on behalf of Dominion interests, and we are currently awaiting a response. Should there be any concerns, suggestions, or cooperative efforts others wish to put forward, we very much wish to hear them.

With respect,

--Nathicana

http://server106.totalchoicehosting.com/~tpjzdd/projects/nationstates/scolopendra/executive_apartments.jpg
Executive Apartments
Stonozka, Titan

Speaker wonders whether or not the Alphin's response constitutes an acceptance of his postscript. Erring on the side of caution, he figures it isn't but makes arrangements for SPIR to call in 'his' special operators if they end up needing them.

* - * - *

http://server106.totalchoicehosting.com/~tpjzdd/albums/Starships/fireball_fore.thumb.jpg
TYPS-PCC Fireball XL-7
Outer GECSS 18 System

With the knowledge that their approach has been properly and politely heralded, and with that the exponential increase of said approach being expected and therefore welcomed with open arms instead of appropriately paranoid levels of in situ defenses, the crew of Fireball XL-7 prepares to make the jump from Hillary to Mirfak without heaviness in their hearts. SPIR is an odd organization given that (ideally) everyone is trained to be a beat policeman first and whatever role they play second; while this trend is broken slightly by those who second in from member-state militaries or the TYCS, they are also put through crash cop training as well so the previous might as well be a universal statement to some degree. In the end, SPIR may best be described as 'paramilitary:' whilst it does have some degree of military capability and training, combat is far from its primary emphasis and even farther from what one would call its competencies.

Senior Police Inspector Katja Camenzind, skipper of XL-7, usually thinks about things like this when she's about to jump to new territory. She seconded in from the 'Pendran Federal Police and already knew how to fly--being a spacer, it comes with the territory--and her police work landed her an initial rank of Junior Inspector. As it turned out, she had ship command skills as well and eventually found herself in one of the most coveted jobs in SPIR--certainly one of the busiest, she figured. She doesn't exactly fit, at first glance, the rugged individualist stereotype that Space Patrol tries to pass around in the recruitment literature; slender and with a demure, nearly conciliatory attitude in most things, most people wonder how she even exists in this century. Most people also haven't been on the receiving end of anything remotely approximating an angry thought from her, either. Her porcelain complexion, deep blue eyes, and fine light brown hair would've had books written about their beauty in an earlier age (if only she were a bit plumper) but nowadays she's just a face in the crowd. Although, she muses, having anti-terrorist SWAT aboard certainly mixes things up that way. Damn near professional soldiers herself, 'ex'-military types. That knight-errant merc cell never saw it coming... Shrugging that line of thought off, she looks back up at the small centrally-located spherical display that describes what's happening around the police corvette.

Unlike their TYCS counterparts, the command rooms of SPIR ships are small affairs, generally not intended to coordinate in fleet actions and thus not needing as many communications technicians; on the Fireballs, the biggest ships in the SPIR fleet, the oblong command room consists of her chair and console in pilot's position to the left, the navigator's station in copilot's position to the right, the strategic indicator sphere projected between and in front of the two, and two stations on the walls behind the pilot and copilot for a flight engineer and a master gunner, similar to a Loki-class dropship. Katja looks over her shoulder at each station in turn, blue eyes flicking to make sure everything is go for jump. Junior Police Inspectors Asanta Vaas in the copilot seat, Favakalo Kapalu at the flight engineer station, and Chikamatsu Hanako at the chief gunner spot all flash quick gestures of confirmation as the Senior Inspector looks them over.

"Alright then," she says quietly as she toggles the public address switch on her control column, "Crew, this is Inspector Camenzind. All stations report ready for jump. Please make final preparations before we jump in five seconds." Counting down the moments in her head keeps her from wondering just how necessary jump lockdown procedures are... it's not like there's been any accidents, at least not any reported... her finger closes the contact. "Ju

Mirfak System

mp... and complete. Thank you for your cooperation." Closing her connection with the PA system, Camenzind looks over her shoulder at Favakalo. "Inspector Kapalu, if you could please contact the Xanthalian authorities and tell them we've arrived and awaiting further instruction."

Favakalo nods, his heavy face making him look more professionally serious than he generally is. "On it, ma'am."

Their reception committee consists of one Lähästĕksä-class KGB patrol vessel, all that the Chief Officer of the KGB cared to spare with virtually all units working on patrol and surveillance; trying to catch the next attack before it occurs. He did have the consideration to send a ship with a commander with passable Galactic Standard, at least. The Xanthalian ship picks up the arriving Fireball's transmission from where it has been waiting about eight hundred million kilometers away, near the inner planet of the star system. The ship comes about and begins making for the third planet, accellerating to its maximum speed: 200,000 kilometers per second. It sends a reply to the hail, a text message. "Welcome and thanks for coming to give your help to us. Please meet us in orbit of the third planet. We will arrive in fifty standard minutes. You should travel out of normal traffic lanes for your security and use weapons as defense if you are attacked. When you are in orbit, contact channel 3849 to talk to the KGB national command center."

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

OOC:
Lähästĕksä (space patrol): $100,000,000
The Lähästĕksä Class vessel is employed to police Zănŧäl’s space outside its planets. Armed, shielded and equipped with a small brig and advanced systems, the Lähästĕksä Class is ready to apprehend space borne criminals either peacefully or by force.
Image: http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v88/Zorak950/NS/Enforcer.jpg
Dimensions: 30x10x6 meters.
Decks: 1.
-Powerplant: One substance/antisubstance reaction chamber (10 terawatt output).
-Ion engines: maximum speed 200,000 km/s.
-Space-time bubble generator.
-Maneuvering thrusters: turn radius at maximum speed 1,000,000 kilometers.
-Fuel capacity: 600 liters.
-Fuel range: about 3 days normal operation.
-Complement: 3 officers, 5 detainees.
-Laser cannons (total 3, rating 3):
--Fore: 2 (90˚ X-axis rotation, 90˚ Z-axis rotation).
--Aft: 1 (120˚ Y-axis rotation, 120˚ X/Z-axis rotation).
-Shield power rating: 2.
-Armor rating: 1.
-Atmospheric flight capable.
-Takeoff/Landing capable with adequate landing pad.
-Onboard/Detachable vessels:
--2 Wĕko.

Mirfak System

"Inspector Kapalu, please reply that we acknowledge reciept of message and will proceed at best possible speed. XL-7 out."

"Will do, ma'am." Junior Inspector Kapalu types up a quick response and transmits it in a radio tightbeam on the same frequency as sent by the Lähästĕksä. Tapping the transmit key with a touch of flair, he looks back over his shoulder at Camenzind. "Done."

"'Best possible speed,' ma'am?" Asanta cracks a smile, the gesture enhanced by the contrast of his teeth against his dark skin. "That says 'high-distort' to me."

"Exactly, Inspector Vaas. Please set a soonest-intercept course and take us in at full acceleration."

"Yes, ma'am." Asanta leans forward and begins typing coordinates into his console, giving the subsentient calculator onboard the parameters necessary to navigate successfully even at full high-distort. Unlike TYCS WarShips, Fireballs lack shipminds for the same reason they lack 'proper' space naval command rooms. "Programming complete... course set."

Nodding with a polite "thank you," Katja taps the 'ENGAGE' key on the transit gravdrive control. Immediately, the Fireball starts to produce a gravity well limited to a spherical region of space around it due to some highly complex technology well refined over the yedecemi; to an outside observer first it would waver as the field establishes itself, then slowly recede as if falling away from the onlooker. The tricky thing is that this 'falling away' is the same from whatever direction the ship is observed from, and it visibly falls at a constantly increasing rate of acceleration insystem before it finally disappears.

High-distort drives, operating a variation on the Alcubierre theory for faster-than-light flight, are actually 'Pendran sublight gravitic engines gone horribly wrong. Once people realized that putting the drive in high-distort mode--in its own sphere of localized gravity well to fall down, with an asymptotic break between it and the space around it--collapsed the ship into no more than a theoretical data point in realspace with no observations possible from within to without or vice versa, Einsteinian relativity and thus the impossibility of FTL travel was no more. Then again, by the time gravydrives had progressed that far the Triumvirate already had their "Black Knight" Einstein-Rosenberg Bridge systems that would quickly be replaced by "Spacedy Ant" Seiki gravity wave tesseract jump drives and so this thought was secondary...

...but it remained a way to move around insystem really, really fast without resorting to the impoliteness of insystem jumping. A lot of people didn't like that aspect of the "Spacedy Ant"'s capabilities, for some reason or another.

In this case, high-distort allows XL-7 to bypass both standard trade lanes and avoid all but perhaps the trickiest opponents equipped with FTL inhibitors, as directed by the KGB. In the end, though, it isn't really all that important; it gets them from point A (the outskirts of the system) to point B (in orbit around Mirfak III) in time to make rendezvous.

Fifty minutes later, XL-7 drops out of high-distort a few light-seconds out of Mirfak III while coasting at low relativistic speeds and quickly decelerating at a less obnoxious rate that doesn't force spacetime to reach around and essentially ignore the ship's existence. While Asanta jockies for orbital position, Kapalu sends a quick burst-transmission to the KGB national command center as advised previously as an alert to an incoming tightbeam voice transmission.

The tightbeam immediately following is, of course, the skipper's soft, quiet voice. "This is Senior Police Inspector Katja Camenzind of the Triumvirate of Yut Space Patrol and International Rescue, commanding police corvette XL-7. We're here to assist as requested--I do hope that you've been briefed; we came as quickly as we could and do apologize if it's any trouble. We have both... ah..."--It's a tightbeam, Kat, the likelihood of anyone listening into it is very small--"SWAT and anti-terrorism investigation teams aboard. We have full police facilities aboard XL-7 and so can land if you'd like; if not, we can come down in Fireball Junior, which mirrors these facilities for reasons you can probably guess.

"Sorry for being so verbose, but we just want to help as best we can and I tend to get carried away with my diplomacy. Over."

(OOC: I realize I'm putting in a lot more techwank than I usually do. I guess it's just to acclimate you to the Trium's tech level... and to pad posts out from just being 'zipping across the universe to wherever I need to be.' Hopefully it's not too much...)

* - * - *

Solar System

--<Transmission Type: Encrypted Internal Triumvirate Communication>--
-<Sender: Supreme Emperor Speaker-Rrit, FSS>-
-<Destination: Imperatrice Nathicana D'Aquisto, DDLN (cc: Yut Councilmembers)>-
--<Subject: Xanthal>--

I have already directed Space Patrol and International Rescue to send a Fireball police corvette out with anti-terrorism investigators to assist their indigenous police forces with rooting out their terrorists. I too was taken aback by their apparent request for us to militarily put down their shadow rebellion, but I think we can all agree that the TYCS cannot be dedicated to such a cause without deliberation. The Triumvirate of Yut has been in its militance about saving the oppressed, not truly policing the world.

Hopefully your authorities can coordinate with SPIR upon their arrival, Nathi. While I also hope that we can teach the Xanthalians to deal with the problems in their own backyard... we should be prepared in case more direct and more quiet means are necessary. The OPO reports that Xanthal, due to its ties to the fractal ESUS organization, is dangerously near the brink of the limits of our r-brane. Stabilizing them may help in preventing them from falling off completely. While we have no evidence that falling off an r-brane is a bad thing...

...let us just say we have an experience with such things and we do not want to risk it. Besides, we must let the professionals have a shot at it before the knights-errant catch wind.

http://www.weirdozone.0catch.com/projects/nationstates/scolopendra/speaker-to-animals.gifSupreme Emperor Speaker-Rrit
Chief of State
Federated Segments of Scolopendra

--<Postscript Not Carbon Copied>--
Honored Nathicana D'Aquisto of House D'Aquisto,

I hope your children are doing well. I shared the incident concerning your budding muralist with H'zta; she simply replied that she hopes to have similar stories to tell in the future. Manrret or kzinrret, all females are the same, giving each other ideas to make the lives of poor 'toshes like me more... interesting.

Between you and me, I second her sentiment... but you never heard it from me.

It looks like this one is shaping up to be an interesting case. I am trying to not let my overbearing idealism get us too involved; the Segments, much less the Trium, have never been keen on nation-building. The LegU would certainly not support me sending troops to wipe another nation's nose... and I am not too sure I would order it, either. With the knights-errant being terrorists depending on who one asks and what definition one uses, this sort of home-grown 'emphatic protest' gets me in a tender place in my liver.

As I said, interesting.

I am serious about not letting the knights-errant catch wind. We will have most signing up to fight the terrorists, certainly, but I could see the seedier portions assisting the terrorists, who are following the knight-errant credo of only government or military targets. If we can fix this before they get involved, so much the better.

Please send my good wishes to Honored Timofeyev Mikhail Jeffereyovich Bondayehr of House Hgriih. I know you see him every now and then. Tell him he has my commisseration for having Honored M'sha, Leader of House Hgriih, as mother-by-consort.

Until our paths cross again,

Patriarch Fuzzybutt
(you know the name, so I may as well)
--<End Transmission>--

OOC:
Not at all. I think it's kind of interesting. If you were going faster than light with it though, you'd have to be pretty far out of the system for it to take you fifty minutes to get to Mirfak III.

IC:
Camenzind waits almost two full minutes for her answer, during which the Fireball is joined by its police escort. It is an indication of just how harassed the usually-prompt government-affiliated offices have become. Between guarding themselves and guarding the rest of the country and having notably little success at either, the KGB has forsaken much of its public correspondance in order to have staff focus on the task at hand. When an answer finally comes in the form of a young male voice, it is decidedly lacking in substance and again in only half-decent Galactic Standard.

"Please come down. You should land directly at our headquarters private landing area. It will fit your ship for landing. Our computer will navigate you to the pad, a person will meet you there. Air should be clear."

Almost immediately after the transmission is completed, the ship recieves another hail, this one from a nearby private communications satellite. Its origin is a mystery, as its tracking code has been tampered with. Over the line comes a text message:

"If you are here to fight for freedom rather than blindly serve this nation's claimed government, send a delegate to planetary coordinates 49582-40883. No further messages will be sent remotely."

"Ma'am?" Favakalo doesn't completely spell out the question because he doesn't have to. In hindsight, they should've seen this coming. Make an entrance less than secretive, and of course both sides on what's clearly a divisive issue would want to come up.

"Part of our mission is to help the Xanthalians to work out their internal differences peacefully, Inspector Kapalu," Katja says quietly, thinking for a few moments as her fingers drum gently on her control column, the movement so slight that it looks like mere flexing to the uninitiated.

"Honestly, ma'am, we're cops, not diplomats." This from Vaas, the closest thing XL-7 has to a 'proper' executive officer. He folds his arms and settles back in his seat, looking through the indicator display in something approaching meditative thought. "Our first concern should be to secure the situation and not mess up the field for when the DiploCorps shows up to play."

"We're trained in negotiation for hostage situations," the Senior Police Inspector replies, the tone of her soft voice slowly taking on a subtle change to become more solid in the ideas it conveys, "and we're the first responders to this situation. If these are elements we'll have to capture, having a plainsclothes 'undercover' in their midst will be to our advantage. If these are elements we will want to negotiate with, it remains true."

"They will expect a doublecross." Hanako says with quiet certainty.

"Then we do not doublecross them if we do not have to." Camenzind tightens up on the utilitarian steel and black plastic of the control column, then stands up. "I'm going to leave XL-7 in orbit. It is safer and looks more neutral. I'll go down in Fireball Junior with our embarked teams. Inspector Vaas, please take command of XL-7 while I am planetside."

"Of course, ma'am," he replies, "but what about the spooky message?"

"We have no way of going there without attracting attention. XL-7 probably can't deploy her shuttles without anyone watching, like the KGB, noticing. We'll probably be constantly watched planetside as well. Inspector Vaas, you're right, we're not diplomats. I think, though, that this sort of thing doesn't call for a diplomat.

