NationStates Jolt Archive

The Megastation Shining Light had become near empty since the collapse of the Concordat.

Far gone had been the days of the small alliance that had met and worked closely together for their aims, trying to see out a bit of stability and the limiting of conflict in a slightly more pro-active method than was strictly the norm.

This huge device that had been constructed as a joint project between ZMI and the GKM had since fallen by the wayside. All that really remained was a staff of Midlonians and some ZMI representatives, though nobody was really sure what the heck they did there, both sides rarely spoke and even then it was casual conversation.

Corridors that had once bustled with military and diplomatic personnel were silent, and covered in dust and cobwebs, spiders having somehow snuck aboard on the few supply runs kept going for the skeleton crew kept there.

Even the shipyard which was part of the station had seen it’s trade slump off as new yards at Mars and at Neptune came online, capacity was being met elsewhere, the station known as MGS Shining Light was of little use and practically dead.



But today it was all a very different affair.

The station’s docking ports were nearly all full with various ships from various Midlonian trading consortiums, haulage companies and all manner of various ships official and civilian, the station’s new crew numbered 300, all cleaning and generally carrying out long needed maintenance, setting up new computer terminals, deploying and uploading various Operator Robots who would greet guests and assist with information and even provide escorts should that be proven necessary.

A sheer absolute flurry of activity, all of which was conducted by a average height, slightly pudgy man who seemed to be conferring to a small PDA every few seconds, before he rattled off an order or two.

“Mister Pickles, we have another batch of catering staff and ingredients arriving, where do you want them?” A workman said as he pointed to another docking port light that had gone from green to red.

Eric Pickles was a “mover and shaker” a man who stayed just far enough in the public light to be recognized for their deeds, but made sure everything underneath the surface moved like absolute clockwork.

He tapped the PDA rapidly before he looked over and replied in a clipped voice. “Larder 23 is still half empty, put the supplies in there and have those lot report to Kitchen 4.”

“Yes Mister Pickles” the worker said as he bent down to talk into the intercom.

Various tables in a dusty conference room were being sorted and arranged, signs denoting national names were being brought out and carefully placed, their glass bodies and gold-leaf lettering denoting a cool sense of style. Video feeds were checked, along with other audio-visual devices and other things.

The first delegates to arrive would see by the start of proceedings that the place was quiet and clean, gentle background music from all nations involved was being played intermittently throughout the station. Friendly Operator bots would give directions to either the dining room, or to the meeting room, the first delegate arriving would effectively set the course of the meetings, whether a relaxing meal first, followed by a more formal conference, or a formal conference followed by a relaxing meal. All other guests would then find themselves directed to the appropriate place. After the delegates had arrived and been seated, then the Greater Kingdom representatives would make themselves known and the event would begin properly.

------

Dyer fumbled his gnarled fingers slightly as he did up the tie and clipped his Dove pin in place.

Dyer sighed, he was semi-retired now, and his official posting was special representative to the Freethinker Commonwealth. Yet it seemed every so often he had to be wheeled out for events such as these. He didn’t know why and he had infact been actively trying his hardest to not have to be used, driving off at slight tangents and everything else that could have resulted in a younger man taking his post. But alas! Folks took it as eccentricity and actually liked it!

Oh well….


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

George Hillcrest checked himself in the mirror for a third time, unlike Dyer, who was opting for a tweed suit, he had gone for something more modern, a formal attire of a suit jacket and trousers, but a slightly more relaxed shirt and pose. He was trying to be disarming, yet formal at the same time. He wasn’t sure it’d work properly for all the delegates, but still. It was supposed to show a slightly more modern Midlonia, one ready to begin moving with the times and within an alliance structure of some form.

“Badge or no badge.” he muttered to himself as he turned the golden dove badge over and over in his hands. He eventually decided to put it on, at least that way he might not be mistaken as a hanger on at all…

It appeared that in these times, the Corporation’s relations with those abroad had never been better. New friendships always seemed to be on the horizon, existing ones had gradually evolved into close and dependable allies, and even relations with fellow members of the Non-Democratic Alliance had seemed to improve. But it came as a complete surprise when an invitation had come forth from the Empire of the Twin Lamps regarding a conference, a forging of ties with other members of the galactic community. Even though relations had improved between the Empire and the Corporation due to the increased cooperation through their representatives on Mars, it was unexpected to receive such a thing. The leaders never thought of their nation as one important enough to warrant this invitation. But it was certainly not taken for granted, and it never would be. So it was thought that this was important enough to send one of the leaders and perhaps one of their military commanders.

The leader that would be sent was the Chairwoman herself, Siri O’Neill. While not being exactly the most diplomatic of people the corporate state could provide, she did have quite a bit of experience in attending these conferences. She was the Corporation’s sole representative for the foundation of the Trans-galactic Reconnaissance, Intelligence, and Tactical Organization, single-handedly strengthened ties with Anagonia, and reforged ties with the Xanthalian state, along with assisting her husband with admission into the Non-Democratic Alliance. However, she was not particularly a patient one when attending these events, always hating the diplomatic pandering that seemed to persist throughout them. Instead, she preferred a more straightforward and incredibly blunt approach, one that tended to irritate most people that she came across. But the situation here would be quite different. One wouldn’t know how exactly these people would react to her.

The second person who would be in attendance was General Amanda Harris, the commander in chief of all the Grummian space forces. Even though she was trained primarily in a military capacity, she found the responsibilities of a diplomat being thrust upon her. In recent years, due to the astronomical deficits that plagued the Corporation, budget cuts had to be made. One of the first departments that were nearly gutted was that of the diplomatic corps. Only the embassies were staffed now, barely managing to hold anything more than the minimum number of people required to operate them. To fulfill the needs of the Corporation, a great many of the military officers were trained to handle the diplomatic affairs that they were assigned to. General Harris was one such person who seemed to perform well in this new capacity. One of her recent endeavors included negotiations with Indra Prime to acquire technology that would aid the refugees of Anagonia after the Galactic Empire had suddenly destroyed their worlds. The technology was then used to protect the new worlds the refugees were given. Another and more recent experience was the negotiation of a ceasefire after the Extra Solar Union of Systems war against the Galactic Federation of Free Alliances, in which the Xanthalian nation surrendered to the Corporation’s forces. However, despite these experiences, her knowledge of these large diplomatic conferences was lacking. Nevertheless, she was more than willing to learn what she needed to do and this event would certainly be a learning experience.

The two had departed from the Grummian mainland on Earth in nothing more than a small interplanetary shuttle, which was being escorted by four fightercraft. And, only a small distance away – relatively speaking – the three carrier battlefleets in orbit of the planets Earth and Mars kept a close eye over them from their positions. No one had figured anything would happen, but it was better to prepare for the worst, wasn’t it?

Once they began to near the station, the usual procedures had, of course, to be done: the request to approach the station, the docking procedures and the subsequent stabilizing and matching of air pressure between the shuttle and the Shining Light. It was all a fairly basic process, one that every vessel that approached just about any station would have to deal with, but was one that was always important, lest the person’s vessel be shot down, improperly docked, or have their guts blasted about the station when the airlocks were opened.

Nevertheless, the process did not take as long as one would expect, and soon the two Grummian representatives were able to step off from the shuttle and into the station. Being in the position of authority, the very first one to leave was the Chairwoman. She was easily noticed as being elven in origin, but despite this, she had a very small build, standing only five feet four inches in height. However, the rest of her remained true to her roots. Her body was less muscular but more nimble in structure, her facial features were sharp, displaying the elegance that persisted throughout her bloodline, and her pointed ears jutted out from her long, flowing blond hair that dropped down to her shoulders. She wore a forest green dress, embroidered with gold leaves throughout its entirety, for this occasion; it was one that dropped down to just above her ankles.

Stepping through the airlock behind her was General Harris. She, of course, had little choice in what to wear and was strictly bound to wearing her formal dress uniform. It was nothing terribly interesting. A dark blue, three-button jacket and trousers made up most of it, with the former partially covering a light-blue collared shirt and dark blue tie. Medals provided one of the few contrasts to the drab colors, and her four stars shone brightly on her shoulderboards from the lights overhead. Despite this, one would think she would have been better suited in a dress as her features would have shone brightly if such a thing were tried. She was about a foot taller than the Chairwoman, but remained distinctly human, being not as slender as her superior and certainly not as nimble. Her face was thin, while showing the warmth and kindness that displayed her true personality beyond the gruff military exterior. And her black hair was tied back into a bun on her head, keeping in line with the usual procedures.

Once they had both entered the station and the airlock had been sealed shut behind them, they found themselves being greeted by one of the Operator Robots that the Midlonians had brought aboard. Grummians were never really used to such things as advanced AI – or at least what they thought this was – as the Corporation had maintained a long-standing ban on such devices and made them rather scarce. But thankfully both the Chairwoman and the General had been acquainted with these things during their travels abroad so they were not at all surprised when the machine directed them in what direction they ought to go.

“What do you think? Dinner first or the meeting?” asked Siri to her subordinate, making some attempt to get her to talk. The ride over to the station had been quiet but that was the usual for the woman. She never truly liked the elf and certainly seemed less enthused over the Chairwoman’s dark background than anything.

General Harris turned just enough to show that she acknowledged the question and replied, “Maybe we should just get the meeting over with before we eat and mingle with everyone else. I’d prefer to get the more stressful parts out of the way. Then we can enjoy ourselves.”

“Very well then,” the elf nodded and thanked the robot, even though she knew it probably didn’t matter. It was a machine after all.

So now the two set off in the direction of the meeting room, but the Chairwoman felt that certain things must be addressed before the meeting and sought to do so while they walked. “You know, I hope you won’t be like this throughout the conference,” she flatly stated.

“We’ve been over this a thousand times already,” came the emotionless response from the General.

The Chairwoman’s emerald eyes sadly gazed onto the woman. “Yes, I know…I know…but look, I lost almost my entire family when I was younger, murdered right before my eyes. I still have no one closer than Jack and Alak, and I don’t know what I’d do without them. I understand what you’ve been through, but I had nothing to do with what happened to your grandfather. I swear by that.”

“Perhaps…” she muttered and focused her attention forward down the hallway. Inside, she knew that Siri had been right all along and had nothing to do with her grandfather’s death, but she could not acknowledge that. No, that would have left her with no one she could unleash her pain upon and somehow, despite her efforts to the contrary, she could not bring herself to do that. “Perhaps…”

Siri sighed heavily, knowing full well there was nothing more she could do to help the situation. It was all entirely up to Amanda now and not to her. So she decided to leave it be and focus on the upcoming conference.

“Well, we’re here now,” she said rather obviously as the two reached the door to the conference room and entered in unison.

Being the first ones there, they did not linger about the room in hopes that someone would enter but instead headed directly for their labeled seats and sat down. It was only a matter of time before the others arrived and the conference stated. Now they just had to wait.