"Inspector Kapalu, didn't Commissioner Rock say something about potential 'backup?'"

"Yes, ma'am. Apparently the Segments are willing to send in some of their special forces if the Xanthalians request it."

"Please inform them over secure systems that I request it and to please not inform the Xanthalians. Brief them on the complete situation and please ask them to keep us informed as well, at least as informed as is secure."

"I can do that, ma'am." Kapalu folds his arms, head bowed momentarily in thought as he runs ideas through his mind. "I'll send a message over the QE while we use our usual HPG comms to send a normal report. I don't want to spool up the ansible and then have them wonder why our radiation signature looks funny, just in case they have that sort of see-through vision."

"Only two kinds of paranoia, Inspector. Thank you." With that, Katja makes her way out the aft hatch and takes the passageway around the command room's armored shell forward.

* - * - *

A few minutes later, the 'nose cone' of Fireball XL-7, a self-sufficient 3.7 kiloton DropShip, detaches from the cylindrical fuselage-like hull of the larger corvette and performs a short deceleration 'burn' to drop towards the surface of Mirfak III. The fact that nothing is actually burnt is irrelevant. While that's going on, the communications grid of the mothership figuratively lights up with energy, using the spacetime-bending capability of the so-called 'hyperpulse generator'--really no more than a miniaturized version of an old Black Knight ERB drive whose effect is internal instead of external, so it can send electromagnetic messages instead of starships through a superdimensional wormhole--to submit a relatively simple report. Now, if the KGB has the right equipment and the right schematics, it could, through Van Eck phreaking, determine the exact radio tightbeam constituents of the message by watching the electromagnetic radiation associated with the operation of the radio tranceiver pulse with the frequency-modulated message. This would of course be difficult, given that Fireball is protected from external EMP radiation like all good starships should be, but there are ways around that like anything else (generally having to do with looking at it from just the right angle).

What they shouldn't be able to detect is the spin of individual electrons within a very long chain of lipids (polyglyceride, to be more precise) linked to practically identical ones back at SPIR headquarters through the often utilized and often misunderstood universal curiosity of quantum entanglement. The misunderstanding lies in that QE messages, like anything else, can't go faster than light; this is gotten around by some creative use of the HPG and basically having small bits of molecules exist in two places at once because said two places are actually conjoined into one. This would take just as much energy as a normal message, though, and while it almost certainly couldn't be phreaked, that energy is being used for something due to an increase in black-body radiation would be generally obvious... unless of course said HPG is being used already for a different purpose.

Take that, relativity.

Now, as said previously, QE is almost impossible to phreak. It could be done, assuming sensors that can not only identify and count individual electrons at an extended distance--meaning it requires a detecting wave with a wavelength smaller than that of an individual electron, if it's anywhere near the EM spectrum--but can also determine that electron's spin, which would require it to be passive so as to not skew the result. This is, perhaps, possible...

...but if one could do it, they may as well just instantaneously rearrange the planets in a star system at whim for the clarketech it would require. Wiretaps would be so much easier in the long run.

* - * - *

Under Katja's guiding hands, Fireball Junior touches down gently at the designated spot, completely silent. Smaller ships of 'Pendran make tend to thrum subsonically; a few thousand tons of ship tends to make a decent vibration damper. If the local pad isn't built strongly enough to take the ship (unlikely, but possible), then the conscientious SPIR crew will leave the gravydrive on just a hair to lessen the weight of the ship on the pad. The spherical volume of effect also means that the gravity around it is reduced just as much until one walks through the discontinuity region. Nothing painful, given that it's just a difference of a few meters per second squared, but disconcerting in the same way that feeling one's internal organs shifting upon reaching the drop (or the sudden bottom) of a rolling wave or roller coaster is.

The next steps are appropriately space-operatic for this 'first' contact; door opens, gangway extends, and Katja walks down in her white-on-black uniform--the exact same pattern as every other Yut 'central' uniform, but with different colors for highlights--to whomever is waiting to meet her. "Hello," she says with a polite but short bow before extending one hand in greeting, "I'm Senior Police Inspector Camenzind." The multi-barred winged star of rank on her medium-high collar and the burnished steel nametag displaying her surname also advertise this, but in a much less cordial way. "I only wish we could've met under better circumstances."

OOC:
Not at all. I think it's kind of interesting. If you were going faster than light with it though, you'd have to be pretty far out of the system for it to take you fifty minutes to get to Mirfak III.
(OOC: It can be used to accelerate to speeds beyond c. Because it's a matter of constant accel [speed up half the way, slow down the rest] it allows for an arbitrary [in this case] acceleration so XL-7 can make rendezvous.)

The platform is walled in, providing an ugly view of 5-meter concrete all around, with the tall buildings of downtown rising perhaps two kilometers away on one side. There are only a few other ships here, all KGB planetary or space patrol craft. On one wall about two hundred meters away, a heavy sliding automatic metal door leads into a building which extends for three floors above it. The party is greeted by a than. It is female, but such things are almost impossible to tell to most other species by clothed appearance alone. Unfortunately, the polite greeting goes answered only by a series of chirps and clicks, the buglike-creature's only language. With no translator on it the speech is lost on the Inspector, as well as whether the giant insectoid even understood her. With a quick gesture of something that could fairly be called her hand, the than moves off towards the door.

Mirfak, KGBHQ

Not too different from a panNorm spacedy ant, Katja thinks as she does the only reasonable thing and follows along after the insectoid. XL-7 was deployed about half a month ago to help deal with some raiders trying to take advantage of the nascent Trium trade lanes between Menelmacari holdings on Venus and Caloris Basin on Mercury. As she recalls, the panNorm were quite serious about protecting their turf from the raiders--just because their weapons were relatively non-lethal didn't mean their modus operandi was--and it was a discovery for her that gruesome terror tactics like impaling people on pikes outside of starships (where decompression just makes such a thing more disconcerting) still works in this day and age.

Looks like a spacedy ant. Hopefully more civilized than one, she thinks as she follows along with a bit of memory-induced caution.

* - * - *

SPIR gets Fireball's message, logs it, notes that it's somewhat out of its league and follows the suggestion to send it down to the Segments while simultaneously sending it to the Triumvirate of Yut Special Services. The TYSS, which technically is a spinoff agency of the Scolopendran Intelligence Section albeit with greater responsibilities and limitations, forwards it to the various intelligence services of the Triumvirate as an information-only bulletin. As for field agents, the TYSS is purposefully handicapped in that regard; while it certainly has quite a few espionage agents practically none are qualified for the wetwork this mission potentially entails and more than a few of them are busy politely spying on member nations, a pretty much open secret by now.

Executive Apartments
Stonozka, Scolopendra, Titan

Speaker-Rrit growls softly, a quiet ticking at the back of his throat. "Why do things always have to get complicated?"

Intelligence Advisor Janus Garbo, master of the Sword and Shield, shrugs slightly as he leans against the doorframe to the Supreme Emperor's office. Glancing first at the ever-present S.H.O.D.A.N. at her traditional place on the couch--she's put down a copy of Man Plus she'd found in the local library and sits up, listening to the conversation--and at the nearly stereotypical military hardass image of Foot-to-Ass Advisor Lance Hawke--frowning mightily--he folds his arms. "SIS could take care of this pretty easily. It's what we do, after all."

"Up against an unknown number of probably armed terrorists?" Hawke shakes his head. "This seems more like a mission for SMISO Trapdoor Spiders than spies. Infiltration and corruption from the inside is also what we do."

"I'd say that's a stretch, Lance," Janus replies with a smirk. "Trapdoors are supposed to be insurgency trainers and forward milintel, although I'll admit a few of 'em have been good at proper spook wetwork. Using your logic, Wolf Spiders would be better..."

Hawke thinks for a moment, then sighs. "But they don't have the requisite intel to smash-and-grab like they're trained to. Right. I concede."

The gynoid avatar of the mechanoid queen raises an eyebrow. "That was certainly fast, Advisor Hawke."

"There is a political angle too," Speaker says quietly. "If our mole is detected as an SIS agent... that is intelligence, and expected. If our mole is found out to be SMISO, which is known for training insurgents..."

"Right," Garbo says. "I'll send someone over shortly. We must have someone in a mutual friend of Xanthal's and ours..."

* - * - *

Mirfak, Civilian Port-of-Entry
Next Day

A tall but not completely descript man walks into customs. Probably mid-to-late thirties, Caucasian with short light-brown hair and brown eyes, he speaks in a noticable but not overbearing cultured English accent and has a brow that tends to shadow his eyes more than the norm when he thinks. Wearing the sort of tweed suit almost stereotypically identified with academia, his passport identifies himself as a professor of history at an accredited university in the Up-and-Out on Hillary somewhere. According to him, he's taking a trip to Xanthal to study at some of their libraries and learn about their history; history is a publish-or-die business and he'd like to make a name in xenohistory by working out the interesting (and due to the Segments' place in the verse's r-brane, somewhat curiously conflicting) history of Xanthal.

He carries, besides a suitcase stocked appropriately for a trip of decent duration if he plans on doing laundry, a couple of pens, a cigarette case, and a nondescript but blocky personal communicator that serves the function of cel phone, PDA, and digital camera. Nothing out of the ordinary for an erudite professor-type.

The Inspector and her team are led through the metal portal into a bare, white hallway lined with wooden doors, most marked with a bronze plaque indicating what lies behind them in the Mirfakan language. They pass an elevator and arrive at a door marked '1-14 : Ălfĭntot Köskosäl Gĭmĕs Bĕsfräl'. The than opens the door and motions the Inspector in, closing it behind her.

Katja finds herself in what is obviously a small office. Lit by overhead bulbs, there are no windows. The walls are the same blank white as the hall, and the floor is covered with a thin carpet. A heavy desk made of a wood not unlike oak dominates the majority of one side of the room, with a single chair behind it and another one in front. The chair behind the desk is occupied by a male xanthalian, who's attention is currently focused on a television mounted in the corner of the ceiling right of the desk from where the Inspector is standing. There is a reporter on the air, on what seems to be some sort of news program. The man at the desk swivels to face Katja, his intent blue eyes peering at her from a face characterized by slightly pointed ears and a hardened look, created by the hypodermic exoskeleton native to his species. He has a full head of heavy hair and a pointed chin, but no facial hair, another xanthalian trait. He addresses the Inspector in a low but level voice. "Cil nalios aj Mirfakal?" ("Do you understand Mirfakan?")

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

At the Jin Rin Spaceport checkpoint, after filling in all his personal information, he is admitted to a scanning box, a 1x1x2 meter room located between the spaceport and the outside world at each such checkpoint. He is inside less than ten seconds, but in that time the national computer database scans and records everything about him, from his appearance to his DNA to his clothing and luggage. Detecting no contraband, the room opens, allowing him into one of the port's many recieving areas. Here phones, guidebooks, and information desks abound, as well as a small snack stand towards on wall. Opposite the calimed professor is a row of doorways leading out to a roadway and rail station. This particular area is not very crowded at the moment, and only a few dozen people of various species and races move about. All the signs here are written in both Mirfakan and Galactic Standard.

KGBHQ

Hm. Lubyanka-esque, Katja thinks as she's led through the oppressively bare hallways of the complex. While 'Pendran architecture tends towards the austere, it almost never stays that way once people end up hanging pictures and dressing it up in unique ways. It wouldn't be surprising if SIS had a place like this tucked away, her train of thought continues, but I doubt it'd work day to day in it. The xanthalian's subdermic plating and its attendant 'hard look' makes the Inspector want to edit Xanthal's professional hospitality a little lower, but she knows that'd be unfair.

"I'urld," she replies with a short bow, speaking in a quiet voice, "chastet masfie pij rayverr ko pij Swisslo ko pij Arablo ko pij Englishlo. Chastet e'terr pij rayverr i'lis raye'terrloko chasmess, i'ko e'terr tasti e'terrvil chastet." She smiles gently. "I'm afraid I don't understand you, but I hope you see it to be from lack of resources rather than failure to study."

* - * - *

Spaceport

Doctor Robert Blair does the next most reasonable thing next to finding the restroom. Being a stranger in a strange land with a strange language that needs learning, he looks for the local bookstore or mediaplex and attempts to find an English/Mirfakian dictionary. A big one, because the works he can expect to find in his studies should be particularly erudite and his current smattering of Mirfakian For Businessmen certainly won't do.

Someone doesn't get a job like his if they aren't a quick study on these sorts of things, after all.

The xanthalian grins, pushing an intercom-like device onto the desk and pressing a button to activate it. "I suppose I should have expected as much." He speaks in Mirfakan, but the device translates it quite naturally to Galactic Standard. "I am afraid that I do not speak your language or Galactic Standard, so we shall have to use this little toy as a crutch. I am Akira Hori, Chief Officer of the Xanthalian National Security Agency. I am not sure what brought you here, but the Alphini told me you were here to help, so if you do not mind tell me of the capacity in which you and those with you are willing and able to serve."

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

After a complicated ride in a taxi to a suburb of Jin Rin and a minor dispute over payment, Robert finds himself in the business district of one of the city's many sectors. The driver has brought him to the library nearest to the spaceport, so he is on the outskirts of the massive capital city. The library he is standing before is a typical neighborhood facility, labelled (in Mirfakan naturally) as a media center. The building itself is constructed eerily like those around it. Archetecture in these cookie-cutter districts is decidedly bland. All the buildings are made of a composite material something like a cross between stucco and brick, with clear metal windows peering in through the grey exterior color. Entering through the main door, which is a simple wooden double affair, he finds himself in a two-story building with a notable absence of books. Instead, there are dozens of computer terminals lined up in neat rows on desks in the center of the floor. A lone than sits at one terminal, and an older human woman staffs what appears to be an information desk to the doctor's right, but they are the only people present.

The brown-haired woman nods demurely, gently holding her officer wheel cap behind her in her hands folded behind her back. "Senior Police Inspector Katja Camenzind, Triumvirate of Yut Space Patrol and International Rescue." She smiles politely while the box translates. "We've been sent here, sir, to assist your government with dealing with your internal terrorism threat. We'd like to help you find a way to bring this to a speedy, peaceful resolution but if that's untenable we have sufficient counterterrorism active and investigative assets to track down and apprehend whoever's been causing all this fuss."

* - * - *

Doctor Blair, on the other hand, is just looking for a dictionary. It's a right pisser that they hadn't any at the spaceport, but this shows promise. Getting himself acclimated with the terminals and their version of a card catalog, he sets himself to finding a decently complete translation dictionary as well as instructions on how to check such a thing out. After that, he could find the hotel listed on his travel itinerary and set up shop there.

The police chief crosses his arms. "Fuss? We are dealing with terrorists who have been blowing up buildings and killing people. I respect that you wish to have everyone agree to disagree, compromise, and walk away unscathed, but that is impossible. These conservative radicals have killed hundreds, and that number grows by the week. By all rights it should be the military's problem but the powers that be feel that that would send a bad image to pit the Nahbule against our own citizens so the task has been left to law enforcement. The job of the KGB is clear: find the criminals and bring them in for trial. I do not know what you have been told about the situation here, but we are in a state of civil war. Our government will not compromise to satisfy terrorists. The only way this can end peacefully is if these people turn themselves in, and that is not going to happen."

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

After setting the language output to Galactic Standard he quickly finds what he is looking for, and the computer prompts him to download the file to his media display device.

Katja nods demurely. "I understand that, Chief Officer, but you should also know that as an organization we are somewhat leery of solving internal problems of other nations for them--an ideal of sovereignty--and we must keep some sort of diplomatic solution an option. While I and everyone else in SPIR agree that the terrorists must be brought to justice, sir, it is obvious that they are fighting for a reason." She lets this sink in momentarily. "We will help you catch your terrorists. We will not assist you in maintaining any sort of political standard by cracking down on otherwise peaceful dissident elements, which there is of course a risk of. You deserve to know this up front, sir, which is why I'm making it clear."