Veche Commission on Foreign Relations, Northwind Palace, Vigvar

Whilst negotiating foreign treaties was the prerogative of the Vasilevs and only of the Vasilevs, who then simply delegated the matter to his Cabinet, an extensive cooperation treaty would still require to be ratified by the Imperial Veche, the Taraskovyan legislative assembly, before entering into force. And, as such, a practice of Cabinet to Veche negotiations came to be elaborated, during which the Foreign Affairs Commission of the Veche would discuss the mandate and extent with the Government so as to avoid any surprises in parliament later on.

On this occasion, Foreign Affairs minister Ithun Khat was negotiating the mandate for the upcoming talks that would substantially increase cooperation with several nations, of which featured the Empire of the Twin Lamps, the Greater Kingdom of Midlonia, Zeppelen Manufacturers, Northrop-Grumman.

Unlike what some would expect, though, all the participants were seated behind a single table. None was placed below the others as they worked out a “Taraskovyan consensus”. And, of course, the talks were always behind closed doors.

“Pan Ministr, you shall forgive my bluntness, but I completely fail to see any use the Empire could get out of going to this… this… meeting…” Igor Tarabich-Nokolosskiy, a promiment member of the National Patriotic Christian Alliance and Senator from Dreamreach, spoke with a slight touch of phlegmatism and disdain. “Pray, elaborate on whatever positive aspects that might be envisioned from increased cooperation with…”

He paused for a second, his eyes flicking to a small screen in front of him, before he resumed speaking.

“With the Northrop-Grumman corporation… Pray, have the representatives of this… entity… not on several occasions insulted the Empire without offering any formal apologies? And a member of the Non-Democratic Alliance to boot, and I shall not remind the Commission of their… socializing with… insects, of all things… I shall even pass on their methodic repression of Christianity…”

The other NPCA members on the commission snickered and nodded approvingly to the Senator’s words. And to the Foreign Minister’s disappointment, several Conservative members of the panel also arched their eyebrows as they looked at him.

“Pan Senator, it is the opinion of the Vasilevs and of his Cabinet, in which I hold the rank of Minister of Foreign Affairs, that isolated incidents involving regional officials should not stand in the way of future cooperation. As far as the Non-Democratic alliance is concerned, last I heard, your own Party’s platform was not extremely democratic itself. I shall not return to this question any further as I am here to work out the best possible mandate so that any treaty signed shall then be ratified post haste.”

The Minister, in his impeccable dress army uniform, grinned back at the Senator, the latter frowning angrily. Whilst not member of any party, Ithun’s political views were quite contrary to those expressed by the NPCA. And, on a more personal level, the Minister did not appreciate the slander campaign led by the aforementioned Alliance against his union with one Angelina Ormond, none else than the Tartarian Ambassador to Vigvar.

“Indeed, this is what we are here for,” said Alexander Darlev, this time a member of the Conservative Party and, thus, also a member of the outright Parliamentary majority. “However, Pan Ministr, whilst at odds with the National Christians on many matters, the Conservative Party, as representative of the billions of people who voted for us, can only share some concerns about some of the nations present. Those Twin Lamps, for example. Highly isolationist, limited interaction. You must understand that the Parliament shall never approve anything that ties the Empire too closely with those nations.”

“The Cabinet fully understands these concerns, Pan Senator. This is why we envision to defend a freely aligned Taraskovyan position vis-à-vis of any general agreements that might come out of this conference. The Imperial position can be resumed in the following points…”

And so the negotiations would last for some more time before the Commission approved a consensus mandate for the Taraskovyan delegation to negotiate. The NPCA voted against. But they are a minority, so their votes did not change the outcome.


* * *

Megastation Shining Light, Spaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaace

The Taraskovyan delegation was quite small and consisted of the Imperial Minister for Foreign Affairs, Ithun Khat, and some aides. As well as a small detail of Foreign Protectors, the Foreign Ministry’s own “army” of bodyguards.

It was with great appreciation that the Midlonians had thought to invite an Austarian delegation, Midlonia being a country with which had been earmarked by a relationship with the UCS that was historically volatile. The correspondence addressed to him on the other hand, seemed overwhelmingly a hand of friendship than anything else to the Secretary of State--a letting of bygones to be bygones for the effective and practical good, a policy with which the Secretary-General himself supported and hoped to have the opportunity to practice. It may well have been in the meantime that the UCSAU could have made the very first step, but the leadership of the day was far too proud, and it became the Midlonians who could not be accused of such after all.

" So who should we send? " became the next important question, as the Secretary of State struggled to convey his thoughts and feelings regarding the possibility of membership in a refounded Concordat. Certainly the organization had its many advantages, but certain aspects of it made for a certain degree of impracticality to sign in, so to speak. That it was expected to become too detrimental to the objectives of the Unione of Capitalizt States through a binding of relationships was one of them, and the Goodchild administration much preferred to maintain the 'status quo'. It was unfortunate for the UCS in one way, that it meant that good opportunities had to sometimes be missed. Alternatively, the policy could have said to attributed to the success of the country as a whole in the field of relationships, to which the government had many from a wide array of political backgrounds and perspectives across the known universe.

Sometimes, this meant having to juggle the needs of one community with another, and it was a careful yet fine balance to maintain.

The invitation to discussions was thus accepted (on the condition that it was still on offer), but without any confirmation that the Unione of Capitalizt States would be signing itself into the charters of the alliance. Alternatively, Scevola offered his most sincere thanks and regretfully declined the offer, citing a number of reasons including those listed above. Included in his reply however, the Secretary of State had managed to make it clear that although the UCSAU would not be signing itself into the Concordat at this time, the organization had its clear support. He then asked if they would accept his government as an Observer at this time, until circumstances changed or likewise, the goals and objectives of both country and multi-national alliance became more obviously aligned.

A message conveyed among its signatories and signatories-to-be with help of the Midlonians, there were no objections and the Secretary of State delegated a representative already experienced in the field of multinational affairs. Selecting himself, Marzio thought it appropriate considering a once over of the guest list--people already confirmed to be attending. With governments and fellow nationstates placing an obviously high level of priority on the outcome of the meeting, he felt it only right that his Department should approach it with a similar enthusiasm, if only to avoid misunderstanding.

After all, it was not his event. But Scevola would be damned to make sure that he treated his hosts with humble appreciation--he would be but a guest.

There had been much debate among the higher-ups in the smoke-filled rooms of the Resi Corporation over who to send to such an important diplomatic event. Some called for CEO Jai Resi himself to be present, as such an auspicious alliance would be critical for the corporation and all it held dear - yet, a minor outbreak of ecological terrorism in the capitol had left him begrudgingly occupied. Something about hippies being upset that scientists were putting monkeys in the corporation's Large Hadron Collider - he wasn't really all that concerned. If the monkeys really didn't like it, he figured, they'd evolve up a few steps and get jobs like everyone else.

Exploding primates aside, the problem still stood. It was resolved - by Jai, mostly, though it helped that others valued their jobs enough to agree with him - to send his personal secretary Claire Tanara as an envoy, to show just how dedicated the corporation was to the success of this alliance.

There were a good many things Claire liked. Small animals, a good omelet, black diamond necklaces that cost about the GDP of some small nation in Africa; space was not one of these things. She very much liked her oxygen-based atmospheres, water-based oceans, and dirt-based grounds as much as any Earthling, and yet here she was in a tin can owned by another corporation whose name she couldn't even remember, rapidly approaching the Midlonian space station. She sighed, and turned to her four robot guards. In times like this she'd usually talk, or do anything to distract herself from the tension.

How does one start a conversation with a robot, anyway?

"So," she said, clearing her throat, "Do you... like gladiator movies?"

The robots stared straight ahead, not so much as blinking their unblinking lidless eyes.

Claire sighed, again. This was going to be a long day.

As her ship prepared to dock at the station, she flipped open her compact and readied herself. She adjusted her Resicorp "R" pin on her lapel, cleaned her glasses, dusted a few breadcrumbs left from her exorbitant mid-flight meal off her business skirt, and approached the airlock door, flanked by her robots. She exited the glorified soupcan onto the space station, her heals click-clacking sharply and authoritatively, in direct contrast to how confused she actually was. This was her first time on a space station, and she had mixed feelings about making a return trip.

The robots seemed to know where they were going, however, so she ordered two of the four of them lead the way, as quietly as possible. Now was not a good time to lose face.

As they entered the conference room, Claire left the robots by the door as one would a coat. Taking in the stunning post-modernness of it all, her eyes settled on the conference table, and one Siri O’Neill seated to one side. The two had never met, but Claire read the Wall Street Journal from time to time, which was incidentally just enough to realize that this woman had enough cash to bribe even Claire's own heartless robots into defecting.

It's amazing what a robot will do for a new exhaust fan.

Claire took a seat, and waited for the others to arrive.

The woman lying in the bed rolled over, trying once more to get comfortable. Her long, purplish hair spread out behind her, forming a halo around her delicate features. With a groan she sat up, rubbing her eyes. "I don't know how anyone could sleep like this." She pulled the blanket up over her soft breast, sighing.

The light turned on and the man lying next to her sat up and gently rubbed her shoulders. "What's wrong, dear?" Radmiel whispered into her ear, causing a hateful shiver to run up and down her spine.

"I always lie on my stomach, and I can't any more." She pushed him away and turned, looking down at her hands. She stiffened when his hands went around her bare waist. "Let go of me, Radmiel."

"Why should I, Daria?" He kissed her cheek and then down to her neck, his hands sliding up and down her body, softly fondling her assets and smiling at the pleased moans he elicited.

"Because... I... hate you. A-ah!" Daria tried to pull away from him, but he was too strong for her. Instead he lay back down and pulled her head gently onto his chest, his hand remaining on her soft breast. "Hate you, hate you, hate you! Let me go!" She ineffectually hit him for a few moments, abuse he took laughing.

"Hate me? Why?" Radmiel tilted her head up and kissed her on her pouting lips. Despite every intention of doing so, Daria could do nothing but respond, her grip on his body becoming tighter as if she was afraid to let go of him. "You're my dream girl, after all."

"Yes, and it's all your fault." Daria moaned into his mouth as she felt his hands continue to do wonderful things to her.

"Would you prefer Her Majesty had killed you?" He sat up again and grabbed her by the shoulders, looking into her violet eyes. "Because if she hadn't had this rather pleasant idea, you'd be dead."

Daria opened and closed her mouth for a moment, then looked away. "Would you prefer I was dead?"

"Of course not." Radmiel kissed her on the lips. "If she hadn't done this to you, I wouldn't have the pleasure of your company like this, Daria. And you wouldn't have this pleasure..." His hands stroked a sensitive part, eliciting a shocked and scandalized moan.

"T-then neither do I." She moaned again as he pushed her forward and things became too busy to talk.

Once the sex was finished, Radmiel lay back down, leaving Daria to lie across his chest and sigh. "I still hate you." Daria muttered. "I hate you, and I hate myself for being so weak that I let you do this to me." She closed her eyes and, nestled gently in her lover's embrace, fell into a troubled, but fortunately dreamless, sleep.


"Next order of business." Radmiel said from his new position at the head of the Court. "We need to send a deputation to the new Concordat meeting. I recommend a senior foreign officer. Any thoughts?" The Foreign Minister, Malham Fell, raised his hand. "Ah, we have a volunteer. Well done, Malham. And, of course, we'll need someone to go with you. Wave the flag, and whatnot." Radmiel looked around the room, his other ministers avoiding his gaze. "Well, Daria, looks like you need to pack your bags."

His consort looked up at him from where she was sitting at the end of the table. "What? How dare you talk to me that..." His eyes remained level. She looked down. "Of course, my lord. I would be honoured to assist you in any way."

"Splendid! Now, why don't the two of you head off, pack your bags, and we'll meet at the shuttle station at... oh... noonish. That gives us time for some morning tea, hm? And I'm sure Her Majesty will be glad to know it's being handled." He took a sip of his Midlonian tea and then placed the mug gently on the table. "Now, turning to other business..."


Malham glared at his companion as they arrived at Shining Light. "Now, remember, you are to say nothing. Your big mouth got you into your mess, and I won't have it get me into one." His pretty follower scowled, but stayed silent. Inside, in fact, she was far more focussed on the fact that Radmiel's parting kiss had been accompanied by a murmured whisper into her ear that he would miss her. And she was worried that she might feel the same. "His Lordship was very precise, too. Darlington, Darlington and Rodgers Teas might end up halving their price if this agreement goes through, after all."

The two Roanians quickly found their way to the required room, where they took their seats, withdrawing slightly from their mildly dilapidated surroundings. "We don't need any help, thank you." Malham said with a snap at one of the operator robots that whirled up to help.

Next to him, Daria looked around the room at all the assorted individuals there. Instinctively she ran a finger through her hair and studied herself in the mirror, making sure that she was, indeed, as desirable as she was meant to be. Then she realised what was going on, and she stopped.

Shining Light did not shine. Quite the opposite, in fact; it was a large, dullish grey construction, not exactly shapeless, but hardly pleasing to the eye either, evidently built by people who had plenty of eye for shiny (or at least, once-shiny) materials but very little for beauty. The sheer bulk of the place was undeniably impressive, especially to one used to stations built on a rather smaller scale (albeit rather greater in number). Approaching the station was a ship, equally lacking in shininess but with a grace of which the station’s builders could never have conceived, despite her hulking form. While Shining Light lacked symmetry, focus, or a balance to its form, the light cruiser Superb, despite her ungainly over-under arrangement of turrets, had a certain symmetry, a beauty that transcended her blunt bows, disfigured by the giant shuttlecock of a ram scoop, and the pair of dual coilgun turrets which rose up above and below it. Although she could never be described as conventionally beautiful, her creators had imbued her with a purposefulness, an air of calm, stately strength, that reflected the old saying, “handsome is as handsome does.” The blunt-nosed cruiser slowed as she approached the station, her captain observing the occupied docking locks with dismay; he had hoped to take on provisions while he was at Shining Light, a task which would be made much trickier if they had to being everything across in shuttles. It’s all right when you’re moving the small stuff, he always said, but have you ever tried persuading the ship’s supply of airhippo food into a shuttle? Most of the time he didn’t get an answer, or at least not one that didn’t involve the word, “airhippo”, accompanied by a quizzical expression that suggested he was slightly mad. Most had not encountered their ship’s mascot.

In due course, however, Superb was able to ease her way into one of the few remaining berths, her dark-painted bulk in stark contrast to the prevailing, unaccountable shininess of the nearby ships and the dwarfing, generally graceless forms of the freighters. The captain left his bridge and journeyed on foot to his passengers’ quarters; he always felt that, when dealing with higher-ups, it paid to use the personal touch, rather than the idle ease of the video intercom. He rapped smartly on the door and awaited a response, which took some time, since the occupants had spent much of the previous night in the ship’s wardroom, slowly rendering themselves paralytic. Finally a long, thin, rounded face appeared at the video monitor that performed the same role as the spy hole of old, one of which was still mounted, amusingly, in the door; Oyadans did not particularly see the need to dispense with things that worked. The face contorted, bending the crags in its surface into new and interesting shapes that strongly resembled a flattened tumbleweed, staggered slightly on the screen, and finally managed to muster together words, delivered through the tinny speaker in a croaking, wavering voice that couldn’t have been softer without being silent.

“Ah,” said the face, which wore a monocle and, judging by its redness and the bloodshot look to its eyes, was well-used to such volumes of alcohol in so short a time. “Captain. What news?”

“G’morning sir. We’ve arrived at Shining Light station. Your information has been forwarded and clearance granted, sir.” The Captain bobbed his head in a quick, short bow, cheerfully aware that his wake-up call was grossly unwelcome; he had little time for diplomats, politicians and their ilk, being strictly of the “shoot first, ask questions only if you can’t ignore them” mindset. He kept this fact to himself, at least until his charges had left his ship. “You can go across any time now.”

The face looked stunned for a moment, growing slightly redder as it took in the implication. “You said we’d not be there for another day! it exploded, flinging spittle onto the screen.

“Yes, sir.” The captain carefully hid his amusement at the diplomat’s discomfiture. “We made unusually good time, sir.”

The diplomat glared. “Unusually good timing, more like!”

*****

His name was Edward Pethbrigg, and he was fifty-eight. He’d been a career diplomat since he was eighteen, when he’d first decided that the foreign service was for him. At a time when others’ chief priority was getting an exciting job, getting drunk and getting laid, Pethbrigg’s chief desire had been to “get” all five hundred and sixty-nine clauses of the Inter-Planetary Naval Limitation Act. That was the sort of diplomat he was. The sort who kept a row of fountain pens in his top pocket: of which one leaked; one wrote perfectly but only used a variety of ink sold in a single shop, located in Halifax, which had been in business since 1789 and stocked its items according to a shelving system which ensured that finding anything took an hour and a half; and the third of which would use any ink and write on anything, but made his ordinarily neat script emerge from its nib with the appearance of Bulgarian, written by a dyslexic child with a muscle spasm. He was a professional diplomat. He even carried a card, with his universal communicator number, that he might be reached whenever the occasion demanded it; and, like all good diplomats, he never switched it on, except for four hour spurts during Sundays, usually to coincide with the cricket. A conversation during this period would usually run thus:

“Mr. Pethbrigg, it’s me. Are you busy?” Caution.

“Well, rather, yes. We’re sixty-nine for two.” The truth.

“Ah, right. I’ll call back later.” Exasperation.

“Thank you very much. I’ll be sure not to miss you.” A lie.

Then he’d switch the device off.

Quite why Pethbrigg was still in the Foreign service was something of a mystery to outsiders; it seemed bizarre that a rambunctious alcoholic, who privately hated most everyone not from his own world (or even his own department, or on really bad days, his own home) and had only adopted the monocle because it made him look more aristocratic; was corpulent, irascible and no stranger to vice of most every kind, who made every effort, in short, to be hard to like and harder still to reach, and to cap it all off, generally took on the appearance of an elderly, sozzled uncle – the sort one’s parents point to and say Uncle Ted’s never been quite the same since that shell went off near him, should be counted as among his nation’s premier diplomats. This was because these people never saw Pethbrigg’s virtues.

While Pethbrigg could never overcome the fact that he was irritable, intolerant, overweight and perennially hovering about half a glass of wine’s length from sobriety, even on his best behaviour, he was a good diplomat. He might despise those with whom he dealt, especially non-humans, but he could understand their viewpoint. He might go out of his way not to be easy to reach, but if someone made enough effort to reach him, he would listen. He might be familiar with almost every high-class whorehouse across three dozen systems, but he was devoted to his duty. And although he might perennially be under the influence, he was never sufficiently under the influence to jeopardise his work. That was his great secret. As he had said to his aide when she had, particularly frustrated, asked him how he still managed to get away with such things: “the secret, my dear, is to be sufficiently yourself to stay sane, but sufficiently your job to stay skilled.”

His aide had listened, and liked the proverb, but she still found him exasperating. Slightly over half his age, Elana Zhilra was the exact opposite of Pethbrigg in her mannerisms; she drank little, never smoked, did her exercises every morning as the television suggested to her, always made sure she was turned out properly, carefully smoothing down any creases in her skirt and checking her blouse for any inadvertently undone buttons, making sure not a single strand of her shoulder-length auburn hair was out of place. She was punctilious, punctual, open, always ready to listen, and generally about as matched to Pethbrigg as he was matched to Sir Walter Raleigh. At their first meeting, he had spent the vast majority of the time he hadn’t spent in a tirade about “some bunch or other of foreigners” and grumpily requesting information and opinions cheerfully eyeing her up, paying particular attention to her chest, since the large, antique oak desk he kept in his planet side office obscured most of her legs. Zhilra had detested him, had asked for a transfer, had practically asked for the sack. That had been three years ago. She no longer detested him, though she by no means loved him; she tended to look upon him more as the aforementioned old uncle. Still brilliant, when he chose to be, but infuriating to look after; still kindly, yet still quite happy to be as obnoxious as he wanted. Their was not quite a “love-hate” relationship; more one of frustration, beneath which there was a strange, but strong affection and respect. And if truth be told, though neither would ever mention it to the other, they both liked it that way.

Zhilra yawned and stretched, leaning against the doorframe of the adjoining room to Pethbrigg’s in her pyjamas. “What’s the story, morning glory?” she drawled, smiling boredly, knowing that only a few eventualities could have provoked Pethbrigg to wrath this early.

“You’ll do well not to ask, m’dear,” Pethbrigg growled. “Seems we’re to leave a little early. You’d better get dressed.” He padded across the room in his dressing gown and leaned over his computer desk, checking the information to hand. Which was very little, as per usual. “Bloody intelligence are bloody useless.” He thumped the desk, which it accepted as a fair response to its inability to help, and padded back towards his shower. “Can you get ready and get my things together in half an hour?” he asked, his voice echoing in the tiled chamber. Oyadan ships of cruiser size or above tended to have at least two rooms free for diplomats.

“I think I can manage that,” Zhilra replied wryly.

*****

An hour later, with Pethbrigg having donned a pair of dark glasses and inserted a pair of at least partially effective earplug to ease his passage back into relative sobriety, the pair finally entered Shining Light and made their way to the room, guided by the ever-helpful robots. The only thing they couldn’t help with, in fact, was Pethbrigg’s now furious hangover, which caused every noise to amplify tenfold.

The conference chamber was large, clean, filled by the sound of the sort of soothing music they play in lifts when the motors fail, and with all the personality of a lump of particularly beige chalk. The seats within were mostly empty – those not inhabited by sodding aliens and bloody foreigners, anyway - and apparently labelled; Pethbrigg wasn’t having any of this, and took his place at the very rear of the chamber, pausing only to shoo off a bot as it politely reminded him that this was not his seat, sir, with a barrage of expletives that would have made a Tourette’s syndrome docker blush; he could pretty well anticipate how this conference would work, and his government’s requirements were pretty simple, so Pethbrigg saw no reason to remain awake during the preliminary guff, which was coinciding appallingly with the white-hot part of his hangover. Zhilra knew the drill well, and took her seat opposite him, in the front row, opening her computer and relaying anything useful to Pethbrigg’s UC, which lay open before him. She smiled and nodded, just able to notice him return the smile and a wink as he nodded slowly off. Bugger me, she’s still got great legs, he thought with satisfaction as sleep beckoned him, the soothing music and the absence of sound in the room serving only to aid his flight to slumber.