She smiles politely. "May we get to business now, Chief Officer? There are criminals that need catching."

* - * - *

Done and done! Next step is to find a relatively inexpensive hotel. Sitting there and thinking for a moment, Blair decides to look up some history books from various eras--primary sources if he can swing them--and download them to work on later. Still, it's been a productive day and it's time to get settled.

"The Socialist Republic allows freedom of speech and universal political participation so that the people may have their voices be heard. If these radicals had decided to push their views through a media campaign or with public rallies rather than by blowing up buildings, this would not be an issue."

Satisfied that he has made his own point as well, he pushes a portable media display device with most of the relevant files over to the inspector. "The bottom line is this, Miz Camenzind: we have the resources to capture the criminals, but we do not have the resources to find them. Because of the privilege of private ownership and our government's liberal privacy laws, these people are operating essentially outside our scope. We have searched factories and businesses and shut down illegal activities that we could find, but because we can't access the relevant information we have no way to find the people responsible for organizing these efforts. We know that the terrorist movement is highly centralized, and we believe that if we can pick out the ringleaders the violence will collapse. We need a way to track remote communications remotely. Now that a state of emergency has been declared and the privacy laws temporarily lifted we are authorized to do that, but, surprise, we lack the means. The most useful thing you can do is help us set up a planetary communications tracking system. Then, between your staff and mine, we can pick out the bastards who are in charge of this thing. We do that for each of the four primary planets, then take them all out at once in a sweeping operation. That ought to tear the foundation for this whole thing right out from under it."

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

Blair finds the materials he needs with relative ease. The nearest place to spend the night is a small neighborhood motel. This building varies slightly from the others in the area simply because of the way it is designed, a one-story building built in a strip along the side of the street, a parking space in front of each room. Also, the owners of the establishment have taken the liberty of painting the place a white shade that, while not too far from the grey buildings around it, stands out as one of perhaps five structures in the area with a different color scheme. When Blair walks into the small office on the far end of the building, no one is there to greet him. There is a small service bell on the counter, however, and the door leading to the back room is open, so it is reasonable to assume that the clerk is not far away.

I wonder if setting up a Big Brother network lies in our jurisdiction. Katja thinks for a moment, idly watching a corner of the Chief Officer's desk as she gathers her thoughts and finds diplomatic ways to broach them. "You probably have the resources for such a thing already, but perhaps haven't realized it. All modern telecommunications systems need backbone systems for mass transfer because completely decentralized point-to-point communications generally don't have the range nor volume handling necessary for anything more than very small local networks. Your 'communications tracking system' are the necessary logs of those backbones.

"What we could do now, sir, is set up taps on those communications systems and set them to flag things based on the content of messages. If your privacy laws didn't allow for this previously, there's no need for the adversary to resort to codenames... although we can supply some algorithms we know to aid in flagging coded messages. With the information supplied by that, we know what telecom regions people are operating in, so we can use field teams to do essentially the same thing while intercepting point-to-point systems or hub-spoke systems like cell phones." She smiles gently. "We can, sir, automate the system so we can avoid as much potential abuses as feasible. Hopefully that's agreeable, Chief Officer?"

* - * - *

What dull architecture. No color, no life. Smirking wryly to himself, Blair rings the bell.

The chief looks a little blank at the explanation. "I am no technology expert, but if I am understanding you correctly your proposition sounds fine to me. If you have people that know how to do it, I suggest you do it. Tell me what you need and I will see what I can do with the Ministry of Communications."

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

The clerk emerges a few moments later. Seeing the guest, the middle-aged neko bows politely, the catlike creature's tail swishing behind her. She is of average height, with a beautiful coat of fur, a varied grey color striped with light orange markings, that can be seen around her short sleeves and pant legs. Her face is a cross between that of a human and a cat, more flattened than a feline's, but retaining whiskers, canine teeth, a distinctly inhuman nose, and, of course, a pair of pointed ears extending from the top of her head. "Par," she says in a silky, smooth tone that is very feminine, and carries a purring undertone. "Jyte arkios watashi elivios cil?"

If it were translated, her statement would be "Welcome. How can I help you?"

Inspector Camezind smiles sympathetically at Akira's blankness, shifting her stance slightly to not look so formal. "My apologies, sir--I spent a little time in datacrime before I got into Space Patrol and so I had to learn about telecom networks. It went with the anti-terrorism broadening training."

We're go for an ECHELON-style system, then. Thinking again for a moment, lips tightening slightly with thought, Katja lets her eyes wander while she does the calculations. "It may take some time to set up, sir. We will need programmers on your end to establish a permanent system. If your telecom professionals here, on the short order, could please give us their encryption methods for the moment so we can use our ready-made flagging algorithms, we would be much obliged. Fireball Junior's computer isn't currently being taken up with spaceflight so it will make a suitable if slow flagger for the moment. It's just that there is a lot of data to sift, sir, and so it may be fast enough to find locations but not prevent.

"In the short order... could you please tell me where you keep the evidence from prior bombings? The chemicals the terrorists use will give us an idea of where they are acquiring the materials; trace impurities can suggest where they were made or even who is the seller. We do have a forensics crew aboard and perhaps they can help that way if you don't have such personnel." Although why any society spanning at least a star system wouldn't have explosives forensics investigators is beyond me. "With this, I think we can start immediately from step one, sir." She smiles almost girlishly.

* - * - *

The tall Englishman looks to the Neko, the gears turn in his head, and then he steps forward, nodding in a friendly and harmlessly conspiratorial way. "Pär, ma'am! Wätäşe ĕst... ah... olĭn olĭnseos tö pläsĭn tö ĭbön." Checking to make sure he hasn't offended the catwoman to the quick, he pauses for a moment, then continues. His pronunciation is good enough but he speaks slowly like an outsider learning the language could be expected to. He also makes no attempt to hide his accent by replicating a Mirfakian one. "Ärkeos sĭl ĕlĭv wätäşe zĭnĕl ensä?"

Blair notes with a wry little thought in the back of his head that how he said it could be parsed, by someone either with a rather double entendre-heavy sense of humor or a decent sense of the absurd, as a proposition. He takes the inevitable silence afterwards to adjust his facial expression into something even more innocent, in order to preclude that as a possible motivation for his statement. Hefting the suitcases in his hands may help slightly as well.

Subtitles: "Hello, ma'am. I am a foreigner looking for a place to stay for the night." "Can you help me with that?"

"The forensic evidence has already been fully analysed," notes the chief. "The purchase records we have may be unreliable however, so it is not relevant to finding those responsible. They are materials available domestically however, which is consistent with our belief that the insurgent operation is entirely native. I will have the records sent to you if you wish, but the evidence must stay in our custody. I will have the Ministry of Communications contact you as soon as possible." He jots a few notes down on a pad that he pulls from one edge of the desk. "Is there anything else?"

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

The cat-person nods. Running a hotel, even in this residential district, she has become used to dealing with people who don't speak her language at all or speak it with questionable proficiency. This man isn't bad, but it is obvious to her that the dictionary he has is his only reference. Fortunately, Mirfakan is not too far off in sentence structure from Galactic Standard so the overall message is clear. Even if it wasn't, it is usually a fair guess that someone coming into a motel with a load of baggage is looking for a room. "VenaDekna quinaulti kasna Day Xanthalal. Voyios plusa awer luna. Yilseye?" "Thirty quinaults one Xanthalian Day. Go by hour five. Acceptable?"

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

International Communication
Text Message
Carrier: BDZ Courier Ship
Classification: Open Communication
Origin: Eko Oeşe, Jĭn Rĭn, Jĭn Rĭn, Merfăk III, Merfăk System, Zănŧäl
Destination: Nathicana D’Aquisto, Dread Lady and First Imperatrice of the Dominion VIA Triumvirate of Yut Council, Titan, Saturn Planetary System, Sol System
Translation Protocol: None.

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

While instruction or training teams would be impossible to put to use at this point, we will welcome an observer at Xanthalian national government headquarters. However, special transportation will have to be arranged to ensure mutual security in the current public order crisis. If you still wish to send an agent, please reply to this message at your earliest convenience.

Eko Oeşe
Second Alphin of the Socialist Republic of Xanthal

"May be unreliable?" Camenzind can't help but look a little bemused at that. "They're still leads, sir--it's not like anyone expects evidence to immediately point at a particular suspect. I would still like to see where those trails lead, sir, even if they may be unreliable.

"Other than that," she says in an unassumingly quiet voice, "there shouldn't be anything else. If you could please refer the Ministry of Communications to Fireball Junior, sir, I think that would do quite well."

* - * - *

Listening to the proprietor's response, Blair hears that perhaps he's being a bit more verbose than the locals. Doesn't seem to be affecting understanding yet, though. "Wätäşe ĭsteos wämeos pe plötäl. Wek? Pĭnäk mätä? Wätäşe ĕst oĭdl ortölĭm; ök poseb posĭleos tĕp." Wouldn't do to get kicked out onto the street before I'm done looking up what I have to, heh.

Subtitles: "I was thinking about something more. A week? Maybe two? I am studying the past; it may take time."

"Suit yourself," says the chief. He has a nagging suspicion that the Inspector thinks he is incompetent. He shakes his head, returning to work. Maybe she's right. After all, his department has already failed the people of the Socialist Republic miserably. As to who's fault it is... that will just have to be left to history's judgement.

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

The feline woman smiles with a distinct amusement, showing her long front canine teeth. Despite his admirable attempts, this man is not getting major points for comprehension. She rephrases, attempting to clarify for the stranger. "Tep voyiosal mor day voyiosal est luna oweri. Kins est VenaDekna quinaulti divisios day keldral. Cil nalios watashi?" "Departure time on departure day is five hours. Cost is thirty quinaults per each day. You understand me?"

Refusing to frown at the rather cold send-off, Katja smiles diplomatically, bows shortly, and turns to leave, tenative plans already forming in her mind. Once she returns to Fireball Junior she'll direct the investigative unit to get the case files from the Xanthalian police and start knocking on doors after getting the requisite paperwork from the Xanthalians. Before that, though, she'll have to get some squawkboxes from stores and pass them out--this is a bit off their beat so no one is quite knowledgable in the local tongues. Then the datacrime professionals will have to get in touch with the Ministry of Communications and set up that ECHELON network. Meanwhile, the dedicated ship crew should partition off Junior's important data and set the computer banks up to safely accept streams of foreign data for sifting. It'd probably be a good idea to physically disconnect the ECHELON banks from the flight control, life support, and weapons systems, just to be on the safe side. Finally, she should send the antiterrorism active squads to check in with local law enforcement and check their readiness. See if she can't at least start doing some preventative medicine there.

Just running it by the numbers, she thinks with a wry little smile.

* - * - *

Robert once again pauses to analyze what his potential hostess said before coming to a conclusion, all the while avoiding a wry smile. There's a reason languages grow more complex as time continues... ah well, at least they don't have to worry about semanticists or lawyers, unless there's a higher form I'm missing. "Wätäşe näleos cil. Kĭns ĕst yĭlsi." He smiles to get the point across. Although haggling may be a common social custom in the Segments, it is well known not to be universal and so the traveler is best served by erring on the side of caution.

The hostess bows, then waits politely.

--<Transmission Type: Encrypted Internal Triumvirate Communication>--
-<Sender: Imperatrice Nathicana D'Aquisto, DDLN>-
-<Destination: Supreme Emperor Speaker-Rrit, FSS (cc: Yut Councilmembers)>-
--<RE: Xanthal>--

It would seem you have things well in hand – unsurprisingly. And yes, very much agreed that our involvement as an alliance needs to be very careful indeed. I trust to your judgment in this matter, though of course, I look forward to status reports as to how the mission is progressing. This is an interesting, and hopefully, unique situation, and as such, we ought to take advantage of the opportunity to learn here whilst attempting some good.

I have only just heard from the Xanthal government as to our proposal, and it would seem all they wish to allow is an observer. I don’t see the need for redundancy in this regard – as previously stated, I trust you have it well in hand – as such, we will keep our agents here, and ready to assist should the need arise. I will be advising the Xanthalian government of just that.

While the r-brane phenomenon still has many of us scratching our heads, I find our intel reports seem to match in that regard at least, regarding ‘fractal natures’. It may not be a bad thing, no, but a thing worth saving is, after all, worth the effort doing so.

Agreed wholeheartedly on the knights, bless their little well-meaning hearts.

--Nathicana D’Aquisto, Dread Lady and First Imperatrice of the Dominion


--<Postscript Not Carbon Copied>--
Most Honored Speaker-Rrit of House Riskadh, Patriarch of the Race of Heroes

Aaaah, the bambinos. Yes, they do keep us hopping up here, and then some. I suppose it was too much to ask that any children of mine would be mild-mannered. It would seem you have your hands full as well? I knew I liked H’tza from the moment I met her. Please pass on my well-wishes, yes? And my hope that life will remain … interesting for you both. Life is too short for it to be any fun otherwise.

Besides. The little ones could use some playmates more their ages when we visit Titan … and of course, my lips are sealed, mi amico. Wink-wink, nudge-nod, say-no-more.

As for the Xanthalian situation, I meant what I said in the open letter. Even when under situations of extreme duress, I have never seen you act in a way that would put your nation, or your alliance at risk. I do understand your difficulty with this one, to a point. You know well enough my opinions on some of this, and I know quite well we do not always see eye to eye on all points, but I do think this is an excellent opportunity, regardless of how it may pan out. The truth is, until they can take a stronger hold on their own nation, there isn’t much the rest of us can do without it looking bad. They will need to learn how to govern themselves, for good or bad. I will continue to hope that they learn what is needed, and that it will be applied judiciously, with as little bloodshed as possible, and with as much of Xanthal intact once it’s all over.

Let me know if there is anything we can do to assist in keeping the Knights out. The last thing we need is any bad PR on this, especially after the whole Iraqstan fiasco, which I doubt has faded that far from many memories so soon. That could be easily dismissed. This …

I will indeed pass on your words to the good Cap’n. From what I’ve seen, he seems to be doing well enough, and I must say, possesses a knack for ‘working’ the Dominion so to speak. I’m quite proud of the both of them, to tell the truth. It’s been a delight, and an honor to have them around. I can see his smirk now … commiseration indeed. M’sha is after all, shall we say … formidable.

Be well, my friend – again, my regards to H’tza, and best wishes to you both. May you get your wishes, spoken or otherwise. And if you would, my love to Razak as well, the ornery old cuss. Wouldn’t have him any other way.

--Nathi
--<End Transmission>--


To Eko Oeşe, Xanthal –

I thank you for your response and consideration. However, we feel that there is no need for the expense or burden of one more simple observer to these proceedings. Those delegates sent by Speaker-Rrit should be more than sufficient to the task. We will await their reports, patiently

--Nathicana DAquisto, Dread Lady and first Imperatrice of the Dominion

ooc: sorry for shortness and lameness, but … sometimes that’s just the way it goes, I suppose. No excuses, just … meh. Effectively pulling out so as not to hold up the works and such.

Back aboard Fireball Junior, a short rough-shaven man snaps his lighter shut and tucks it back behind the duty flap of his slightly rumpled black-and-white Class A's, idly looking out the porthole as he takes a draw from his cigarette and with practiced courtesy blowing the resultant thick, punguent smoke outside. Another long intake of breath, and Wen Hua De takes the Turkish cigarette from his lips between two fingers, and the cabin takes on the distinctive, spiced, heady scent of Helmars despite the fresh breeze from outside. Wen was a Detective back in the Segments; now he's a "Police Inspector," which is essentially the same thing... 'cept now I'm about equal to a captain to those M.I. types, he sometimes thinks with a smug smile. Not now, though, because now he's on the job and it's the kind of job he likes.