Dyer ambled into the conference room next, he seemed to be every ounce Midlonian, his tweed jacket was neat and trim and matched his trousers, his spectacle sat on the very end of his slightly crooked nose and his cane tapped on the flooring as he sat down at the sleek table with the glass and gold full title of Midlonia, that being “The Greater Kingdom of Midlonia.”

Though, any keen historian would have noted it’s genuinely full title written underneath, which was rarely used except in some archaic laws, of which the GKM was actually… [deep breathe ladies and gentlemen]

The Greater Kingdome of the Island of Midlonia, Supreme State of the Seven Kindgomes of the Feudal Kinges.

Dyer settled himself properly before pouring himself a glass of water and drinking.

“The Foreign Secretary with be along shortly.” He said simply as he sat back, resting his cane on the edge of the table and twiddling his thumbs as he made a note of the missing delegates, no matter, they hadn‘t snubbed the signing per se, they had still stated that they were to join, just had no time from other pressing internal concerns to spare diplomats at the time.

Mildly annoying to be sure, but oh well, that’s the luck of the draw sometimes.

The door hissed open as George Hillcrest came into the room next, he was carrying a set of dossiers and seemed to have a grin plastered on his face that could be described as slightly catatonic. Dyer had asked him not to use it, but evidently he’d been overruled.

“Good day to you delegates, thank you so much for coming to this occasion, I hope today will be immensely productive and I thank you for getting the conference out of the way first, there is of course a dinner if you wish after we’ve dealt with many of the formalities.”

He handed the dossiers to the robot next to him, who bowed before moving herself quietly and lightly around the room, placing them before the delegates that had arrived, and on the places still empty.

After she was done, she bowed and left the room.

Hillcrest sat down at his own table, placed at the front at the head of the slight semi-circle, he then leant forward slightly and looped his fingers between themselves as he began to speak.

“Basically as we all know various organizations around the universe, alliances etc tend to ask for some sort of compromise of national sovereignty. ToY for example requests that you submit to it’s command structure and maintains forces of it’s own as a supra-national entity, other organizations tend to narrow their bands to ideological ideals, such as the promotion of liberty, or a planetary body. The idea of this conference is to see if founding an organization that doesn’t limit itself to either ideals, geographical location, or the compromise of sovereignty is feasible and workable.” he took a pause as he sipped at a cup of tea that sat steaming on the table.

“Gentlemen, ladies. If you would open your dossiers you can see that the proposal of the Concordat of Phoenix is to limit itself strictly to a Free Trade Agreement, and a Military Defensive Pact. It works on the concept of one member, one vote. And that any such membership proposals be debated and voted upon the merits of that member and trade benefits of the state in question, rather than an ideological standpoint or geographical location. It’s sole purpose is to ensure that it’s members have close and intimate dialogue and to protect each others trading interests at home and abroad. We feel this is a good proposal for various states we have positive relations with, but no ideological, or geographical ties.”

He paused again. “Essentially this is our proposal to you here today, any such details you wish to ask about may be directed to myself or Diplomat Dyer here.” Hillcrest motioned to Dyer next to him, who sat up straight at that point and nodded appreciatively.

Zhilra looked up, brushing aside an errant lock of hair, and thanked the machine with mechanistic punctiliousness as it went about the room dropping off the dossiers. With a deep sigh she laid her own perfectly-presented copy of the document on the table before her, feeling like a schoolgirl facing an examination all over again. This was always the worst part; wondering whether their intelligence, such as it was, had been right, or if they were about to be roped into some morass of red tape and vague, ill-considered promises. She breathed hard and opened the dossier, reading through its pages intently, consternation showing on her youthful face as she went through its particulars.

Damn. Damn, damn, damn! “Damnit…” Zhilra looked around, wondering if she was being stared at; but the other delegates seemed not to have noticed her murmured curse. “Okay, Elana, think. There’s no way they’re going to like this,” she said to herself, her voice barely above a hushed whisper, “but you’ve got to tell them. And doing that involves waking him up, quietly.” This was always the most difficult part of the exercise. Pethbrigg did not generally take to being woken up, especially not when he was in a warm room, with a pleasant, low sound to lull him to sleep. And to make matters worse, his UC’s alert was a sound which she had only heard once, at a large airport, and once it had begun lots of men with guns had come running from all sorts of directions. It was the sort of sound that made people’s heads turn, but only as they dived for cover, and in this chamber it would sound like a gunshot, played through a megaphone, inside a boiler. She looked around uneasily, wondering what to do. To set the infernal thing off would be both embarrassing and distracting. To leave him asleep would mean she had to do all the work – and although the mind behind her green eyes was sharp and knowledgeable, she had to admit that she didn’t have the same skill in the art as Pethbrigg did; nor, for that matter, did she have his automatic clearance level within the Foreign Ministry.

What to do?

She looked around, and suddenly the idea hit her. The delegates were well spaced-out in the big hall; each was busily engaged in reading the proposal, or discussing it with one another, or via some means of communication or other with a higher authority. The music was still on, quiet but present, soothing the sounds of the room. If she could climb out of her seat, she could probably make her way quietly to Pethbrigg’s chair without arousing any attention. Brilliant! Score one for Elana Zhilra, master diplomat. She carefully pulled herself out of the chair and began making her way around the front row, instinctively tiptoeing her way around the arc of seats, nodding and smiling politely at those who chanced to look, while her eyes told them that any comment would result in the laptop she was carrying with her being shoved where no laptop should ever be shoved. All was going well until she found herself temporarily wrong-footed by a seat that someone had left out of place; so busy was she looking at potential detractors with her pleasant (if flinty) stare and keeping the laptop’s wires together as they attempted a bid for freedom, that she failed to notice the chair until it had made contact with her leg. With a resounding crash and a yell of surprise that echoed throughout the pleasant chamber and totally overcame the sound of whatever was warbling from the discreetly-mounted speakers, turning all heads just in time to see a shock of light auburn hair and the back of a red blouse vanishing beneath the desk at some speed.

Zhilra looked up from where she lay on the floor, which was at least carpeted with a nice thick pile, and groaned. “Elana Zhilra, master diplomat, indeed,” she muttered despondently, struggling to disentangle her legs from the combination of chair and laptop flex and suddenly gaining a whole new insight into the axiom that any wire or rope will automatically seek to wrap itself around the nearest and most vital object to hand, not to mention sight of the impressive bruise the stoutly-made metal frame of the chair had given to her right shin.

Above her, Pethbrigg cast his eyes slowly downwards, unable to resist watching his youthful aide’s fight with the insidious inanimate objects for at least a moment; she was, after all, young, intelligent, and blessed with a very fine set of pins. But he couldn’t leave her thrashing like a landed fish for long, and after a minute he leaned towards her, a conspiratorial look upon his face, his voice the low, soft rumble of distant floods.

“Don’t make any noise.” He touched his nose with his finger. “I snored a little earlier, but I think I got away with it.”

*****

A man chuckled softly in a half-dark room, lit only by an old electric lamp that pointed toward its thin walls and the distant, flashing glow of the sunrise. “This is going to be most interesting,” he muttered. “Most interesting.” The speaker paused to drink from a small, finely-made cup. “You and I are going to have quite some work to deal with this one,” he continued in thickly-inflected English, a deep and resonant tone that the papered walls could not entirely absorb.

A second voice grunted agreement. “So,” it asked, distinctly less broadly and with far less amusement than the first, “who’s going after what?”

“Everyone and everything.” The man coughed. “Foreign doesn’t like the mutual defence idea, and defence is going to raise hell about it as well I imagine. Trade doesn’t want the tariffs removed, so that stymies the free trade agreement.” He sipped at the drink again, turning his balding head to watch the sunrise.

“And I suppose the popular press won’t like this ‘one member, one vote’ idea”, the second voice, also male but with a far smoother, less bass tone to its utterances, supplied.

“Probably. But that’s not the main concern in that field.”

”Oh?”

“Foreign again. They say they foresee grave tensions should there be any imbalance in effort.” The man smiled, the smile lost in shadows as the sun rose slowly over the verdant hills beyond, steadily exploring a landscape dotted with wooden and stone buildings, layered with smoke and haze.

“So that’s three departments’ objections to prepare for His Majesty’s attention.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I was expecting more,” the second explained simply. After the Wars I’d have thought they would be wary of the outsiders.”

The first man laughed again, soft and humourless. “They’ve forgotten their long spoons.” When the other looked blank – though how he could see such in the gloom was a mystery – he continued: “Old saying. ‘When you sup with the devil, use a long spoon.’ The majority of them like the devil’s dishes enough to forget the wisdom of keeping their distance.”

The second man nodded as the light caught the nameplate on his desk: Hinaro Tuuya, Private Secretary to the Prime Minister. “I see,” he replied. It was no lie; he saw the danger the foreign devils might pose to their sacred planet well enough, even if he had never heard the phrase before.

“You know,” the first man added after a pause, “I really ought to upbraid you for not calling me Prime Minister.”

“Bit Ancient Comedies, isn’t it, Prime Minister?”

“I suppose so.” The Prime Minister sighed and stood, stretching his ageing frame. “At any rate, see to it that I’m kept informed of any developments. And that the Cabinet Secretary is kept informed of nothing I say, of course.”

“Yes.” Tuuya paused. “Sir.”

“Better, Hinaro. I think I can live with ‘sir’.” The Prime Minister smiled again. “Has the communiqué been dispatched?”

“It has, sir. Shall I say where you’ll be?” Tuuya knew the answer before he even finished the question.

“No… no, not for an hour or two, thank you. I will need to prepare to see His Majesty.” The Prime Minister shut the door quietly behind him, leaving Tuuya to watch the dawn spread over the distant shape of the sprawling capital.

*****

Back on Shining Light, Pethbrigg was waiting. Even with the immensely fast communications he was used to, it could sometimes taken many hours for the longer messages to flit back and forth through the ether, during which time much might change. When he had told Zhilra this, after she had finally managed to extricate herself from the embrace of chair and cable, she had merely given a low snort as she rubbed her bruised leg. At least that was just pain; nothing could soothe her bruised dignity as she righted herself upon the chair next to Pethbrigg’s, angrily smoothing the creases in her suddenly disarrayed clothes as he studiously composed his message for the Tower. Now they both waited, listening to the silence, broken only by the occasional self-conscious cough and the tinny babble of the music, as the message unwound itself before them.

Pethbrigg yawned politely. “I see our Lords and Masters don’t much trust this bunch of rascals, either,” he muttered, setting his monocle straight. Zhilra mumbled something back, too low for him to catch. “Eh?”

“I said,” she whispered savagely, “I knew this would happen. They send us into this mess with absolutely nothing to work from and then they act indignant when we send them the requirements back!”