"Twisted case we got here," he says to the other Inspectors and Sergeants of the investigative unit aboard XL-7, taking another puff as he walks over to the corkboard. Hardcopies of the case files they got from the KGB tacked there in particular patterns indicate where the evidence came from and how good it is; bits of yarn tied between the thumbtacks show possible connections. Right now there are a few decent piles in the pattern, but decidedly few yarn strings connecting them all.

Low tech, but effective.

"Never having a problem like this, the Xanthalians never got 'round to chemically marking their bomb-making materials. The agricultural industry here is a terrorist's paradise--anyone can get and use, say, ammonium nitrate from whoever they want in whatever quantities they want without us knowing who the seller was--and that's where the local police got fouled up. Can't blame 'em, really," he says in his slightly throaty voice (although not because of the cigs) and a crooked smile as he indicates the board with a wave of the idly glowing tip of the cigarette in his hand, "they've gone as far as they can on the manufacturer route. They have regions, all right, but these terrorists are smart. Didn't buy in bulk any more than they had to, spread out the purchases as much as possible.

"What we need," Hua De says as he turns to his audience, "is a different angle."

"Hm... if they spread out their purchases," says a tall junior Inspector in the back of the darkened compartment, "that means there should be a correlation in purchase records. The same accounts--even if dummy ones--should have bought relatively small quantities from multiple vendors, and that can be cross-checked. I'm from a farming town myself, and farmers tend to find one seller and stick to them. Either quality or price, that's what determines it."

"Good, good." Wen smiles a little less crookedly. "The Xanthalians tried that, shotgunning and getting records from as many sellers as they could find, but looks like most of this came from e-commerce. The accounts are all different, and because the backers are mostly capitalists, they could afford it." He smiles again. "While the accounts are different, the addresses they ship to don't seem to be. Warehouse sectors, places where people wouldn't be expected to be in any sort of density... but people own those warehouses. I want a team checking for connections from the owners and see if we can get any surveillance footage from them.

"Anything else?"

A sergeant taps his pen on the desk, then looks up. "The chemical checks came up empty, sir?"

"Not empty, Sergeant, just inconclusive. No chemical markers, and they already used impurities to figure out where the material came from."

"No, not like that sir," the sergeant replies. "I mean..."--he makes a sort of spherical motion with his hands, as if he were carrying an imaginary ball--"...the container. Whatever the bomb was put in."

"Looks like readily available suitcases. Nothing that would arouse much suspicion."

"They'd need a lot of nitrate bombs, though, to take down buildings. Any correlation in the suitcase manufacturers?"

"They checked that too. Nope." Wen smirks. "There also hasn't been a sudden upsurge in suitcase sales that would help. It's also not like they're destroying buildings; they're just blowing up gov'ment chow halls and the like. Old-old-school terror."

"Cafeterias have cameras," the sergeant says, "and their times are synched with the cameras in the lobbies. Find the people who came in, 'forgot' things, and left. The cameras can see where the blast happened, and can also see who left something there. Then we could have faces to work with."

"You've got something on the timing issue," Wen nods. "The Xanthalians tried to do the trick of rewinding and finding a face, but their security is shoddy. We'll check on that again, but I think it's a matter of the bomb was put in a corner under the camera--blind spot."

"So we see who went into the blind spot, then left immediately." The sergeant folds his hands together, looking at them momentarily. "In my experience, unless we're talking about the kind of professionals civvie Xanthalians aren't supposed to have, people are quick about this sort of thing. Get in, plant something with a timer, get out. Not standing around and being just another face in the crowd while knowing exactly what's going on--we're dealing with homegrown terrorists whose expertise should be that of pranks, not intel services."

"That's assumin' a bit," Wen replies, after another drag taken whilst listening to the sergeant, "but it's an angle worth checking. I want a team on that too, and maybe one guy checking the Xanthalians' work on the camera footage. Can't hurt, after all."

"The KGB thinks the terrorists are being funded pretty high up the corporate food chain," another inspector says, "so should we get bank statements from the local megacorp Johnsons and maybe the corps themselves?"

"Yes," Wen Hua replies, "but we need to be subtle about it. Get those through a third party like a antitrust citizen's organization that would be expected to if possible. If we are looking at a suit op, we may be dealing with runners or maybe very large amounts of money. Money means power, and we're not about to tip them off that way." The short Asian man claps his hands together lightly. "Well, that pretty much covers it. Let's break and get on this, people."

* - * - *

Blair waits a few moments, then figures out payment is expected. There's even a sign, there on the desk in front of the neko: Pay First. Putting down his bags, he checks on his person for his electronic pay card--made money exchange easier, and given Xanthal's reputation it would be a thing of wonder if they actually recognized bills and proper coins in the current economy. At thirty quinalts a day, it'd take about twenty workreps to house him for three days, which seems like a reasonable amount of time to aim for. This is what he offers the neko with a smile.

The investigations turn up several pieces of information. The warehouses that the records indicate stored the chemicals in question are scattered throughout the Republic. Ownership varies, but three companies have apparently handled large amounts of nitrate explosives: VictoryCorp, Wilshire Industries, and Xanthalian Military Research Laboratories. Though it by no means clears them of suspicion, two of these: VictoryCorp and XMR Labs are both affiliated with the military, the first in manufacturining and the second, as its name implies, in research. Wilshire Industries is a consumer manufacturer, primarily involved in communications and electronic entertainment products and a heavy exporter. Wilshire headquarters are located on Than VI, the other two companies' on Mirfak III. The military companies have abundant security and surveillance records, none of which implicate them, though the value of the reports is questionable since they are kept by the companies themselves and only limited data is available from the government in the form of routine inspections. Wilshire Industries has fewer records, but also has no records at all on keeping explosives, something that one would think ought to be noted in any security report at all.

The security camera record search provides even less information. Most of the attacks took place in areas with no video surveillance whatsoever; and the vast majority were perpetrated by suicide bombers who, when identified, had no discernable connection to one another or any particular organization. A single tape reveals a suspicious woman leaving a suitcase in the entryway of the Yatis Provincial legislative building, but further investigation reveals that not only was the bomb in question successfully disarmed and removed by KGB officers, but the bomber herself has already been captured and interrogated by Xanthalian police, telling them only that she volunteered through an underground insurgent network and that the attacks were justified by the government's refusal to respond to the ligitimate demands of the 'free marketers.'

The team's attempts to obtain financial statements is arrested by the lack of a cooperative third party. The government-operated Ministry of Economics apparently keeps a tight grasp on all non-affiliated public and private banking records, and despite the best efforts of the SPIR personnel everyone up to the Minister of Economics herself flatly refuses to release anything to the investigators.

The Ministry of Communications does get in contact with the Fireball a few hours after Inspector Camenzind leaves KGB headquarters, giving them the codes they need with thinly-veiled warnings that they will expire the moment the investigation is concluded, also noting that they only have codes for public satellites and cannot provide access to privately-owned relays.

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

The professor's hostess takes the card and swipes it at a decidedly antiquated computer terminal on the far end of the desk near the wall. She then goes through the usual check-in procedure, getting his full name and contact information. With that she hands him a key, not a card or a scanner, but a simple metal key in the style of those that have been in use for millenia, and states simply, "Plas decna." "Room ten."

"I'm tempted to start thinking the MoE is complicit with whatever's going on here," one of the investigative sergeants grumbles. "Footwork and facetime and all we're getting out of it is a 'no' without so much as a reason given."

Wen shrugs, leaning up against Fireball Junior's landing gear as he smokes another Helmar. "Not entirely expecting them to trust the outsiders. I'll ask Inspector Camezind to lean on the KGB to... acquire that information as may be necessary. You'd think the government would help itself to find the criminals, no?"

"You'd think, sir." The sergeant smirks, then glances over at the inspector. "You got another one of those?"

Chuckling, Hua De pulls the pack out from his inside trenchcoat pocket then taps out a cig to hand over to the sergeant. Wen was somewhat old-fashioned when it came to detective wear; fortunately, on the one hand, SPIR still understood the value of decent trenchcoats that didn't immediately make him look like a cop on the beat. Unfortunately--and thus on the other hand--they kept up the black and white motif. Trenchcoats only look good in monochrome, and so his slick black double-breasted coat has a touch of the fascist look to it, especially whenever he decided to wear the wheel cap that goes with it. Damned fascists, ruining any uniform that looks sleek. "Nasty habit, Sergeant. Anyway, I've got some more ideas."

"Hrm?" asks the sergeant, cupping his hand around the end of the Helmar not between his lips and striking a light with the other against Junior's armored hull.

"Well, we've got three leads so far as to some warehouses. We're not interested in where this stuff was stored, though; let's find some outlets and call around to see if anyone has had some big sales recently. We check out the customers' backstories and start asking around. Six degrees, Sergeant; probability says that someone almost has to know something."

"They were suicide bombers too," the sergeant says with a nod. "DNA evidence, hair, IDs... we ask around at work, we canvas the families. Get a proper dragnet going, and we should get something out. We check their residences, find their schedules, find out where they've been. Has to lead somewhere."

Wen grins crookedly behind closed lips. "This case just gets lower and lower-tech, don't it? Well, can't solve everything with fancy computers and Big Brother networks."

* - * - *

"Will it work, Policeman Jennings?" Katja looks over the shoulder of the technician putting the finishing touches on Junior's extemporaneous communications trunk filtering and flagging network, which consists of most of the non-weapons computers across the ship being linked physically together by cables snaking through the passageway. This keeps them far, far away from the tacnet systems, which can only be considered a good thing.

"It should, ma'am," Jennings replies, standing up and stashing his multitool back into his belt. "We can't possibly cover anywhere near all of Xanthal with this, but we can at least cover the local area that the cells are probably operating from. We can pick up plain text, various encoding schemes, even those tricky image dithering codes.

"Here are the codes to the MoC's satellite constellations, Sergeant," the Senior Inspector says as she hands over a databoard with all the relevant information. "Please put it into the system and let me know when it's up and running."

The policeman's reply is cut short by a sharp Arabic invective as a sergeant trips over a coil of cable just outside the bridge, grabbing onto the doorframe for balance.

"Meanwhile, I will tape down the cabling and post warning fliers," Katja continues with a quiet smile, bowing slightly to the newcomer. "Please be careful, Sergeant Kathitiyyun."

* - * - *

Perfect. Smiling, Robert accepts the key, bows shortly, and makes his way to his room. After arriving, he putters around a bit, checking the windows, the dressers, the attendant bathroom. Opening his suitcase, he retrieves a simple analog alarm clock that he positions just so by the bed with a smile, and next to it places one of the commercial white-noise sleep machines that make soothing waves-crashing-on-the-seashore or insect-filled-jungle noises. After switching all these battery-powered devices on, he takes some of the data he collected at the library, sits down at the table, and looks at it for an hour or so.

Yawning after some particularly dry reading, he wanders over to the patio door; next to it is a dried leaf blown in from outside that housekeeping didn't catch. Chuckling to himself, he kneels down and picks it up; crumbling it into a few pieces between his fingers with a smirk, he then glances outside, idly slipping the leaf into the crack of the door before standing back up. Looking through each window in turn, he idly sticks a crumb of leaf up in each one of their tracks and returns to his bed to sit down heavily next to his suitcase.

Slapping his knees, he looks at his little alarm clock and noise machine and smirks; leaning over, he plugs them into the electrical socket the light is connected to using some foreign Xanthalian power adapters, then gets up, stretches, and decides to go for a walk. Turning off all the lights, he wanders out past the desk whilst the hostess is otherwise busy and gets out onto the street, hands in pockets, humming contentedly to himself.

A quick reference of the map on his cellphone tells him where the nearest subway station is; walking down the stairs, he discovers that (unsurprisingly, had he known about all the difficulty SPIR has been having) Xanthal makes practically nothing easy and said subway is closed. Sighing, he returns to street level, hails a cab, takes it about two-thirds of the way he thinks he's going and walks the rest. After maybe an hour of travel this way, he checks the map again as his other hand jingles some keys and change in his pocket. 49582-40883. Here we are.

OOC: I think we'll leave the investigators alone for a bit while our friend Blair has a chance to catch up.

IC: Blair now stands literally on the edge of town. Jin Rin's development is so clear-cut that the street simply ends, full urban development on each side and behind, empty grassland ahead. There is a house on either side of the street, but no indication of which, if either, the coordinates indicate. It is a quiet, dead-end road. There is no one on the street, and no indication of what he should do next.

Patience... Smirking wryly to himself, the professor puts the phone back into the inside pocket of his tweed jacket and draws out his cigarette case, idly toying with it in his hands as he glances down the street, then out towards the grasslands. Of course they wouldn't have offered instructions on a signal or anything. That would require professionalism. Looking down, he idly draws an S-shaped pattern in the dust with the toe of one brown shoe.

Minutes pass, then a half-hour. A car carrying a family of four mon calamari, a man, woman, and two children pulls out of a drive two houses down and departs for some unknown destination. A few nondescript pedestrians pass. There is no sign, no suspicious activity. A light spring shower begins as clouds roll in from the south. Blair, it appears, has been stood up.

Shrugging, Robert finally lights the cigarette with a match fished from one pocket, puffs on it idly, and starts walking back in the direction whence he came, keeping a vigilant (but not obviously so) watch on his surroundings.

He passes a KGB officer on foot patrol as he walks back, the street cop in a red uniform reminescent of eighteenth-century British military attire, minus the hat. Like all regular duty officers he carries no projectile weapon, his only weapon a sheathed katana identical in appearance, to those used in pre-meiji Japan. It is odd how, over a millenium later and hundreds of light-years away, a society so distinct would choose to borrow such historical elements. The Japanese nod could be attributed to Xanthal's east Asian roots, but British uniforms? Perhaps whoever came up with the design had an interest in the period. Just as likely, it is a simple coincidence. This simple, smiling than who gives a polite nod and a cheerful chitter to Blair as he passes by represents the line between order and chaos in the Socialist Republic; a society so accustomed to peace in its own ranks that it has become quite complacent in policing them. It is only fortunate that the insurgent movement is so small.

Blair makes it all the way back to where he left his cab without encounter or incident. His search, it seems, is bust; and all he's gotten for his trouble is wet. It occurs to him that, considering several inconsistencies he has so far noted in his map, not least of which is its notation of now-abandoned subway stations, it may be out of date. Perhaps therein lies the answer?

OOC: Last two sentences may be overstepping my boundaries. Just trying to point you in the right direction.

Blair quickly discounts that idea as planetary coordinate systems are the sort of Important Data that aren't wont to change through both institutional inertia and sheer utility. Latitude and longitude had been around since... when? and any change to such a system would just make everything far more complicated than it absolutely needed to be. The concept that the local equivalent to latitude and longitude could be outdated on a phone whose maps were available online is nearly laughable, in his mind.

No, he'd been stood up. That simple.

He also makes sure to get back to his hotel room a different way than he came. Anything less would be... unprofessional.

The KGB informs the foreigners that it has no authority over the Ministry of Economics and advises them to contact the Daiho. The search for domestic sales of explosive materials comes up empty. The Republican government forbids posession of explosives beyond what it explicitly sanctions. This is still valuable though, as Wilshire Industries does not have any visible permissions to handle such materials.

Not far into their interviews the wife of one confirmed bomber enters an official complaint. Wishing to minimize possible issues with abuse of emergency power, the First Alphin calls upon the Daiho to end the interviews. Hori dutifully complies and orders the SPIR teams to stop, but supplies them with the interviews already conducted by the KGB, which are quite thorough. They indicate that, for the most part, those close to the criminals were not told of their intentions and those that were for the most part either did not know or did not reveal who organized and supplied the attacks. A common thread does emerge though, with what little information there is. It seems that all the bombers, even those from other planets, spent time in Trasnia VI's capital city within a month of their attack. The on-scene evidence points easily to the bombers themselves, but is no help in identifying the one pulling the strings. The mess left behind by the explosions does not lend itself to preserving any subtle indicators.

The surveillance of the Ministry of Communications satellites leads nowhere as far as the focus of the investigation is concerned. Nearly all planetary communication by the insurgent movement is probably conducted through private lines and satellites. KGB Chief Hori suggests that the team attempt to covertly hack into private satellites.

"Okay, so we know that Wilshire might not have been allowed--openly--to hold this sort of stuff." Wen smirks as he talks standing up, hands firmly hidden in rumpled pockets. "You may want to check back with the KGB, ma'am, to make sure they don't have some sort of quiet permission before we turn up the heat on them."

"Of course, Inspector Wen," Katja says with a polite nod, her hands folded neatly on her desk. "I'm sorry that the local government has been making things more difficult for you."

"Yes... it really does say something when a gov won't let you ask some polite questions in order to protect it the instant some obnoxious old bitty crows about how mildly annoying it is." The detective's smirk only grows wider. "Still, we've got faces and we've got files. Now we just have to see what other than the obvious connects all the bombers. Yes, they all blew themselves up and yes they all went to the same city offworld, but there should be other connections we can capitalize on. Schools, message boards, social gatherings..."

Camezind nods again, sighing softly. "It is aggrivating. They are suggesting that we actually hack into these private networks and look after them that way. Apparently there's no such thing as a subpoena in this culture of the kind."

"You gonna do it?"

The Senior Inspector pauses with a start, then looks as if she's been struck. "Of course not! The police aren't allowed to violate the law in order to enforce it. If the KGB wants to 'suggest' doing such a thing, they can do it themselves. Until we have express permission from the local legal system to take such measures, we will not."

"Well, we got a little sump'n sump'n on Wilshire," Hua De says with a shrug, "maybe you can apply to the Daisho or whatever to get a search warrant on them. We can raid the place--politely--and use the surprise to see if they've got anything they shouldn't or any more leads. If not, then it's just a snap inspection by law enforcement and we'll make baklava for 'em as a reward for staying on the straight-and-level. We could also use it as an 'in' for that hacking."

"That is the plan, Inspector Wen," Katja replies, folding her arms and frowning as she leans back in her chair, "but right now our best bet is playing Six Degrees with the bombers. Find out what connects them, Inspector."

Wen smirks broadly. "I'll get right on it, ma'am."

Hori informs the team that Wilshire Industries has had no permission at all to handle nitrates, but also notes that the KGB has noted the record and managed to find no explosives at all. "Either they have done an expert job of cleaning up or their name was used fraudulently to cover up the real purchaser," he advises. He also notes that their arrival has stirred up some insurgent activity and the KGB is close to some big arrests.

The only documented link between the bombers seems to be their trips to Trasnia VI. Some brilliant detective work does turn up one more connection however. Several of the people involved have accessed a secure section of a website operated by a modest Trasnia-based company called North Provincial Accounting and Database Construction.

Fireball XL-7 (Junior)
Mirfak

"Good work, Inspector Wen," Katja says with a smile, her thin porcelain fingers skimming through the detective's latest report. "We finally seem to be making headway. I haven't heard back on my request for a search warrant--"

"Moving at the speed of bureaucracy, eh?" Hua De says with a crooked close-lipped grin.

Camenzind chuckles quietly, then continues as if she'd never been interrupted in the first place. "--but that gives me the opportunity to ask if it can be expanded to NPADC. We'll take a physical look at Wilshire while our datacrime professionals with decker training take a look behind the scenes at NPADC through those private satellites. While the Xanthalian government looks over my request, I'd like you to filter down what satellite networks NPADC uses so we know which ones to target."

"Can do, ma'am." Wen fishes a Helmar out of the pack in his front-left trouser pocket and toys with it thoughtfully before sticking it behind his ear. "Any news from Special Services? Even money says they planted a spy when they heard about this."

"What makes you think Special Services keeps us in the loop?" The Senior Inspector chuckles again. "It's for the best, really; I'd prefer not to know. I've just sent a secure message through Fireball to advise them of the situation."

"So, what do we do until the next step becomes all too abundantly clear?"

"The KGB said that they're getting ready to make some arrests. I'm thinking we should have some of our SWAT ready just in case they'd like our assistance. Otherwise, I think we should get Fireball Junior spaceready because it looks like we may be taking another little trip."

"Makes sense to me, ma'am."

* - * - *

Executive Apartments
Stonozka, Titan

Garbo sighs. So they had to take things offworld, eh? Well, only makes sense; not like they have any reason to stand around nearby and get caught...

Noting that the SIS case officer in charge of WYRM will be letting the agent in Xanthal know what's going on, he passes that manilla folder from the "To be read" pile to the "Read" pile and goes on to the next one.

* - * - *

Hosni Mubarak Regional University of Arts and Sciences
Nuha, Titan

Chairman Yeigh of the history department looks over the missive and chuckles. Looks like you're going to have to spend a little more of your budget for this trip, "Blair..."

* - * - *

Nameless Motel
Mirfak

Blair stifles a yawn as he reads over the latest missive from the chairman of the history department at his parent university. Just asking for an update on the project, an estimated cost- and time-of-completion, and the usual "if you need anything, just let me know." HMRU was always good for that sort of lassiez-faire attitude towards productive researchers. Chairman Yeigh has also sent a tip to the effect that he's heard that there's some libraries on Trasnia IV with some interesting bits on that.

Finally getting to the signature--Yeigh is always longwinded, it seems--Blair looks down at the routing list of the e-mail, all the tags of the routers the packets of the electronic correspondence had to go through to get to him. This one is pretty long; the highly-futuristic derivitive of Simple Mail Transfer Protocol shares SMTP's trait of generally being time-independent: as long as the message gets to where it's going, fine. This means it can be directed to particular servers, or strings of particular servers, to decrease load.

Looking at the block showing how the e-mail wandered through 'Pendran networks, he idly jots down the server identification codes on a cigarette paper. The resulting string looks like:

NW30 SW177 NW92 NE39 SE85...

...and so forth. Once that's done, he closes his portcomp and wanders outside onto the patio to read the airplane-thriller novel he picked up at the spaceport back in Nuha and uploaded into his pocket-sized e-book. As it turns out, it's a more philosophically and artistically mature version of the old "Choose Your Own Adventure" books that are making a mild comeback in the Scolopendran market due to the level of interactivity and its concomitant potential for more creative forms of artistry in the medium. Idly flipping through it, he eventually comes to page thirty; looking in the upper left corner, he sees the word "Space." Then he flips to page one-hundred-seventy-seven, looks in the lower left corner, and sees "patrol."

Following the pattern, he gets:

Space. patrol finding Little gone To ground may have to move Offworld

Reading to the end of the last page, he makes a decision and turns to page 330. "Damn," he mutters to himself, "I'm dead. Bad end."

Putting the book aside, he stands up, idly fills the paper in his hand with loose tobacco, rolls it up and begins to fish for a cigarette as he looks up at the night sky. Well, this certainly makes things interesting... will have to wrap things up here first before I go. He looks down at the e-book which, besides the CYOA title, has a few dozen Xanthalian history books on it now thanks to his library trip. What dry reading.

Word finally arrives from a harried-looking judge that since the executive declaration of emergency authorized investigators don't need warrants, but she gives them express permission to access any private satellite they wish and search any property of Wilshire Industries or North Provincial Accounting and Database Construction. She also warns that, if they plan on talking to anyone, they should be sure to have a translator on hand.

The Chief of the National Security Agency also informs SPIR's team that he's delaying any arrests until they can complete their investigation. As he puts it, "We want to catch as many of them in the open as we can. I do not want to drive the leaders into hiding if you can dig up evidence on them first. I have not yet given up on a sweep operation."

The first step is simple enough. Gather up the SPIR personnel with datacrime experience and decker certifications, get them on Fireball's cyberdecks, and tell them to get cracking. Literally. The assistance of the mechanoid crew can't hurt either.

Right now, the operation has two fronts. The first, which is smaller but has the better-skilled deckers, works to go through the secure portal mentioned by the KGB and see what's on the other end. The second, which takes up the lion's share, is a wholesale burning of NPADC secure servers to find anything which could be useful in a quick snatch and grab, all done on the down-low. After that, the first front's secondary objective is to edit the server logs to remove any trace of the search before exiting gracefully.

During the cracking, detectives will openly raid Wilshire corporate headquarters and ask for copies of financial records and material transaction statements. Polite, courteous, and with the intent of making it look as if they've been thrown off the trail if Wilshire is really just being used as a mark.

"Nothing better than a good feint," Wen mutters to himself as he pulls up outside of Wilshire Industries.

The decker teams make progress on peeling away the security on NPADC's secure website, but it is taking time to achieve the dual goals of gaining access and avoiding detection. The communications satellites prove much easier, even for the less skilled teams. However, many of them do not keep logs, and most of those that do simply list connections, not the actual communications. That leaves the teams working on them to listen for any incriminating chatter; something that doesn't seem to be readily forthcoming. Whether it is that the insurgents are busy covering their tracks rather than creating new ones as the heat is turned up by the Xanthalian government and their Triumvirate assistants or just have a very good code system in place is up to the imagination; but the hackers keep listening. They're bound to hear something if they wait long enough.

The president of Wilshire Industries greets the investigators with a healthy balance of exasperation and respect. He doesn't seem happy about having his headquarters raided again, this time by a group that isn't even technically Xanthalian, but he complies with SPIR's requests willingly enough, given the circumstances, after thoroughly checking to make sure they are actually authorized investigators. The company records he gives up show exactly what is expected; no explosives, no payoffs, nothing really suspicious at all. The public records again show that Wilshire does (or at least did) posess explosives, but this is the same information encountered earlier, flimsy and discredited. It is certainly still possible that Wilshire is involved and has simply effectively cleaned up after itself, but it is equally possible that it is merely a diversion. Only physical evidence can say for sure, and if the KGB is to be trusted, any that may have once been is long gone.

A Bigger Picture

The deckers keep at it, as that's their job. They drop cookiebombers and dataminers here and there in the flow, tagged like the proposed ECHELON system was, to help lend an ear if the deckers have to log off for some reason. These small programs, designed to look a lot like corporate systems of similar purpose, tag information in the dataflow based on particular variables and insinuate copies of themselves in the transmission to set up local copies on the receiving computer. Once there, they act both like browser cookies as well as co-opt transmission protocols to send little burst messages back to a predetermined location with things like operating system, hardware specifications, MAC address, and the like. All in all, a completely benign (other than its privacy-killing functions) mild computer virus that would probably be picked up, at best, as mildly obnoxious commercial spyware.

Normally these dataminers would be directed to send data to a computer unrelated to the user that has a coincident viral program on it that checks the flags and sends the messages to their final destination, usually a dummy e-mail address with no real user information that can be checked later. The local SPIR folk don't have that luxury, so they just reroute it through a public satellite with a quick redirect scripter planted on it and have it sent directly to Fireball. Someone could find it quickly enough if they wanted to hack the chain of satellites, but doing so would also generate an automatic response page outlining SPIR's granted authority to check up on what they are.

This is why one can't go ahead without a warrant: Cover Your Ass.

* - * - *

A Smaller Picture

Meanwhile, back on the surface of Mirfak, Detective Wen shoos out all the investigators while apologizing wholeheartedly to the local Wilshire boss, taking advantage of growing up in both Arab and Chinese traditions to be appropriately obsequious. Once everyone's out, he politely asks the boss to accompany him outside so they can discuss something politely.

Outside, Hua De smiles crookedly as he fishes another Helmar from the pack, expertly lights it up with a flick of the wrist and his clean but unpolished lighter, and offers one to the local executive. Niceties out of the way, he takes a draw, leans back on the brick wall, and smirks. "Sorry about this, but we think we're making headway." He lets the translator catch up, watching his cigarette burn while he does so. "You know that we got nothing, and the KGB also got nothing. Now, there's two things here--either there's a cover-up, or someone's doctoring the evidence to finger you."

The short, wiry man shrugs slightly, looking up as he takes another drag. "I'll admit, it's been a while since I've seen a business world as 'competitive' as Xanthal's. Blowing up gov'ment buildings, framing other corps for the same... hell, it's sounds like the stuff Capricorn would pull in the history books. So, let's figure we're on the same side. Got any idea who'd be out to pull such a mean stunt?"

* - * - *

An Interesting Picture

And this is the part of the job I hate, Blair muses as he flips through the local Xanthalian history text on his e-book, the latest in a long line of strange names and different date systems. It was interesting in some ways, yes, but simply confusing in others. He'd checked up on the coordinates proffered once he learned that the system had been changed a few decades before--Changing the entire system devoted to locating a thing... who would have thought it? It's like converting a culture from Imperial to metric but a thousand times more so...--but that put it in the middle of the ocean and he wasn't about to rent a boat. Sighing, he flips the next page and reads the next line of what is essentially the Xanthalian analog to medieval history.

In the 64th year before the New Order, a bright star appeared at planetary coordinates 9371-1722, causing a...

Pausing for a moment, Robert blinks and reads it again in the original Mirfakian, then checks the e-book's translation protocols, switching it from one to another, then looks it up himself in the dictionary. No, that's how it commonly reads. "That must be it," he muses to himself, "'planetary' must mean 'of the planet' in a different way. Planets were recognized in the sky first, so it only stands to reason... huh."

What a curious place. Pulling out his portcomp, he types up a quick e-mail to the chair recalling about how they talked about lotto numbers back home and to see if any had come up as a winner, because everything was up in the air for him, especially since that astronomy professor had made quite a bit on his 'investments.'

Not exactly the most subtle of codes, but everyday conversation doesn't count as evidence. Normally.

It doesn't take too long before the extensive monitoring picks up a trail. It seems the insurgency is closing its communication channels, but ironically, they have to communicate to do so. Code names are prolific, and it seems the task is mostly complete, but a few trails are made evident by tracing the call origins and destinations; not only revealing several individuals involved with the group, but also, once again, implicating NPADC. Traces also implicate the involvement of another familiar company hereto overlooked as a primary suspect: Xanthalian Military Research Laboratories. This break is followed quickly by another. The SPIR teams have successfully gained access to NPADC's secure database, which contains concealed records of a number of sizable money transfers and security information on several buildings attacked by the insurgency in the past.

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

The President of Wilshire Industries, a tall, round, brown-skinned human named Oliver Nightow, offers Wen little information; though he does offer it in Galactic Standard, saving some time. He is an outspoken man, and quick to paint himself as a vehement government supporter. "This is not about business for whoever is doing this," he says. "It is about politics. They are crazy libertarian radicals who would rather scare the people into giving them what they want rather than using the freedoms our government gives us. When this is over, we are going to face more oversight and regulation than ever before because our leaders will act to prevent something like this from happening again. When you find those who did this you let me know and I will be the first in the streets celebrating. Fucking economically conservative morons think they can solve anything with money and violence."

"Yeeeaah, I can see that much," Wen says, idly flicking away some ash from his cigarette, "but one of the rules of business as I've been led to understand is synergy. Just wonderin' if there's been anyone in particular who could try and frame you and kill two birds with one stone."

Nightow shrugs. "They are public records, Sir. Nearly anyone could have done as much. If you are asking if I have any personal enemies, I will need a few days to make a list. Business is business, but too many people take it personally."

Wen grins from behind closed lips and nods. "Do that then. Sorry for the trouble." Tipping his hat slightly, he sticks his hands in the pockets of his black trenchcoat and walks off.

* - * - *

The analysis from SIS concerning Blair's possible alternate explanation for the cryptic directions delivered to Fireball finally return from the think tank. Using the coordinates offered and comparing them to the Mirfakian sky at the time the message was sent to Fireball, they lead to...

Oliver sighs, but he gets in the last lick. "Public smoking is prohibited in the Socialist Republic Sir," he calls to the receeding form of the inspector. Then he returns to his office. Wen's list can wait. He has a business to run.