“Quite. Anyway, I think I’d better get our bit said, before this whole place falls to sleep, eh?” He straightened his back and placed his hands on the table. “Keep talking to home, and if you can, set up a closed loop for me.” Pethbrigg was all business now, and Zhilra nodded, making herself become likewise and ignore her throbbing shin bone, as Pethbrigg stood up.

“Gentlemen!” he began, voice booming into the empty space. “Firstly, I would like to say how honoured we are to have been invited here by your Lordships, ladyships, Excellencies, and so on…”

Still concentrating on the monitor, Zhilra nonetheless found the time to growl, “like hell it is.”

“… and what a tremendous opportunity we think this concordat represents, both for Oyada and for all of us.”

A snort issued from Zhilra’s long, narrow nose, prompting a steely glance from her superior.

“However, our government does have certain… concerns, which we would like to present here, if we may.” Pethbrigg coughed again, and in doing so caught his aide’s reserved thumbs-up: the closed link was working; with a barely perceptible nod, he continued smoothly into the first problem the bloody foreigners had managed to cause.

“Firstly, it is a matter of some concern to our government that we must commit to a mutual defence treaty with nations so far outside our, er, region, or our acquaintance. While I do not, of course, wish to imply that we would not be confident in your coming to our aid,” – surprisingly, this was not a lie – “we are somewhat concerned at the potential for Oyadan assets, vital for the defence of our own world, to be deployed to far-off lands of which we know nothing, purely for the sake of supporting, perhaps, an ill-judged gamble. A mistake, if you will.”

Pethbrigg could not word the accusation any more politely than that; he considered it, however, a major improvement on, “there is no way we will entrust our own forces to the defence of some warmongering foreigners with a mind for legal traps”. Which, to be fair, it was – but its meaning was still clear enough.

Marzio and his aide recieved the documents and found them satisfying. The terms themselves were less of an issue--the Unione of Capitalizt States had no intention of signing today even with as little or as much encouragement from his fellow representatives.

To watch, and to learn was critical.

Being that at most, he would apply for Observor status into the newly reforged alliance, the Secretary of State leaned back into his chair and enjoyed the opportunity to conspiciously eye off some of the other delegates. There were many nations that the Unione of Capitalizt States government had a relationship with--even the Chairwoman from Northrop-Grumman, whom he had just come from a meeting from before the conference had started. The Midlonians of whom the the UCS had a thorny history with had also proven wonderful hosts, and he made a note to himself to thank them specifically after. And then there were faces and names that he did not recognize; given that the Department had not been able to organize a guest list for him to look over he also hadn't the chance to aquaint himself with either them or their backgrounds. Nations that he had not heard of, populations watched over that he didn't even know existed.

" If our gracious hosts will permit me to answer, " Scevola spoke up for the first time since his arrival. " I would imagine that any mutual defense agreement would be on a 'each according to his or her ability' basis. Of course I don't wish to presume anything about your situation, perhaps you might feel able to enlighten this audiance of any specific threats that you feel your government faces. "

Dyer simply quirked an eyebrow as the portly gentleman from the Oyadan’s spoke. Followed by the Austarian delegate.

Dyer sat forward and cleared his throat and took a sip of water before the Foreign Minister spoke.

“The idea of the Mutual Defensive Pact of the documentation is that of defence, Mr Pethbrigg. Any such gambles that may be undertaken by any member that then results in major offensive operations against them then becomes an issue entirely up to the member states if they wished to contribute or not.”
He sat back slightly, regarding Pethbrigg with a fairly powerful clear gaze from his green eyes.

“However, should the aforementioned member state be attacked unprovoked it would be the duty of the members to defend their fellow man. This allows each state to ensure he can be defended in times of peace, and in the knowledge that if such a gamble were then to, say, turn into a disaster, that they may in effect have dug their own grave. As I note, the wording is that of defensive, not offensive or ‘because we shot people and now they’re shooting back’.”

He picked up a slate of glass from the table, which had a clip on the top, green writing then appeared on the plate and he thumbed through it, finding some statistics. “I am sure that your government would be interested to note that this extends to piracy operations also Mr Pethbrigg as part of a condition to ensuring all trade flows freely between member states, something that I am aware of,” he motioned to the slate in his hand, “has been a trouble for some states present here today.” he didn’t single out the Oyadan piracy problems, but the great game had begun.

As the Chairwoman flipped through the dossier, examining its contents quite carefully, she noted that the terms of this alliance were more than acceptable to her. In fact, it was probably one of the better concepts for one that she had come across. Most of the Corporation’s problems related to such things were because they often, or rather, almost of all the time, subverted the sovereignty of each member nation. One couldn’t expect the alliance leaders, being in some far away land, to take into account the needs of the individuals. They had never met them, nor could they find a policy that would conform to each society’s needs.

However, in spite of these concerns, there was at least one instance where the Corporation did accept stricter terms, and that was upon entrance into the Non-Democratic Alliance. The restrictions of war placed by the governing council, the requirement of providing financial, humanitarian, and military aid in times of need, and the requirement to contribute to funds towards alliance intelligence and common defense forces were relatively small things to give up when the peacefulness, tranquility, and competence of the alliance were considered. And, at the time, the Corporation needed allies that were ideologically similar to it and that had proven themselves to be able to maintain a overwhelming unity throughout these centuries.

Now, as the Chairwoman quietly sat at the conference table, watching the dialogue bounce back and forth between the Midlonians and the Oyadans, she had a feeling that such unity would be possible in this Concordat, most notably because it skirted around two issues which create the most problems in these alliances.

First, the basis for the alliance, the constitution, or rather the terms for it. Stringent requirements made infighting common in those, often causing its members to divide into factions or even leave. Such things were not present here. The terms were straightforward – you have to have free trade with all your fellow members and you have to provide defense when your allies are being attack, most notably when they’re not being the aggressor. Any applying nation would be met with these and would have to agree to them fully before entering. There could not be anything to fight about with these simple terms.

Secondly, the reason for which the alliance exists. Some alliances have a unifying factor, such as an alliance of non-democratic nations – in the NDA’s case – or the protection of national sovereignty – in the case of the Concordat. They know why they’ve come together to form such an organization and they know the purpose of it. Others have neglected to provide such a sturdy foundation and have wound up being full of nations who know not the purpose why they are there nor the goals of the alliance. There is a lack of direction, a certain ambiguity that persists. Members become disillusioned by this, some attempt to fashion their own ideological focus into it, some simply desire to leave, but neither case is entirely healthy.

But while the Concordat of Phoenix would most likely not face these issues, there was still the matter of hammering out the any concerns over the two terms for the alliance. The Chairwoman did not expect it to become a dividing matter in this conference but expected it to take up a fair amount of time here today. Of course, wanting it to be dealt with as soon as possible, she decided to input her own thoughts to it.

“If I may cut in and speak…” she interjected, glancing about the room for others to take note before she continued. “I do understand your government’s concerns, Mr. Pethbrigg, and I have often had thoughts of the same nature during these discussions. The track records of every nation who would come into these alliances is of importance I believe. Surely we wouldn’t want a warmongering nation similar to the Allaneans to be joined with us.”

She paused just long enough to allow that to sink in and headed toward her closing statement. “Now, I feel that at least the Corporation would like to settle that concern by providing a simple database of past international military maneuvers to the Oyadans and everyone else here. I do not intend for it to be anything particularly sensitive, just information one might find in your average Grummian college history textbook. I would suggest others to do the same, if you would be so kind.”

Malham Fell sighed at the roadblocks that the Oyadans were throwing in the path of a speedy resolution, keeping him at this unwanted posting. "Girl." He directed Daria curtly. "Present our proposition." The young woman looked up from where she was staring dreamily at Hillcrest. "Our proposition!"

Daria blinked once or twice, and then looked at the papers he shoved in front of her. "Ah. She rose to her feet and started to bow, then stopped when Malham stepped on her foot. She curtseyed, instead, and forced a smile to everyone in the room, though it became a trifle realer for Hillcrest. "The Empire of the Twin Lamps believes that the best way to make this alliance a reality is by making our own generous gesture. Therefore, we welcome this free trade agreement and promise now that those who sign this agreement will be released permanently from the Quota system, and be permitted to trade within our borders freely, subject to regulations about advertising and good commercial practice, of course." She lightly bit her ruby lip with her gleaming white front teeth, and smiled, sitting down once more and unconsciously adjusting her dress to show off more of her generous cleavage.

The Taraskovyan delegation sat back during the more enthusiastic moments of debate, taking note of the different positions. When the heat downed a bit, or maybe it was actually raised in a different fashion by a delegate from the Twin Lamps a.k.a. Roania, Ithun Khat, Count of Var-Gellath, Imperial Minister for Foreign Affairs, leaned in to make the first Taraskovyan intervention in the debates.

“Honourable colleagues, fellow delegates, I shall allow myself to present, in short, the outlines of the Taraskovyan position vis-à-vis of the present talks. First things first, let me delve on the trade agreement. As some of you know and others will find out, the Empire reserves exclusive rights to protect industries and economic sectors it considers of strategic national importance.” He hit a few buttons. “You shall see a list with descriptions of these sectors now. As you can see, it concerns such diverse matters as jewelry, weapons manufacturing, others. This does not mean the Empire does not accept foreign investment and imports of foreign origin in these sectors, but reserves the right to raise or lower tariffs depending on the conjuncture in place at a given moment.”

He paused for a moment, letting the words sink in and the curious delegates to browse through the various items, full with descriptions, quotes from imperial legislation and others.

“Let me pass on to the defensive side of the future text. The Taraskovyan Empire considers it of outmost importance and a non-negotiable item that her soldiers not die because of the foolishness of others. As such, and whilst the Empire is ready to extend her hand and provide full and unlimited assistance to a partner that came under a completely unjustified aggression from a third party, I shall insist that such clauses be strict and unambiguous.”

He inclined his head politely as he finished the intervention, leaning back in his seat to wait for what debates were to follow.

As the Austarian Secretary of State listened to the other delegates exchange comments and glancing opinions, it became reasonably clear that they were all to some degree of one mind and heart. With all of them agreeing to the proposal 'de jure', Marzio began to consider how the new Concordat would operate in actual practice.

On this, he had certain reservations.

" Perhaps then, " he leaned forward and toward the microphone. " It would be worthwhile tabling the Midlonian proposal. Although the Unione of Capitalizt States will only be observing for the time being, I personally find the terms enclosed the most acceptable thus far. "

Claire cracked open and gingerly flipped through her dossier. It seemed simple enough, a straightforward FTA and MDP, all nations involved were powerful and the Corporation had absolutely nothing to lose by signing this.

Still, she couldn't jump on this like a cheerleader on her prom date, that would be a big diplomatic no-no. She figured she had to make some dummy qualm so she didn't look over-interested.