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

Blair finds that the cordinates lie in an industrial park, around a warehouse on the other side of the continent. Almost three days later though, there is some doubt that whoever sent the message is still waiting or any message he left is still in place.

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

Meanwhile, the KGB is preparing to bring the entire affair to a close. Chief Hori presents the SPIR teams with the Xanthalian version of a subpoena in a concise transmission, ordering that all the evidence and information they have gathered be transferred to the KGB for review before the police move against the insurgents.

"Not at all surprised," Wen calls back over his shoulder as he walks away, then turns back ahead to mutter to himself. "Not surprised at all. Now if only they could enforce it." Stupid goddamn country. Odd mix of overly protective and absolutely useless.

* - * - *

How exactly an analysis of astronomical objects and artificial satellites identifies a warehouse on the surface is beyond anyone's understanding, but in a desire to just wrap up this craziness Blair is dispatched there by hook or by crook using whatever locally available method actually works.

* - * - *

Camenzind does so.

Upon arrival at the warehouse, after some snooping about, Blair finds a slip of paper with a phone number on it. Whether this has something to do with his assignment or is simply something out of some worker's wallet... well, there's only one way to find out.

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

The law enforcement side of things goes into a passive state while the evidence is gone over. The KGB may be in a hurry to end this insurgency, but everyone understands the importance of making sure their list is complete by checking the SPIR team's findings against their own. A few "checkup" operations are conducted in this interim, but nothing groundbreaking. SPIR does get a message from the chief though, commending them on excellent factfinding.

Blair pulls out his cell phone and dials the number.

* - * - *

The Senior Police Inspector thanks the Chief for his kind words before rallying everyone back to Fireball XL-7 just in case they have to be on the move.

OOC: The second part of this, if we do it, seriously needs to be single-character oriented, following one of your guys (an ambassador or something) around in the governmental changes that happen after the war, lobbying or following a trial or somethin. My attempt to follow multiple threads at once has not worked at all. I'm sorry to have put you through this. It's been a disaster in terms of quality on my end. If we can manage something on a smaller scale, I think I can do much better. Next time we're both on AIM, we can talk about whether you want to keep going with this and, if so, where we want to take it.

IC:
By the time Blair makes the call, the phone on the desk of a Xanthalian Military Research Laboratories executive rings in an empty office. Across the Socialist Republic the KBG is moving; arresting potential bombers and, more importantly, the people pulling the strings of the insurgency. In just one hour the months of struggle are over. The Xanthalian government has won.

And then, of course, comes the paperwork.

SPACE PATROL AND INTERNATIONAL RESCUE
COMMANDING OFFICER
TYPS-PCC FIREBALL XL-7

DD MMM YYYY

TO: Commissioner Roger Rock, SPIRHQ, Port Aurora
FR: Senior Police Inspector Katja Camenzind
SJ: IR Mission to Xanthal After-Action Report Summary

Sir:

The mission to Xanthal can tentatively be described as a success. Local police forces have apprehended the suspects believed responsible for previous terrorist incidents with no additional loss of life or terrorist attacks. To date, there have been no repercussive or retaliatory attacks or statements made by anonymous speakers for the capitalist faction, indicating that the terrorist rings responsible probably have been captured.

Unfortunately, I cannot say with any certainty how much (if at all) we actually helped. The policing systems inside Xanthal are for all intents and purposes directly contradictory for maintaining a modern stable state. At no point did we receive any assistance in our investigation short of what the local police had already found. At all levels of local government we were faced with challenges and setbacks that did nothing to aid our mission.
1. The local industry failed to have even the most basic of "preventative" security measures such as trace chemical 'fingerprints' in common explosive ingredients. This left our investigation of physical evidence to rely solely on naturally occuring impurities.

2. The local government also failed to have even the most basic of preventative security measures. Somehow large ammonium-nitrate bombs were easily smuggled in by plainsclothes terrorists; such devices show up immediately on metal detectors and chemical sniffers. This indicates a glaring hole in Xanthalian security procedures.

3. Any explosion site offers up a plethora of evidence. Matter is not created nor destroyed at these scales, only rearranged, and rearranged grossly. However, somehow the Xanthalian authorities could not pull out even the most basic information from the explosion short of the explosive used and the person who did it from genetic material. Additional information was completely lacking. This is bad enough, but given that some of this information was contradictory only suggests that the Xanthalian investigation was so mishandled that it would be considered criminal itself under SPIR or any Triumvirate member nation's standards.

4. Even with the names of the attackers a standard "Six Degrees" investigation consisting of in-situ interviews with relations and friends could bring up nothing due to the interference of the highest levels of the Xanthalian government after a single complaint from a single interviewee. Again, in SPIR standards or in Triumvirate cultures this would be considered a criminal obstruction of justice. It is the professional opinion of myself and my staff that it is nearly inconceivable that the local police could successfully investigate an anonymous murder, much less an act of domestic terrorism.

5. We received absolutely no assistance from the Xanthalian government proper, instead being directly refused potential evidence from the Economic Ministry concerning known purchase records of controlled substances. This is another symptom of the disturbing trend of obstruction we encountered from the government that asked our assistance.

6. We were encouraged by local internal police forces to break the computer security of private satellite networks without a proper search warrant. Even upon being given permission from a relevant authority, we discovered that warrant procedures in Xanthal are extremely lax and unlikely to prevent any sort of abuse by internal police, who seem willing to break the law in order to uphold it.
Attached is a full report concerning our investigation. In conclusion, all we did apparently was check the local police's numbers before they went out on their own accord to make the arrests. It appears our operation was entirely unnecessary and extraneous to the mission.

Respectfully,

Katja Camenzind
Katja Camenzind, Senior Police Inspector, TY SPIR
Commanding Officer, TYPS-PCC Fireball XL-7

(Attachment 1: AAR Packet)

Personal addendum, off the record:

This was a waste of our time, sir. First contact isn't our job; that's the job of the Diplomatic Corps. Our job is investigation and apprehension, and we barely even got to any of the first. It's my honest opinion that we were brought in under false pretenses. They had it under control the entire time, or may as well have.

--Katja
SCOLOPENDRAN INTELLIGENCE SECTION
OFFICE OF THE INTELLIGENCE ADVISOR

DD MMM YYYY

TO: Legislator Francis Mubarak, Chair of the Intelligence Oversight Commission
FR: Intelligence Advisor Janus Akikazu Garbo
SJ: Xanthal Internal Intelligence Mission "Sleight Of Hand"

On DD MMM YYYY the SIS received information from SPIR concerning a domestic terrorist situation in the nation of Xanthal (member ESUS, see OPO/HELLSING threat assessment document A380 "Galaxy Far, Far Away... Off the R-Brane") and more particularly a note to meet with potential agents of the domestic terrorist movement (officially and unofficially unnamed). As SPIR resources were probably being watched, it was decided that SIS would send an agent to contact this agent in SPIR's stead and try to get another angle on what exactly was going on.

An agent was inserted without event and discovered no one to meet him at the pre-arranged coordinates. Upon discovering that the Xanthalians have so much bureacracy that they can actually get away with changing coordinate systems on a whim, he checked the next one, also to no avail. The local KGB intelligence service then went on to arrest everyone vaguely suspected with the terrorists and SPIR closed the investigation. Our agent proceeded to carry out the cover story of his legend before returning safely.

In short:

Mission: Uneventful (unsuccessful).

National security impact: none.

The SIS has reclassified this case and all related documents of record (including this letter) as NOVEMBER INDIA and as such have put it on the 60-day fast-track for public declassification pending the approval of OIC. All actions and documents can be confirmed true by outside source BIG SISTER. Recommendation is transfer from NOVEMBER INDIA to DELTA CHARLIE and subsequent unannounced copy-send to all national archives for public edification.

J. Garbo
Janus Akikazu Garbo, Advisor, SIS

(Attachment: Mission "Sleight of Hand" Dossier)

* - * - *

After that, things pretty much settle down. The Segments take the time to set up a proper embassy with a Diplomatic Officer, Civil Servants, a few Mobile Infantry, and everything. Like any other 'Pendran diplomatic mission, Scolopendran Independent News catches wind and sends over a reporter or two, just to crash out, and of course Technology-Manufacturing-Energy Industries and the Garage Industrialist Collective absolutely have to spar good naturedly over some more economic turf that hasn't discovered the beauty that are built-to-last TME toasters that make toast and nothing else and properly Arab (among other things) GIC jewelry and other more personalized accoutrements.

Ah, normalized relations. Nothing says "status quo" quite like "normal."

"Breach of faith" is a strong phrase, especially in the Socialist Republic. Following the successful shutdown of the terrorist network, the new liberal majority in the Xanthalian government moves to lock down the national security situation. Though an extensive review concludes that national border security is sufficient and no interplanetary smuggling was involved in the insurgent activities, enhanced checking procedures at Xanthalian space stations are quickly implemented.

More painful are the internal security changes. Though all are in agreement that the KGB conducted its investigation as well as could be expected under the circumstances; it is clear that the national security agency requires far more resources beyond simple manpower. Also, it is clear that it is not safe to maintain the passive/reactive domestic security that has guided policy decisions in Xanthalian territory since the new government took power. Private industry is regulated already, but these regulations are not adequately enforced. Records keeping is too decentralized, making it impossible to track lawbreakers effectively. The government simply is not in a position to enforce its laws faced with organized resistance from the inside. Until now, this has not been a problem. With the vulnerability taken advantage of however, most agree that action must be taken.

Opinions in the legislature on these matters range from holdout libertarians and terrorist sympathizers calling for government economic reform to authoritarian radicals arguing for checkpoints across the nation, regular citizen bioidentification, appropriation of all private enterprise by the government and the abolition of privacy laws. So begins a short but dramatic battle in the Council over what the best course of action to take is. There is no consensus, so compromises must be made. The gears of democracy begin to turn.

And watching these gears of democracy so closely that he may as well be in them, there is a man.

A heroic man? I suppose it depends on what qualifies as heroism. He's not a sports hero, that's for sure, but he's heroic in his own way.

A dashing man of derring-do? What, in today's day and age? The years of iron men in wooden ships and the later years of self-reliant paragons of stiff-jawed justice under ten-gallon hats sitting upon brawny steeds and wearing steel Peacemaker virtue on their hips are long gone, friend. Things don't work like that anymore, and it would probably be safe to hazard to say that they never really did.

Nope. Just a man, with a man's courage. He knows nothing but a man...

* - * - *

Etxatxu Etxaurren, known better to his friends as "Ex" or "Doublex," sighs as he glances at his wristwatch and leans up against the building to stay out of the rain. Then again, hell, maybe leaning up against private buildings is illegal in the Socialist Republic; he doesn't see anyone else doing it and this place certainly seems screwy that way with police being so busy with enforcing public smoking bans that they couldn't keep some terrorists from blowing themselves up inside government buildings. Glancing at his watch again, he sighs; normally, to make an appointment on the other side of the city, he'd just take a subway or a bus or something similar, get within a block or two, and walk the rest of the way like a civilized urbanite. It was that easy at home, and it's not like keeping such things to a decent schedule was that hard...

But for some reason the subway is perpetually closed and, honestly, Ex doesn't hold out much hope for the bus system either. What the hell kind of society can't even get a bus working? he muses, moderately brawny hand running over a face too blocky and hard to have made one of the coveted S.I.N. anchor slots back home. Despite not exactly standing out of a crowd at first glance, Ex looks built more for being a paid thug or a bouncer (same thing, different social status) than for finding leads for a good story, and that much comes half from genetics and half from working in a neosteel mill to get through college at one of those prestigious foreign universities. Why exactly he hadn't gone to the nearly-cheap-as-free state colleges back home he still hasn't quite figured out; generally, though, the brick-wall ugliness he couldn't help and the scarring from having to deal with microscopic gobbets of molten metal for four years tended to demand a sort of animal respect from people and, so, he ran with it. 'Sides, the more... sensational and get-the-story-get-the-money emphasis of his education gave him a leg up on all his peers who were doing it either out of petty voyeurism or out of some sense of duty for the common guy.

Which he pretty much already is, which is why he doesn't hop on a motorcycle and heroically gun it to that government news conference across town. Given that twenty minutes won't give him the time to walk there, especially in this rain, and right now he's standing on a decently busy street corner in the hope of seeing whether or not the local bus line actually exist--he found a timetable, but isn't sure what year it's from--he also hopes that someone will take pity on this slightly thuggish but not exceedingly strong-looking lout in the moderately-priced professional shirt-and-tie under a navy blue designer longcoat and give him some directions.

The outskirts of Jin Rin's downtown area are relatively unremarkable, home mostly to office buildings and the occasional apartment complex. Whether the man looking for a train might find comfort in the fact that the recent events have given the socialists enough of an advantage to finally push through the Public Rail Restoration Act is largely irrelevant to the average citizen and, incidentally, to Etxatxu Etxaurren, who is still trapped in a transportation system resulting from compromise between public and private services, both of which are questionably efficient. That's the trouble with socialist democracies: establishing public service is one thing, getting everyone to agree on it is quite another.

Fortunately for Ex, his schedule seems to be accurate enough as a bus that looks only moderately more futuristic than something out of the Earth's twenty-first century pulls up to admit the passenger. He is greeted by a friendly female human in the Mirfakan language. This mode of transportation, primitive though it may be, is apparently well-used. The bus has standing room only today, even though it is the longer type with the middle swivel point. That there is no fare required to ride is a small consolation as the bus moves off with a small hum. Apparently whatever engine it uses is relatively modern, at least. On the bright side, this is a direct route that travels from the spaceport down the city's main thoroughfare all the way to the other side of town, passing just two blocks from the national government square where Ex is headed.

The rain today marks the end of a week of fair weather, during which the minds of most were focused on the return of some kind of normalcy after the dissolution of the insurgency. This inclemency seems almost as nature's reminder that there are still problems to be solved. One issue begets another, and a storm brews not only outside but in the halls of Xanthal's legislature, where those Councilors that were just a few months ago victimized in the first of many terrorist acts draw together to discuss how to prevent another such incident in the future. A political drama is in the making, and it has drawn in most of the Republic and even outside agencies with an interest in how the coming weeks will affect the future of Xanthal and perhaps those beyond its borders.

Today's news conference is open, between the leaders of the major parties in the Council and however many reporters can fit into the room with them. To help save space the organizers have limited each agency to one attendee, but space is still at a premium. Etxaurren, through bad or good fortune, is his network's representative. The bus draws up to his stop and he steps out facing Xanthalian Government Headquarters. The scene of chaos that marked the attack on it so little time ago has been erased, only a small plaque in a garden commemorating those that died here. The buildings that lay empty while the government cowered underground in the face of persistent violence are again alive with the movement and voices of officials and their staff. Here, as if it had never gone, is the heart of the Xanthalian government.

The square is large, almost park-like, cut by polished stone walkways and gardens. In its center is a towering metal statue of a human man; Xanthal's first founder. Around him are four more statues: another human man, two xanthalian women and a catgirl. Opposite the open side of the square, directly ahead, is the five-story Xanthalian Council building, built with the stone pillars and nostalgic look that makes one think of Earth's ancient Rome. To the left is the towering high-rise that is the executive branch's headquarters, made of glass and steel. Opposite that, to Ex's right, is the nation's high court; a building that defies description, almost a hybrid of the legislative and executive buildings. It stands ten stories tall reflecting the past and the present in a sort of pseudo-ancient mesh of glass, steel and stone that, while unique, is actually quite elegant and by far the most creative of the three structures. The buildings all occupy several tens of thousands of meters of ground, their actual volume mostly dependent on their respective heights. The square and its buildings take up a space roughly equivalent to nine city blocks, and create an impressive effect in this, the center of the nation's largest population center. The scene is somewhat ruined by the high-rises that literally surround it, but the architecture of the entire area is of high quality, probably by design.

Etxatxu's destination is the Council building. He has been told that his meeting is on the third floor, but that he will have to check in at the lobby. The square park is largely empty because of the rain, but it is dotted with at least a dozen police, a reminder of the troubles that have plagued the Socialist Republic.

Being no stranger to public transportation, he lets his mind wander to no real purpose during the bus ride, not bothering or being bothered by anyone around him. It's just a bus, and it's filled with just people; average everyday people who eat, sleep, watch the game, belch, and try to politely hide it when they fart day in and day out.

In other words, there's no story here and so Ex, the professional reporter, tunes out. His tuning out is something like a meditation but less structured; it's the voluntary lapse into something resembling a fugue state. Monks and mystics train themselves to be able to think of nothing; a skill the daydreamer and the people sporting a quarter-lidded thousand-meter stare do naturally albeit unintentionally. It passes the time, and it keeps Ex from fidgeting nervously. People tend not to like it when a guy that looks like Etxatxu fidgets.

The bus arrives, and the reporter finds himself surrounded by a bunch of really neat things. It seems to be a constant of most governments; the closer one gets to the seat of power, the more really neat things one finds as those in power collect or patronize or commission them. This was decidedly different from the Segments, where the Executive Apartments are just a boring office complex and the Legislative Hall blends in to the Art Deco facades down in the Caves of Steel; but the utilitarian (and more untrusting of authority than they generally tend to let on) 'Pendrans basically eschewed such things, instead going for a much broader distribution of really neat things. Which, in the end, makes them common and actually not really neat at all.

So, partly because he's culturally conditioned to them, and partly because really neat things like gardens and statues and buildings rarely if ever do anything unless someone or something does it to them, Ex mostly ignores them. Things that do nothing make no story, and that's how he gets to the front desk with an efficient pace that borders on stiff-legged stalking, press credentials already out and pinned to his lapel.

Ex, who goes through a security scanner and a quick search at the door, makes it without incident to the reception desk. The lobby is made mostly of marble, with wall designs and pillars stretching up to a high ceiling designed to impress its visitors; to make an impression. 'This is the seat of power in the Socialist Republic,' they seem to say. Furniture and carpeting dot the sides of the large room, rich but not gaudy. It is a show lost on those with their minds firmly on business such as that of Etxatxu, but it is an obligatory nod for a nation such as Xanthal, where government is nearly a state religion.

After a quick background check at the desk by a than, the reporter is directed into one of several elevators. There are buttons, but they require a key to activate. Instead, Ex is sent up by the receptionist, who controls the lift from his desk. At the third floor he is stopped by yet another KGB guard who examines his credentials. Obviously there is still more than a little paranoia going around. The halls here are a mix of stone and wood, less impressive than the lobby but still formal. He is allowed through a final scanning checkpoint and admitted to the conference room just a few minutes early. It is obviously designed to be a press briefing area, and there are plenty of outlets and network ports by the walls to accomodate the equipment that inevitibly comes with news crews. The whole place is covered in a thin carpet to dampen noise, and at the front is a platform raised perhaps ten centimeters, upon which are six podiums neatly lined up in a row facing the rows of chairs. The audience area has three seating sections; ten rows of five chairs divided by two aisles running from the platform to the entryway at the rear, and two more aisles on either side of the room. Today there are no cameras besides those built into the walls, no fancy equipment. Some reporters have handheld or laptop computers, others are working with only pencil and paper.

Resting in each seat is a name card, each bearing the name of a reporter scheduled to attend. As he enters, Ex is greeted quietly by a female xanthalian and led to his seat, the second-leftmost chair in the leftmost section in the third row from the back. A gloryless position, but of little surprise or consequence. If one could identify them, the center section is reserved for national news agencies, the right section for local reporters, and the left section for foreigners; a simple, straightforward system. A tall, thin, good-looking Bothan with brown fur, resembling a cross between human and lion politely rises from the aisle seat and moves aside to let Ex past, retaking his seat once Ex has done the same. The tags pinned to his suit identify him in Galactic Standard and Mirfakan as Janol Del'rey from CHNN, the Core HoloNews Network. He says nothing to the newcomer, instead returning to work on his electronic notepad. The seat to Ex's right is unoccupied, but marked for a reporter from Jangle Jangle Ridge.

The press room is permeated with the sound of lowered voices and people shifting position. It is fairly quiet considering the number of people here. Nearly everyone has arrived, and the appointed time for the arrival of the Council heads is just over a minute away.

While the man of Basque descent may be mission oriented to a fault, he isn't impolite--such a thing would be a definite social stigma in a place as distinctly Arab as the Segments--and so politely thanks the vaguely kzin-like creature with a polite nod and a friendly smile that probably looks out of place in his finely pitted face. "Shukran, friend." Hm. Looks sorta like a short, slender, part-lion part-llama 'tosh. Interesting. Beyond that thought, the Bothan doesn't impinge much upon his consciousness. Fuzzies aren't the most common thing in 'Pendra, but when easily at least one out of a hundred people one meets tends to be wearing fur without a choice it stops being a big deal.

In fact, what probably strikes him most is that this Fuzzie's shorter than he is. First, not being particularly tall (in fact, a few hairs below average) himself for a human, that means most of the 'normal'-sized Fuzzies still tend to be taller; and as most 'Pendrans of the fur-bearing sort are kzinti that tend to break two and a half meters, he's used to looking up at such people. Of course, he doesn't think all this consciously, but somewhere in the back of his mind the gears are turning to quietly combat the very mild cognitive dissonance that erupts from pretty much every new discovery that people make every day.

Sitting down, Ex unbuttons the top few buttons of his longcoat pulls a cylinder about twenty-three centimeters long from the left inside pocket. Perhaps four centimeters in diameter and composed of the burnished steel that 'Pendrans seem to like so much--it isn't quite the silver-on-black or varying greys of Damascene steel, which also shows up from time to time, but it's shiny without being ostentatious and it's inexpensive--the rod, resembling something like a runner's baton, sports a slight protruding fillet that runs down one side, probably a smaller embedded cylinder, and a sort of protruding broad lever on the other end that appears hinged parallel to the cylinder's axis. With a practiced flick of the wrist, Ex opens it up; the little fillet is actually a counterweight that spools out a thin sheet of memory plastic that turns rigid under a mild electric current and the slight thermal and kinetic energies of being opened up so.

It's a clipboard. But a nifty one.

Pulling a stylus out of one end turns it on; with no loading screens and only a slight amount of current put to changing the transparent e-ink to something a bit more whitish so contrast becomes easier later.

All set.

Ex doesn't have long to wait. Precisely on the hour the six Council leaders file in through the door and split up, three walking down the center left aisle and three down the center right aisle in an obviously rehearsed fashion, just one more small show for the guests. All six wear white cloth robes that are a throwback to ancient Earth's Greek democracy; their formal Council attire, none wearing the optional headdress.

The Councilors step up onto the forward platform and file into position behind the podiums. From the reporters' left they are Strength Of Lasting Reunion of the Domestic Defense Party, Doi Yosano of the Party Internationale, Tokiko Abe of the Xanthalian Socialist Party, Frederick Dahy of the Private Interest Party, Innis Meshnom of the Democratic Capitalist Party, and Emmit South of the Nationalist Collectivization Party. They are quickly joined by a middle-aged human woman with a pretty face and mid-length brown hair that is just beginning to grey. She stands at the left of the platform, just in front of the international press section.

The party leaders are a diverse bunch. Strength Of Lasting Reunion is a than, short in stature even for her species, just over one hundred twenty centimeters. The buglike humanoid has a brown exoskeleton compared to the greener-shelled majority of the than, indicating her decent from Than IV's aboriginal population and stands on a step to see over the top of her podium. Doi Yosano is a xanthalian, though his soft features, light tan skin and blonde hair suggest that his genetic ancestors were mostly human. He is slightly overweight but carries it well. His disarming smile and average height of 180 centimeters is well suited to his diplomatic, unassuming attitude. Tokiko Abe, another xanthalian, is much slighter but also has a body that tells of a pronounced diversity in her ancestry. Her ears are pointed and curve outward slightly, covered in a thin soft down, showing elven characteristics and perhaps a bit of neko. Thanic genes account for a more pronounced exoskeletal structure beneath her fair skin, but her short black hair is distinctly human; probably someone with asian decent. She is the tallest person on the stage at nearly 200 centimeters, her looks somewhere between young womanhood and middle age. The dark-tanned Frederick Dahy maintains a well-groomed greying beard and mustach that stand in contrast to a hairless cranium. He is human, in his late seventies, and even with the benefits of modern technology his physical age is beginning to show. He is average and unremarkable in height and weight, but stands out as the most senior Councilor present. Innis Meshnom, the only avian in the national legislature, keeps his white- and brown-feathered wings tucked neatly behind him; his down-covered skin, narrow head, side-mounted eyes and light yellow portruding beak all giving nods to the birds of prey from which the avians evolved. He is still quite tall, about 175 centimeters, and extremely slight, which is just the most obvious trait that enables his massive wings to lift him into the air. Emmit South is the youngest of the party leaders, human and barely over thirty standard years. He is a passionate, charismatic man with a clean-shaven face, short and neat black hair, modest height and a skinny but solid frame; his keen blue eyes seeming to penetrate whatever they fix upon.

Abe starts the conference, laying down the ground rules. She speaks, naturally, in Mirfakan, which is promptly relayed by the human woman standing before the international press into Galactic Standard. "Thank you all for attending. If you have a question to ask, please raise your hand. When you are selected, stand up and say your name and agency for the record, then direct your question to one of us and sit. No follow-up questions. Please note, if you wish to speak in a language other than Galactic Standard or Mirfakan you must use your own translator. If you are not called upon to speak, remain silent. We will have order in this room or we will end the conference."

After a long pause and a critical look over the assembled press, Tokiko continues. The translator picks up the monologue, trailing behind the Councilor by one sentence. "You are all aware of the events that led up to the current debates and have been privy to the information regarding our party viewpoints. As I am sure you can imagine, we have a lot of work to do so I will refrain from the usual lead-in. I am Tokiko Abe of the Xanthalian Socialist Party. I am joined for this question and answer session by my fellow major party leaders; Omar Gibbons of the Private Interest Party, Doi Yosano of the Party Internationale, Innis Meshnom of the Democratic Capitalist Party, Strength Of Lasting Reunion of the Domestic Defense Party and Emmit South of the Nationalist Collectivization Party." Each bows shallowly as their name is announced both in polite acknowledgement and for the benefit of anyone in the audience who doesn't know them by their appearances. "Let us begin."

Immediately hands go up among the nearly 150 reporters and the session in underway. It is more organized than most such events. The Xanthalian press is well accustomed to the strict rules of conduct regularly laid out for public appearances of government officials, and the foreign press follows the lead of the other two sections; leaving an eerie silence in the crowded space between the queries of the reporters and the responses of the Councilors.

Ex looks around, shrugs, and raises his right hand, lightly balled into a brawny fist.

The Councilors go through several rounds of questioning before Etxatxu is singled out with a pointed finger. "Yes, Sir."

Ex tries to follow the questions and the answers to them, but they like silent raindrops fell and echoed in the words of prophets written on subway walls and tenement halls. When they call on him, he offers his question. "What differences is the Average Joe going to see in his daily life, and how do you expect 'im to take it?"

Tokiko looks irked at having her instructions ignored as the translator relays his question. She replies, and it is relayed back to Ex. "Please state your name and the agency you represent for the record, specify your question, and address it to one of the Councilors."

Tokiko looks irked at having her instructions ignored as the translator relays his question. She replies, and it is relayed back to Ex. "Please state your name and the agency you represent for the record, specify your question, and address it to one of the Councilors."
"Apologies. Ex, S.I.N., whoever's jurisdiction it falls under." The lack of, well, the usual thing (now here's the situation, what's your questions?) seems to have thrown him off his game a little.

Tokiko looks about to move on when she is stayed by a light touch from Frederick Dahy to her left. He murmers something to her that the translator cannot hear, then smiles in Ex's direction. "My apologies," he says in Galactic Standard. The translator moves to get a drink of water. "I will take your question, Ex. There has been no decision on the course of action the Council will take to secure the Republic beyond that we will take action. I can tell you that every possible consideration will be given by myself, my party and, I hope, the Council as a whole to the maintenance of civil liberties in the decision-making process. However, it is an inherant component of enhancing security that some combination of liberty and privacy must be sacrificed. I believe, as do most others in my party, that in this case it is pursuant to the individual interest of Xanthalian citizens to secure our planets, so I would prefer to see the focus on monitoring rather than restrictions. Ideally, the Private Interest Party wants to see the implementation of a scanning network and more organized government data analysis as it is pertinent to security. I personally believe that it is possible to secure Xanthal's planetary holdings without infringing on tangible freedoms, and I plan to use my experience and influence as a former executive to protect both liberty and security across the Republic."

He smiles and nods, then Tokiko moves on, calling upon a member of the private Xanthalian press on the far side of the room.

Ex bows shortly in a polite gesture, sits down, and continues to take notes on his clipboard throughout the rest of the conference. With the whole one-question-each-no-followups, there's nought else to do.

The event drags on for another half-hour and wraps up without fanfare, and the Councilors begin to file out. Dahy hangs back at the rear of the room though, pulling Ex aside as he tries to exit. "Excuse me. Ex, correct?"

Ex raises a slightly scarred eyebrow, knowing this part of the game too. Look surprised, but help the guy along in his path--the judo of walking--into an unobtrusive corner. Now this is how stories get made and jobs get done... well, perhaps not in the Segments with its' goody-two-shoeing; whenever an SIS suit offers something like this, it's probably just a ruse to keep people on their toes.

But in other places... yes, it's where real (or more real, or at least better-selling) stories come up. The Basque man has experience in how things are done in such "other places." He drops his voice to the level appropriate for quietly talking politely in a crowded space, which is certainly less suspicious than something more conspiratorial. "Yes, sir. Etxatxu Etxaurren of Scolopendra. Sorry 'bout the little mixup earlier; you folk do things a bit different than what I'm used to."

"That is quite alright," the Councilor replies. He has exceptionally good pronunciation and an uncanny grasp of figurative speech but he speaks gaudily, sounding entirely too formal even for one in his position and then slipping into an almost casual tone. "I would love to beat around the bush with the usual niceties, but to be absolutely honest I have a problem with which I would appreciate your help. The Private Interest Party is being scrutinized by the Xanthalian Socialist Party and the Party Internationale for its lack of attention to several important treaties up for Council approval in the coming days. I want to make a statement to the internationalists without actually calling a conference that would waste time and could send the wrong message to the public about the PIP's priorities." He pauses, then shakes his head. "It's all very complicated, as political maneuvering usually is. My point is that I want you to walk around with me for an hour or so before the evening session starts. We'll get some pictures together and generally be seen. If you agree, I'll give you a few minutes for a one-on-one interview when we're done. What do you say?"

Ex performs some calculus of the good in his head.

Important bigwig with a history? Check.

Political intrigue? Good chance for a check.

Setup for what could be a jucy story? Check.

Possibly just a setup? Check.

The 'pictures together' bit is what kinda catches Ex off guard and makes him leery--generally modern politicians like to be caught standing next to artists' renditions of working men, not slightly thuggish people with 'experienced faces'--but then again, this nation likes to do things differently. So, what the hell, why not.

"Sounds like a great opportunity, sir." Even if he does look something of a bouncer, Ex has a decent friendly close-lipped smile. "Lead the way."

Frederick bows. "Thank you." The two leave the conference room and begin what, for Ex, can only be described as a tour of the building. They travel down to the lobby where Dahy makes some statements to the press, then into the Council chamber itself. The massive room, designed to accomodate all five hundred Councilors and their legislative functions, is about half-filled at the moment with representatives doing independent work and talking amongst themselves. The forward stage is empty and the group is not currently called to order. Dahy makes his way down one of the many aisles to his seat and does a few things on his computer terminal. He talks to Ex as he works. "Have you been to the Republic before?"