Clearing her throat, she spoke up, "A great deal of the product control we have within the Resi Corporation comes from the tariffs we impose on the products of other nations - the only way to ensure our populace continues to buy our goods, aside from their overwhelming quality, is to make sure that we have the cheapest prices in town. Money is power in the Corporation, and buying our products is paying tribute. As such you can see a total Free-Trade Agreement presents some minor governmental problems to us. What if Northrop-Grumman goods were to undercut ours, or even *cough* Roanian goods?"

Pausing a moment, Claire reflected on how odd it was for the Roanians to even be here. Studies indicate that they hate everything with two or more legs not of Roanian birth - or at least those not of sufficient social status that bumping uglies with a similarly-born Roanian would prove mutually beneficial.

Claire breathed and continued, "But, I suppose that this is the nature of such a pact, and my superiors inform me that such a decision would indeed be overall economically beneficial to the Corporation. Thus, we are willing to sign into this Concordat, as it stands."

“This is the Nature of Free Trade.” Hillcrest said simply. “However, these issues are simply on the table as proposals for the Concordat of Phoenix as laid out by ourselves. I am sure that should lists and particular industries are felt to be too vital, or even if the economics are too fragile from member states for the possibility of competition from other countries, then we’re prepared to discuss that. This is how we wished for this conference to work, outlining each others positions and working forward from that.” he took a sip of his water again before placing it back onto the chilled coaster on the table.

“Defensive wise was, however, predominantly non-negotiable, it was to be a mutual defensive pact first and foremost. Should members wish for military conflict elsewhere predominantly on their own backs. As it is known the GDT has been prepared to use force as part of it’s foreign policy, and various other states here have been prepared to stand up with armed force as an option. However, should the armed force be used aggressively, rather than defensively, then the clause states that it’s not up to the other members to help the members of this organization as a result of this.”

Zhilra growled again, her voice grating between her teeth like “Enlighten them, indeed!” She jabbed savagely at the computer as it fed information from the closed link to her screen. “The smarmy bastard, trying to get a rise out of us already.”

“Hush, child”, Pethbrigg murmured, keeping his eyes on the Austarian delegate. “There’ll be time to shout accusations at people when the wine flows.” He pressed the voice feed to his ear and listened closely to the voice within.

“Tell them nothing,” the voice mumbled, tinny and distant, as though it was being relayed, from a loudspeaker, via several hundred feet of plastic drainpipe laid in a rainy field somewhere in Yorkshire. “No specifics, at least.”

“The usual platitudes?” Pethbrigg asked softly.

“Indeed. Carry on.”

Pethbrigg released the little bud and cleared his throat noisily, resisting the urge to hack the resultant agglomeration of phlegm up and project it towards Dyer as he launched into his own, smoothly-rehearsed piece. Bloody arrogant foreigners.

“That is a most interesting statement indeed, Mr. Dyer, though I assure you that our piracy situation is well under control.” He gave Dyer a perfectly even, charmless stare that made it quite clear that he was not going to be put down by some damn foreigner, and continued. “In point of fact, it has been well under control for some time, and does not need outside assistance; I’m fairly certain the Inner Rim mining colonies would be more than happy to enlighten you on the efforts of the Navy to bring such criminals to heel.” For a moment, he thought he might have given too much detail away; but after all, the constant proclamations on the various Imperial government channels were there for anyone to see, and so too were the broken, dead hulks that drifted about many a mining world, ready to be fed into the hungry mouths of blast furnaces and smelters by the colonists, who never missed a chance to earn some extra money from those who plagued their trade.

“However, to address your main point: we must have the forces available to conduct such operations, as well as sundry others. It is my government’s position that for us to feed forces, at considerable expense, into the defence of others about whom we know little or nothing at a moment’s notice, is simply unacceptable.” He nodded curtly in the Austarian’s direction, thickset eyebrows seeming to acknowledge the beginnings of a good suggestion, yet find within it some problem so obvious that it was amazing the speaker had not considered it; Pethbrigg had very expressive eyebrows, perched like dark, furry caterpillars atop his sagging, weary eye-sockets. “Furthermore,” he went on, a harder edge entering his tone, “it is our policy, and always has been our policy, that the policing of the Empire, and the defence of Oyadan shipping and other property, is an activity which we would prefer to undertake ourselves. One does not let a dog into one’s pantry, even if one knows and trusts him, as the saying goes.” He looked down to his notes, which consisted mainly of a number of ill-executed cartoons of the various delegates engaged in compromising and unhygienic activities, and looked back up to the room at large. “However, if it were possible for such a system, as was suggested by the honourable delegate from the Union, to be brought into place, my government would be willing to consider this matter further.”

As he waited for the Grummian to finish her piece, Zhilra tugged gently on his sleeve, gesturing mutely to her computer. Pethbrigg sat, bowing slightly in a gesture of utterly false and completely spurious respect, and leaned slightly to his left, a sigh escaping his bulging frame as he read the monitor.

“What the hell was I supposed to say to make that acceptable, then?” he grumbled, his eyes flicking, only half-focussing, from delegate to delegate as the baton went back and forth around the chamber.

“I don’t know!” Zhilra whispered back through her teeth. “What am I, a diplomat?” She stifled a giggle as Pethbrigg’s thunderous face rounded on her.

“Watch yourself, my dear,” he grated, watching as the conversation’s flow changed suddenly. “And get me our lot’s position on this Free Trade Agreement business, quickly.”

“Yes sir!” Zhilra saluted smartly, another snort of mirth being compressed back down her throat as Pethbrigg’s fingers tightened on the desk. “Oh calm down,” she said, her ill-temper vanishing.

*****

“What the hell is he doing? Surely our position is fairly simple.” Tuuya re-read Pethbrigg’s communiqué again, just to make sure he hadn’t missed something; but when he’d finished, it was still there, large as life and as welcome as a rhino in an expensive tea room. ‘What’, it asked, ‘is our position on a Free Trade Agreement?’

Such a question was, to Tuuya’s mind, entirely incomprehensible. The Oyadan position on free trade agreements was well-known to anyone who had the misfortune to try and advocate such measures, and for that matter who was unlucky enough to have to trade with the Empire: uncompromising, unflinching, utterly immovable antipathy. Yet one of their best diplomats apparently did not even know that! Tuuya grumbled, clearing his throat noisily, and sent his reply. “Well, honestly.”

Tuuya’s personal secretary, a man whose lowly title belied just how much he knew about his master’s work, glanced his way. “Trouble in paradise, sir?”

“Indeed. It would help, of course, if our man at Shining Light could remember a simple enough position on Free Trade Agreements.”

The secretary considered this for a moment. “Well, to be perfectly fair to him, sir, there has been variation over the years. The previous two governments both pushed the pro-Free Trade agenda, led by the Campaign for Trade Freedom and the Libertarian Party; and of course, as you doubtless recall, when we were both starting out in the Service, the League of Free Businessmen was at its most active; so really it’s hardly surprising that…” he tailed off, finally noticing his silent superior’s expression, an expression which would have given Medusa something to think about.

“Sorry, sir.”

Tuuya nodded to the drinks cabinet. “Rum, if you please, Chavers.”

“Yes sir.” Chavers knew a lot about his master’s work. He knew even more about how his master worked.

*****

“Oh great. Just bloody great. Even better. So now I’ve got insult them twice in the space of thirty minutes.” Pethbrigg suppressed yet another inward groan, and let his mind wander momentarily off on its own; given this opportunity, it indulged Pethbrigg’s most heartfelt desire, which was, right at that moment, to be sunning himself on a distant beach at home, with a glass of some sort of spirit – the sort that was often sold under-the-counter, drawn straight from a large drum of industrial cleaning agent, in the more outlying worlds – in one hand, and a woman whose proportions were less “unusual” than “in defiance of several of the laws of science and nature” to occupy the other. How cruel it is, he thought, to be trapped in a room full of foreigners, attempting to balance the discord between our position and theirs, while somewhere a beach, a woman and a drink that kills elephants when exhaled thirty paces away is waiting for me.

Oh well.

Pethbrigg was getting old. He knew that. He wanted, in his heart, to ease down, to stop having to bounce around the galaxy like the proverbial cyan-buttocked insect. Once in a while, he continued to suffer this same recurring dream; he could get away, he could finish with the job, could lie on the beach and have all the free time and ease he could ever need. But he knew, just as well, that it would only have one result: it would be the death of him. Unmarried, his hobbies limited, his life revolved around the job that had come to consume it; like some perverted drug, it had taken control of him, and like some foolish junkie, he had let himself be dragged in, enjoying every challenge, every new land, every damn foreigner, with the same relish as the fool who pressed the needle into his vein and thumbed home the plunger for another interval of blessed, mind-destroying oblivion. And now he stared at yet another syringe, and his brain wondered why it was about to let him do this to himself again. But, like the fool he was, he jammed it in and pushed.

“Despite these assurances, my government remains unconvinced,” Pethbrigg replied smoothly as Hillcrest concluded. “There is distinct concern in the halls of power that Oyadan forces might be committed to a war with which we do not agree, engineered or brought about accidentally through the foolishness or arrogance of others.” He avoided mentioning any names, of course, but the message was fairly clear; it was at least part of the reason he was glancing periodically to the Roanians (who, as well as being damn foreigners, were damned aliens to boot), the other part being Daria’s rather appealing assets.

“While the proposals brought forward are of interest to my government” – they weren’t, which was why Zhilra’s carefully-trimmed eyebrows shot up a good half-inch as he dispensed the smoothly-formed lie – “there is still a feeling that the potential for miscalculations of the situation, by some malicious individual or by an innocent oversight on the part of otherwise august bodies, might lead us to an unnecessary war, to which we would be bound.” He pressed the live feed to his ear again, nodding slowly. “In addition, we share the concerns raised by other of the honourable delegates regarding the Free Trade Agreement. The government Oyadan Empire,” he finished with a touch of satisfaction, “does not feel it is the place of any other power to dictate the terms of its own trading policies, regardless of the good intent behind such attempts.” He sat back down and smiled. The drug was working again.

Alongside him, Zhilra kept working at her computer, waiting for the next round to begin in earnest, and wondering why they had even bothered to come. The government’s position was quite clear: mutual defence pacts were a disaster waiting to happen, free trade was an economic hell in the making, and nobody would convince them otherwise, least of the damn foreigners. The only sign of progress, in a bizarre twist of fate, was the Roanian offer; the very fact of it made her chuckle softly. Roanians, the most arrogant of all the arrogant foreigners, making a concession before them! Wonders will never cease, she thought, resting her pointed chin to her hand as she played a quick game of Solitaire.

“Are you accusing the states present into manipulating events in such a way as to cause war on an enemies terms?” Dyer sat forward. “Now-”

Hillcrest held his hand up, quieting Dyer, who sat back looking like a grumpy child who was being disciplined.

“It would seem to me,” Hillcrest cut in smoothly, “that with the outright rejection of a mutual defence pact, along with all aspects of Free Trade within the treaties that the Oyadans are quick to condemn, but so far have provided no alternatives, or concessions when we have been prepared to do so, as have other delegations here.” he nodded to the Northrop Grumman and Roanian delegations. “Our position is also prepared to accept the stringent Taraskovyan suggestions in regards to defence, and their concerns about keeping arms independence, as well as certain protections within certain industries.”