Ex follows along politely, trying not to stand out too much. Not following too closely, or looking over any shoulders, or generally being in the way.

"Politely" sums it up with a minimum of verbosity.

"No, sir," he replies, hands folded behind his back, electronic clipboard rolled up into its cylindrical case and held idly in self-same hands. "I just tend to go where I get sent. I miss out on anything?"

The Councilor elderly chuckles. "That depends on your point of view. The Republic is a moderate, peaceful and stable nation-state; but by most standards we live pretty boring lives. Almost everything about the country is generic and planned. Ours is a very structured existence. Even our food is bland. There is a huge market for foreign consumables here on Mirfak. Still, most of those who live within our borders must appreciate it, because they're not moving away even though doing so would be essentially free on this end what with all the government immigration assistance programs."

Ex chuckles. "Planned cradle-to-grave systems, high taxes which come back in the form of government support for everything, bland food... are you sure you don't have a lot of Scandinavian heritage? The Segments have the same idea of gov'ment assistance, but it's inherently optional and 'blandness' isn't an option.

"Unless you're a postSwede, of course. Heh." The largish man smiles and shakes his head, remembering a dinner awhile back where he came to the conclusion that the Northmen are historically badass primarily because even today they eat poison for candy... then quietly reminding himself that while lighthearted banter about ethnic stereotypes is generally welcome back home, others can be unfortunately uptight about it. "Not like that's a problem or anything. But c'mon. Lutefisk."

Dahy smiles at the quip. "The vast majority of Xanthal's original population was of east Asian decent. The first leader of the unified nation of Xanthal was from the United States of America. Xanthal has been around in various forms for over one thousand years though, and with all of the diversification that has taken place since then most of us no longer identify strongly with our roots."

Thousand-Year Reich, eh?

There's actually no insult intended in that thought. It's just the first one to come to mind. "Well, that's fair enough. For being the 'pre-eminent'"--said with a self-effacing humor--"secular Arab state, the Segments are awfully Scandinavian in its own accord... although we'll be damned long before we give up our properly tasty and colorful food."

"Indeed." Frederick gives his attention to a fellow counselor, a than wearing the patch of the Nationalist Collectivization Party on its shoulder, who approaches from the other side of his desk. They have a short conversation in Mirfakan, then the insectoid creature walks away. Dahy leaves his computer and the chambers. He takes Ex into an elevator and up to the third floor. They walk down the hallway, passing a short, stout middle-aged human female along the way. The pair then enters a small office on the outer corner of the building. Each of the two outer walls of the office has a mid-sized window, both denied any view by the line of skyscrapers just across the streets. Dahy sits in a comfortable-looking seat behind a desk with two neat stacks of papers and dual computer terminals and smiles at his guest. "Please sit down." He indicates the chair opposite him with a small gesture. "I am going to eat lunch. Can I get you anything?"

Ex quietly registers everything with his eyes, taking careful mental note of anything interesting that may need writing down later. He sits as directed, not making himself overly comfortable as he folds his hands on his lap politely, feet flat on the floor as is only polite. "No thank you, sir, I ate before I left. Question--is it custom in Xanthal to do business over food, or should I wait until you're done?"

Winning smile. Perhaps a bit too smirkish to be truly winning, but good enough.

Dahy laughs. "I do not think it matters one way or the other. Wait a moment." He picks up a phone from a shelf under the desk's surface and dails a number. He gives some indecipherable instructions to the person on the other end and replaces the reciever. "Now then, is there anything in particular that you would like to speak about? Matters for your agency or personal interests? I would like to think I can answer most of the questions you are able to think of."

"Well, I am on company time, as it were, so I'd best ask the questions S.I.N. would like me to." Ex smiles and flips out his databoard again with a practiced motion. "I hope you don't mind if I take notes, sir, though I can leave stuff off the record as you like. I guess the first question is the most obvious--where do you see the Socialist Republic going after recent events?"

He watches Dahy carefully, but not impolitely; a lot of nuance can be carried in subtle gestures and a good reporter catches those sorts of things. Start the questions broad, light, and move in towards meatier things if the situation calls for it.

He pauses, seeming to consider the question. He hesitates slightly, then answers in a measured tone. "It is hard to know for sure. I think it is safe to say that we will be seeing a lot more monitoring and the breakdown of some of the broader privacy laws, but I will be trying my best to prevent the collapse of basic privacy and I have confidence that the Constitution will forestall any drastic reactive action." The corners of his lips turn down and a worryied look takes the place of his previously neutral facade. "Of paramount concern I believe is the potential for restrictions upon freedom of speech, which many of my colleagues in the Domestic Defense Party, Nationalist Collectivization Party and, unfortunately, even a faction of the Xanthalian Socialist Party may accept or propose in the opening rounds of the debate. I think that, if we can beat them soundly then, we can negotiate a solution that remedies our security concerns without doing unnecessary damage to the privilages of the innocent."

In the brief lull in the conversation that follows, a middle-aged human woman delivers a plate of flowers that are not unlike daisies, their deep red color aside. With it the Councilor recieves a large glass of an amber-colored liquid. He thanks the woman and she gives a polite bow to him and Ex in turn, then leaves the room hastily. Frederick eats one of the flowers and takes a short drink, then encourages his guest to continue. "Please, go on. You are doing me a bigger favor than you realize by walking around with me for a few hours. This is the least I can do to compensate you for your trouble."

"By feedin' me flowers?" Ex chuckles, then takes one. "Well, if you say so." Munching with polite slowness to savor the flavor, he continues taking notes on his databoard. "It seems to me that knee-jerk reactions are generally pretty hard to prevent. How do you think you can prevent them and push the government into a more moderate balance between freedom and safety?"

While Ex enjoys the almost complete lack of flavor, Dahy smiles quietly at his own miscommunication. Oh well, it can hardly hurt to share my lunch. "I forsee my role as being, as it often seems to be, taking advantage of the respect I command within the Council to help win moderates. We have all been attacked, but I think you would be hard-pressed to find anyone who would describe the Republic as reactionary. I know that there are those in the government who will try to take advantage of the situation to push policies that they support anyway, but I am also confident in the integrity and wisdom of my fellow legislators. Our focus must be to make balance. We must let the extremists speak, then work our way down. No respectable Councilor can claim that reform is not needed after the failure of security measures in the past months, but we do need reform, not reconstruction. I know and I daresay my colleagues know that the sacrifice of liberty need not be the cost of security." It is a dry response, but Frederick Dahy is a politician and Etxatxu Etxaurren is a reporter so it is no surprise that the Councilor is sticking to his political high ground.

An idle nod. Same ol' same ol'... let's change the subject a little. "Of course, this all came about as a question of economic policy, really. See any changes in that regard?"

He sighs, lifting another flower to his mouth. "I hope not." He chews the plant thoughtfully, then swallows it before continuing. "Honestly, I think that the liberals are taking advantage of the nationalism everyone is being compelled to display by these tragedies. They have already pushed through a bill to nationalize the nation's planetary transportation infrastructure and they are dangerously close to getting the votes they need to nationalize intranational interplanetary travel as well. The communists, nationalists and socialists are having a field day with this. Not to dispute their patriotism, but they favor an approach to economy that opresses the private sector and, as far as I am concerned, is harmful to the country on levels both economic and social."

"And how would you like things to be?" Ex looks idly at a flower. Blandish, but slightly sweet and quite pretty to look at; with the right spices and a bit of tweaking, it could make a very nice salad ingredient. "After all, it is the 'Socialist' Republic--at least to outsiders like me, public everything is sort of expected from such a place."

"Yes, well, if some of us had our way we wouldn't even cary that title, but it is symbolic. It represents government commitment to social equality and the Xanthalian tradition of governance. The Private Interest Party does not object to those things, far from it. At the same time though, we do not wish to see the freedom and versatility of private business wiped out by the government machine. We are moderates for the most part, though within the party there is plenty of difference of opinion. I personally feel that the government should provide only what the individual or group can not. Because of that, I frequently find myself more in agreement with the Democratic Capitalist Party than my own on economic issues."

"I suppose it all comes down to finding the system that seems to work best for you all... but hey, not my field of study." Ex shrugs slightly. "What security measures do you expect (and what measures would you like) your government to adopt, civil and military? I know that the recent problem was with home-growns, but it highlighted problems that foreign terrorists could take advantage of if they were so inclined."

"Xanthalian international security is not being questioned to the extent domestic measures are. Most of us concur with the study we commissioned; that external security meets necessary standards. As I said before, I want to see the focus of our changes be passive monitoring. We have already placed checkpoints in important public buildings. If we can establish a network of sensors to scan for threats on the ground I think we can solve the problem without interfering in the daily lives of Xanthalian citizens. This is an ongoing debate though. How it will all turn out I cannot say."

"Yes, but a network of sensors--constant observation, at least in public--is still an imposition on privacy rights and thus a form of interference." Ex shrugs. "There's additional advantages; if one can observe everyone--and it's an easy step from only looking for threats to idly gaining info in the mean time--then one can build schedules, patterns, statistics... and hand them over to Marketing. Advertising targeted at your life." The reporter chuckles. "I know, I'm monologuing... but there has to be at least some interest in a system like that among some of the more capitalistic of your peers."

"Of course. The potential economic benefits aren't lost on me either. However, as you said, passive scanning is still an imposition on privacy. To make the information gathered available to the general public would only further decrease individual rights. You must understand though, that this is probably the least intrusive of our options. The alternative is physical checkpoints at which people will be stopped and searched, checkpoints easy to avoid for ill-intentioned elements of society. What else is there? Barcoding of citizens? Tracking implants? I am confident that ours is the best solution. Still, if such a measure is passed, you can be assured that it will include release prohibitions. The Xanthalian government is not in the business of sacrificing people's freedoms for profit. Any data gathered through security scanning must be used solely for that purpose: ensuring security."

"Quis custodiet ipsos custodes? Please understand I'm not trying to undermine or critique... 's just my style and they're issues that need addressing in the minds of the 'Pendran people."

Ex grins from behind closed lips. "Trust me. I know 'em."

Frederick smiles, amused. "Quis what? Either my Standard is getting rusty or you're switching languages on me."

"Sorry, it's Latin. Pretty common phrase, actually..." Ex grins, once again behind closed lips. It's the 'Pendran way, after all. "Literally, 'who watches the watchers?'"

"A good question, but one with no answer. You can layer oversight forever, but that only creates bureaucracy, not a purer system. Our system of checks and balances has worked well so far. It is not perfect, but then nothing is. I forget who it was now, but on ancient Earth there was a famous national leader who claimed that democracy is the worst form of government excepting all others. My job frequently involves the selection of a decision from a pool of less than ideal options. However, anarchism is not a workable social philosophy. The Xanthalian government cannot be complacent while it is undermined by those who oppose the very ideals it was founded upon; the ideals that are confirmed each time the people elect their leaders."

The Councilor chews and swallows another flower. "I do not mean to spout idealist propaganda, but the simple fact is that measures must be taken to prevent future violence against this government and the Xanthalian people. Unfortunately, the imposition of security measures invariably means the curtailing of liberties. A balance can certainly be found between the two. We are seeking what I believe is called the 'golden mean' in Standard. We must watch ourselves in this instance to protect the people from an even greater danger to their personal security."

The Councilor eats another flower off his plate. "Are you sure you don't want any food?"

"The name you're looking for is 'Churchill,' I think. While I'd agree that layers of watchers gets silly after a while, the question is who watches the government to make sure its golden mean is aligned with the golden mean of the people?" Great how someone can speak so many words yet say so little. "Anyway, thanks for the offer of food but I'm alright."

The longer this conversation goes, the more Ex comes to the conclusion that at this rate it'd just be better to wait and see what happens. As of right now, he's got nothing to go on and all he's getting is the standard newspeak of politics. While its possible that the Councilor is being as upfront as he reasonably can, it still doesn't make for good news in anyone's eyes (except for, perhaps, those in power) to do nothing but relay the party line.

(OOC: Final exams suck.)

The Councilor nods and finishes his lunch. Setting that aside, he begins to rise when a quick series of raps at the door call his attention. "Vai inkal," he calls, placing his hands on the desk as he freezes in a half-sitting, half-standing pose.

Behind Ex the door opens slightly and a xanthalian head pokes around the solid wood barrier. It acknowledges the foreigner with a nod, then addresses Dahy. "Alphin eeos owari Daliks Besfral esti ortulim."

Ex looks mildly relieved. "Winnej, Douji." The man nods affirmatively, then receeds from view, shutting the door behind him. "Good news," Frederick says to his guest. "The Triumvirate has just ended its declaration of National Emergency."

"That is good news. I guess that means the terrorists have conclusively lost this round, eh?"

"More importantly than that, it means the executive has given up its emergency powers willingly. There has been some concern that Lanalphin Lawrence would pressure Eiko and Yatzil to retain judicial powers until security legislation could go into effect. Fortunately, it seems that that will not be an issue."

"Well, that's good, I suppose." Ex decides to change things up once again. "What evidence does the government have that the terrorist threat has been completely expurgated? Or are there still some out there?"

Dahy considers this, then answers, "I cannot give you a complete answer because I have not kept up on the judicial proceedings. However, we have captured the admitted leaders of the insurgency and there has been no evidence of further activity thus far that I have been made aware of. There is opposition to government in every society that incorporates individuals of course, and the Republic is no exception to that rule by any means. It is unfortunate that certain people decided to pursue their ends through violence rather than through the democratic process, and further unfortunate that this government was not adequately prepared to forestall that violence. The immediate danger may have passed to the best of our knowledge, but that these incidents ever occurred and that they persisted for so long is proof that there is a continuing threat whether the insurgency has been eliminated or not. That threat will not diminish until this government demonstrates a much-improved level of competence in securing its planets."

The Councilor leaves his office, taking Ex in tow. Frederick is indeed a politician. The man has been in public service so long that even his conversations sound like miniature speeches. He is beginning to like Etxatxu, if only in a passing sense. "The Council will be reconvening soon," Dahy says pointedly as the pair wait for an elevator. "Will you be returning to... where did you say you were from?"

Translation: we have no idea and don't quote me on anything even approaching certainty. The reporter shakes his life-worn head. "No, sir, I won't be heading back to the Segments for a while. Given that S.I.N. paid good whirrs to ship me out here, I'm probably going to be covering the everyday goings-on for a while."

At least until something newsworthy happens. Given the usual 'we have ideas for plans for studies for the potential of theories of taking action' talk, and also given Ex's natural cynicism heightened by being in what is essentially a cynic's ideal job--rooting out the foibles and inconsistencies of life and holding them up for everyone to see and comment on over their breakfast papers for cold hard cash--the 'Pendran doesn't see that being all too long in coming.

"Are you going to stay around the government centers then?" The elevator arrives and they begin their short decent to the main floor.

"I'll stick wherever the story is." Ex offers a sincere close-lipped grin that takes on a slightly thuggish cast due to the curious state of his face. "Only fits, no?"

"I suppose." The elevator comes to rest on the main floor and Frederick offers a hand to Ex. "Thank you for your help, and enjoy your stay in the Republic."

The reporter accepts the hand with a firm shake. "Have a good day, sir."

Dahy proceeds out of the elevator, across the lobby and through a security door, disappearing from sight, leaving Ex in the reception area.

Ex wanders around, looking for a vending machine from which to acquire sweet, sweet caffienated cola. If caffiene is also a controlled substance, then he takes a drink from a water fountain--existence pending--then makes his way back to his hotel room to collate his notes and send an article back to the Segments.

OOC: You know, on second thought, this is adequate. I think I'll end the thread here. Thank you for your participation.