Hillcrest leant forward. “After these concessions to ensure that one has options to place limitations on certain industries, as well as stringent clauses within the defensive pact part of the treaty. Continued Odayan Opposition is of some concern, so, rather than continue to invite critique on the present proposals without offering alternatives, I invite Mr Pethbrigg to lay bare any Odayan alternatives that would suit their own terms.”

Hillcrest sat back, taking a sip of water before motioning to one of the Operator Robots that was stood at the door. Her face twitched in recognition, much like a human being would, before she came over.

"Mr Hillcrest asks if anybody would like any other beverages such as tea of coffee served to them, while the Odayan delegation draw up their 'alternative' proposals?" the Operator said, smiling and blinking her longish eyelashes her red eyes shining slightly in the flouresent light, one could almost have sworn to have heard the word 'alternative' spoken sarcastically, but it was a Robot after all.

Marzio only peered at the Oyadan representative, who's efforts seemed clearly counterproductive to the purpose of this conference. Taking a sip of his water, he leaned back into his chair and began to wonder what the future would hold for the new Concordat, only semi-listening to anything Pethbrigg had to announce on behalf of his government.

More fluff and bubble, he thought to himself as he considered Oyada's role in the alliance. Counter to everything they planned to stand for, not unified on even just one single issue.

Not a likely partner to the Unione of Capitalizt States.

Hillcrest’s smug air did very little for Pethbrigg’s interest in keeping the man happy, and the robot’s sarcastic, almost contemptuous tone did still less. Of course, what did least for his desire to please their hosts, the other delegates and indeed anyone at all was the fact that Hillcrest had just done something he hadn’t expected. By asking them to frame their own terms, he had suddenly forced Pethbrigg into a rather unforeseen corner; and as a result, Pethbrigg would, at that point, have liked nothing more than to tear off Hillcrest’s arms and force-feed them to him, doused in vinegar. Nonetheless, he maintained absolute composure; firstly, because he had to. Secondly, because he could see why Hillcrest – and the rest of them, for that matter – were getting rather annoyed, even if, so far as he was concerned, their opinions were utterly unimportant.

Zhilra leaned in beside him. “I’ve asked them for some proposals, but don’t hold your breath.” Pethbrigg cave a grim, near-imperceptible nod and stood, smiling coldly.

“My thanks to Mr. Hillcrest for the opportunity to put forward our own proposals. However, since it will take some time for them to be relayed from our Homeworld, I would suggest that the other honourable delegates might care to continue with their discussions whilst we work.” Returning to his seat, Pethbrigg glanced at the UC on his desk. Nothing. Great. Now all they could do was wait.

A lull in the discussion? It seemed to be the case, as everyone waited upon the Oyadans to produce their proposal for the gridlock that faced this debate. But perhaps this was an excellent time for the Corporation to provide yet another piece of input into this conference – nothing that would raise any controversy, of course.

“Excuse me yet again…” the Chairwoman interjected, breaking the utter silence of the room. “…I would like to take this opportunity to bring forth two matters to the table. First, since I have not done so previously, I wish to echo the stance of the representatives of the Resi Corporation in saying that Northrop-Grumman is prepared to accept the terms of this charter and is willing to join into the Concordat of Phoenix at this time.

“Secondly, an offering to those who will join the Concordat.” She smiled warmly upon those eyes who were focused upon her. “The Corporation shall waive all tolls upon those vessels passing through our interstellar gate network. Civilian to military…yachts to cargo freighters to battleships…any allied vessel passing from one member state to another will have this waiver.

“Also, I would like to make the offer to construct more of the gates or even the smaller ones for interplanetary travel, for perhaps free depending upon the situation admittedly. Distances and raw materials, plus labor do provide binds in these situations… but I digress…The main idea is to have them tied together so that we may better access one another in the future, perhaps in emergencies or even trade. Of course, despite being a corporation and all, I would like to point out that our involvement here or any of our relations with others seated at this table are not dependent upon the reception of this offer.”

Hillcrest cleared his throat. “Thank you to the Grummian delegation for their most generous offer. As the Oyadan delegation has caused a slightly unexpected pause in the proceedings, may I suggest we… take the air, so to speak. There’s a decently stocked bar of alcoholic and non alcoholic drinks just down the corridor on the right with an excellent view of the external docking areas.”

He stretched slightly as he stood and bowed slightly to the other delegates, allowing most of them to leave first before he and Dryer followed.

Hillcrest stood at the bar and ordered himself a rum and coke to help his nerves, it seemed the Oyadans may have been a bad idea to invite, but at least he was snookering them into a corner for the present time. It was possible they’d have something valuable to add to the basics laid down, but he doubted it. Their attitude was far too closed to be of any discernable benefit, at least from his point of view for the time being.

He took a sip of his drink and sat down in one of the small cubby holes by the large, three foot thick glass and looked out into the blackness of space. Smaller maintenance shuttles flew by every so often, before the hulking shape of the Golden Bow slid past the window.

And kept sliding past.

The large, dull grey vessel was the largest ship in the present fleet, a genuine battleship for the revamped GRAN - Greater Aerospace Navy.

During it’s relative time of peace and isolation the Greater Kingdom had been building many things, one of them had been revamping most of it’s fleet and building. Building big, building sleek, building efficient.

The Bow was a reflection of all of that, it was a large, sharply defined ship, a large point of a bow on which was housed one of some ten Hellbore cannons, underneath, or what was presently it’s underneath was a bank of rocket bays, each ready to fire an swath of anti-ship missiles, on top was a short decking from which several Phantom Aerospace fighters, bought from the Scolopendrans as they retired it, the Midlonians had begun to utilize them en-mass as their aerial skirmish wings.

“Huh.” Hillcrest said simply as he took another sip, still watching the vessel slide past. “Didn’t realise it was that big.”

'Thank God for that,' Marzio thought to himself as he loosened his tie. The Oyadans had made progress difficult to say the least, with what more than a portion worthwhile of it spent arguing pointlessly and producing little but deadlock. One thing confused him most of all--if they'd been opposed to nearly every component why in God's name had they decided to attend, much less make themselves seem interested in future agreement?

One of many mysteries surely, and Marzio checked his timepiece for at least a vague understanding of how long he had to complete the next item on his itinery.

Checking in at the bar, the Austarian stood alone as he ordered a scotch 'on the rocks', making no small-talk with the seemingly conversationless waiter. Directly behind him was Mr. Hillcrest, Midlonia's senior representative to the conference and seemingly the most appropriate man to approach for what the Secretary of State intended to discuss. He had taken a seat in one of the booths and now seemed entirely engrossed in one of the vessels outside.

" Mr. Hillcrest, " Marzio cleared his throat as if to politely guarner the attention of his Midlonian counterpart. " I wish to congratulate you on a successful first part of this conference. Certainly, it had its... difficulties, but I believe much of the groundwork to be done already for those already of one mind and vision. "

The Austarian whipped out a small wooden box from his jacket pocket, " Do you care for a cigar to celebrate Mr. Ambassador? " ¹

OOC: ¹ I didn't get a chance question you properly as to whether the bar was smoking or non-smoking, but considering Marzio would have made a judgement based on whether anyone else was or not and appropriate signage, please consider that last part only applicable if it is. (Better to save him the embaressment!).

“Foreign Secretary, actually Mr Marzio, I guess my notoriety hasn‘t gotten around yet, but that‘s the bane of going isolationist for a while, thank you very much for this, however.” Hillcrest replied with a smile as he took the proffered cigar, bit the end and spat it into the ash tray on the table, lit it with a silver cigar lighter and took an appreciative puff. “Oh my, most excellent, where are these from? I‘ll have to get a box.” he said as he looked at the cigar and then took another couple of puffs, savouring the smoke.

He motioned for the Austar delegate to take a seat with himself and Dyer also, both facing the Bow, who was still idly sliding past the glass. “Remarkable, isn’t she? Pride of the fleet. They say we’re building three of them in total out at the major shipyards at Neptune. Not like we can keep something this big a secret, huh? God knows how we’ve budgeted for it, but hey. Not like we haven’t got room for it.” he gestured to the inky blackness outside of the window. “So, Mr Marzio.” he said as he sucked on the cigar again. “I take it this isn’t entirely a social call outside of the negotiations? What do you wish to talk about?”

" Foriegn Secretary- " Marzio gave a little smile as he corrected himself and nodded for out of respect for the Midlonian.

Handing over the cigar, he was pleased with the way it was recieved. He had feared, and perhaps for no reason really that Hillcrest might have been a non-smoker, causing him some embaressment of having to put the box back into his pocket, tuck it in firmly, etc etc.

" Err, " he paused to consider where he got them from. " I got them through my personal assistant actually. Her father owns a few acres out in some of the old 'protected' areas just a kilometre or so outside of the UCS border. Doesn't produce that much tobacco she seems to think, he runs it more of a hobby that helps pay off the mortgage and such--they're a little old fashioned in that regard. "

" In any case, I'll see if I can have a couple of boxes forwarded onto your office, " he grinned, taking a seat opposite the Midlonians.

Marzio listened to the man as he explained the Greater Kingdom's latest Military venture, or so which was revealed. From the detail and attention he paid to the vessles, he could tell that Hillcrest was particularly fasinated with the topic if not an ex-serviceman himself.

“ So, Mr Marzio. ” Hillcrest continued. “ I take it this isn’t entirely a social call outside of the negotiations? What do you wish to talk about? ”

" Largely a breath of fresh air in Austarian-Midlonian relations actually, " he replied, not bothering to correct him in that his actual surname was Scevola. " I think it can be said with some confidence that past-bygones have been already put behind us, particularly concerning our disagreement over the legitimacy of Zkazai governance, and the suspension of such and such contractual agreements. "

" Austarian-Midlonian relations have always been a particularly tricky thing to gague at times, but--here we are and there you are, " the Secretary of State gestured. " Enjoying the scent and taste of a good cigar. "

The Austarian's expression solidified, " I would like to take this opportunity as brief as we have to unfortunately make it to finally set the both of ourselves onto a more permanant course of greater partnership and community with the people and government of the Greater Kingdom of Midlonia. Obviously such and such details of any friendship agreement might be more difficult to nut out onto a napkin over a glass of scotch, but I'm sure that you get the jist of what I'm trying to convey. "

" But first things first, I would like to put an end to what seems to exist an economic apartheid between our two countries. Not that there's anything formal of course, but the level of investment between us is... nigh statistically impossible. I would like to make it clear that as of this day, Midlonian businesses and individuals are welcome, no, encouraged with great enthusiasm to conduct themselves within the Unione of Capitalizt States. "

" A seperated-ness has continued between our polities for far too long; a large portion of the rationale behind me attending this conference--the cause of building a number of other relationships aside of course, " Marzio took a large sip from the glass in front of him. " In any case, what do you think of my proposal? "

“I am sure, that the Economics ministry will be delighted to hear of a new market opening up and will indeed pass on the knowledge that we can start to encourage some of our companies there.” Hillcrest said with a smile as he took a sip of his drink.

“I also appreciate the gift of these excellent cigars. Shame he wasn’t interested in expanding the business all, I had been looking to invest into a smaller company for some time as an idle curiosity myself. I guess you could also call it a hobby?” he shrugged

Dyer cleared his throat, it seemed he wasn’t the only one who drifted off of track at times.

“Anyway, quite. Yes. Of course the best way to go about any such new economic encouragement would be to sign into the Free Trade Agreement piece of the Concordat. I’m sure we can potentially skip over the defensive pact agreement as the idea of the Concordat was always modular, call it associate or trade membership.” Hillcrest said with a smile and another sip of his drink followed by another puff on his excellent cigar. “It certainly keeps things streamlined, you know what some bureaucrats can be like.”

" Oh, " Marzio replied with eyebrowsed raised somewhat. " I wasn't aware that the option would have been available. "

" As it stands then, the Unione of Capitalizt States would certainly be interested in signing itself into the trading component of the Concordat of Pheonix. Our main concern was with the devoting of military and political resources to certain... entities we did not nessasarily support ideologically. "

" This is all subject of course to whether of not the structure that you propose is the same or similar to the one that other delegates have in mind. But what can you do, " the Austarian shrugged his shoulders. " Whatever will be will be, right? In one way or another, things tend to work themselves out. And if signing into a trade component of the Concordat doesn't turn out to be as the both of us thought or entirely possible, we can organize the bureacrats to work out something similar between our two states exclusively. "

"It's merely another option for members who may continue to remain highly skeptical of other parts of the treaty, especially as the defensive piece of the treaty keeps forces available." he reluctantly stubbed the cigar out.

"However, I will note a member of the Non-Democratic Alliance is also present, the Grummians seem enthusiastic over the idea of defence as they know of the stringent events that would have to happen before it was invoked. However, I will also note to you, that there is never any real specifics within the treaste that fully states what you could or should send in the defence of the other member states should they request it, in other words. That is also modular."

" Even still, " Marzio shrugged rather nonchalantly. " The powers that be prefer that we spend more time observing the effects of the Concordat within various power-circles, if any. I'm not saying that we don't support your organization, rather, that we'd rather wait and see. "

The Austarian took a drink of his scotch, " It seems that we're all politicians to one degree or another. "

He smiled.

“Indeed, I can very much agree to that statement…as unfortunate as it is,” came a comment from just outside where the three men were seated. “However it seems that it’s a necessary evil for this job, I do think.”

Standing before them was the Chairwoman, along with General Harris, both of whom had been strolling by this table to their own as that last comment had struck the elf’s ears. Naturally, being who she was and how her personality functioned, Siri always took the opportunity for a passing comment or two in these situations. This would be no different.

“Secretary of State Scevola.” She politely bowed her head upon saying his name. “It is certainly a pleasure to see you again.” Then did the same towards the Midlonians. “Foreign Secretary Hillcrest and Representative Dyer. I am pleased to meet you two also.”

A smile crept across her face as she glanced down to the alcoholic beverages, idly noting to herself that she lacked one entirely, as did her subordinate. “I do trust this conference is not proving to be more difficult than any of you have imagined. They have a tendency to become ever so mired when there are conflicts over the most basic of terms. Of course, such issues do work themselves out in the end entirely on their own…”

“Such a shame you haven’t decided to partake from the free bar Chairman.” Hillcrest tilted his head slightly to her, before glancing to the Austarian. “And apologies to you Mr Scevola, for getting your name wrong.”

He smiled slightly. “Oh, nothing of the sort. We just felt something to help us relax slightly from the present loggerheads as well as something social to do for a while, whilst I am sure Mr Pethbrigg is fuming at having to write up an entire new treastie for him to suggest in about…” he checked his watch. “Fifteen minutes or so.” He tilted his glass to the window, where the Golden Bow was still sliding past.

“That and watching the pleasant traffic skim past. Served on her predecessor when I did my NCS.” He glanced to them. “That’s National Citizenship Service. Help give the youth of today the responsibility and discipline of state and whatnot.”

Marzio turned to come face to face with the Northrop Chairwoman, " Now there's a familiar face. " He idley joked a little, " It's been some time, hasn't it? "

The Austarian thought it was was an especially funny remark given that it hadn't. (Not really a very funny joke in comparison to say, some of the more offensive jokes he had stored away--for a different crowd perhaps).

The Foriegn Secretary picked up the conversation from here where he, began to describe a bit of his past and the N.C.S.

" Why don't you join us? " the Secretary of State slid over, making room beside him. " I think we were just wrapping up? "

He looked over to Hillcrest for a bit of confirmation.

"Yes, yes. I'd suppose that matter is settled. Please do join us, shoot the breeze as they say, even if it is artificial." He smiled and moved around slightly, causing Dyer to mumble and mutter before he vanished to the bar to get a pint of ale instead.

"Are you sure you don't fancy anything at all from the bar? Like I said, completely free." Hillcrest gestured slightly to the bar before glancing at the small menu that was also on the table. "Huh, seems the menu for the dinner afterward is here also." He studied it before offering it to the others.

In some attempt to be polite, the Chairwoman gave a slight chuckle towards Marzio’s joke, purposefully overlooking the apparent mistake made by Hillcrest towards her name. It was something that had not needed to be pointed out after all, as such things were truly trivial

“Thank you, I would be delighted to do so” she replied to the Austarian’s offer of seating, then came another thank you from the general.

“Well…” Amanda glanced over towards the alcohol. “I’m technically on duty right now, so nothing alcoholic for myself….but maybe I’ll get something else.” She rose from her seat to go over to the bar to find herself something but paused just briefly. “Madam Chairwoman, would you like something while I’m up?”

“Black Russian, perhaps…or if not, then straight vodka,” she shrugged a bit, then glanced back over to the men. “Fortunately…or I can say unfortunately, it does not have that much of an effect on me, personally.”

" I must say then, " Marzio gave off a little chuckle. " You'll probably outdrink me in any competition-based drinking games. Alcohol isn't a particularly large part of Austarian culture, although I don't mind a scotch here or there. "

" If I am drinking, we manage these little pills that help with keeping a level head and such, but it sounds like you don't even need it! "

" You don't want to try one do you? " he offered Amanda one of his pills. " I certainly wouldn't be offended if you did. "

The Chairwoman chuckled to the comment. “Not at all. I believe there have been several times where I’ve polished off several bottles of wine, whiskey and others in diplomatic conferences, only to find that after all of that they just make me feel a little off, but nothing more.”

She shrugs some once more and takes a sip at the Black Russian which Amanda had brought back from the bar for her. “So I just drink for the taste, nothing more.”

Amanda slides into the seat beside the Chairwoman and shakes her head to the offer of pills from Marzio. “No thank you, sir. Firstly, there are still regulations I have to abide by while in uniform no matter what. And secondly, it seems a little early for alcohol at the moment…either for celebration or just the time, to be honest.”

"Early? Early!" Hillcrest spluttered before he consulted his watch. It was about 11:30am. "Oh... I guess it is. Ah well." he slugged the rest of his drink before waving to the barmaid, another operator robot, who promptly came over and replaced the drink for him.

"What's your name?" he asked, looking at the operator who was largely different from the other units there, she wore a green bartending apron and had shoulder-length blonde hair.

"Gemma dash 923." The robot replied.

"Ah, a Gemma model!" Hillcrest said with a smile to the blonde haired female robot that stood opposite them. "So miss 923. Member of the RFR Party, are you?"

"I am the party representative for this station, Mr Hillcrest."

Hillcrest nodded enthusiastically. "I've got your corner Miss 923, don't you worry about it. I'm pushing the Cabinet to table giving you the same legal responsibilities and rights as us flesh-bags." he smiled. "I am afraid it'll be little steps though, we don't want to culture-shock the populace. You know how it is."

The robot smiled. "I dislike that prejudiced term, sir. Though thank you Mr Hillcrest. May I convey your enthusiasm as a personal note at the next meeting?"

"You may indeed." He inclined his head and she bowed.

"Amazing." he said after she had gone. "We've had them barely 30 years and they've unionized, formed a pressure group and want the same rights. Truly amazing and I think they darn well deserve it. RFR is 'robots for rights' by the way." He then glanced at the Grummians. "Oh, sorry about that I forgot the whole 'uncanny valley' problem."

The robotic barmaid did not have that much of a negative effect upon the Grummians and definitely not to Amanda. She nodded politely in greeting and smiled when the robot had arrived at the table, listening intently to the conversation that happened between her and Hillcrest. She was generally more open minded towards these things than a great many Grummians, which was most likely attributed to being of the fourth generation of citizens of her nation. They had an overwhelming tendency to not be so mired in the constrained and fearful thinking of the previous ones – ones that had arisen out of the death and despair of the destruction of the capital city and the dreadful civil war that had followed thereafter. However, despite the rise of this new generation, it still had little power in Grummian politics for the time being and undoubtedly would continue as such for quite a few more years, until the older generation had begun to retire and pass on.

On the other hand, the Chairwoman seemed to be unenthusiastic concerning the matter and just sipped at her Black Russian, partially paying attention to the talking as she focused on her innermost thoughts. She had no positive or negative feelings towards robots at all and simply did not find it an issue to be concerned about. They existed and there was nothing to be done about it if she actually cared enough, so she left it at that.

“It’s alright, sir,” Amanda replied with a smile. “It doesn’t bother me all that much, to be frank. They seem to be thinking, acting, and truly living the same as you and I and I’m fine with that. They’re people and probably ought to have their own rights, but of course, there are quite a few people who are not inclined to this sort of thinking. A lot of Grummian are like that unfortunately, but these things take time to work though…I think eventually we will…”

The Chairwoman continued to drink and still made no emotion towards it. “We’ll see. We are trying to get some of our citizens accustomed to such things in Valacirca with help from the Caloris Basin, and it seems to be working thus far. But we have not begun to use some of the more advanced models with AI there yet…”

The message landed in Tuuya’s inbox at the local time of 04.49, having first passed through the hands of the PPS to the Foreign Secretary – whose primary response was “eh?” – and thence to his master. Both would meet in the morning, though the result would be predictable enough; short of simply walking out of the entire discussion (which struck Tuuya as not half bad as ideas went), they would need some proposals, worded artfully so as to make them acceptable to the foreigners while getting the point across.

It was only once he had set himself this challenge that Tuuya realised it was impossible, and so he elected to leave that to the Foreign Ministry and summarise the possibilities for the Prime Minister instead. This was, on the whole, much easier, since the Prime Minister did not need to be lied to on quite so many levels as the foreigners. Indeed, as he sat back and glanced over his roughly-thought but impeccably-written notes, he was shocked by their directness.

To his mind, they had three options available on each question. Firstly, they could reject both proposals, which would be tantamount to flouncing from the room. They could reject one of the two, which was flouncing from the room but only after they had grudgingly accepted a biscuit. Or they could accept both, which would be analogous to obediently buttoning their lips, in the knowledge that they could complain bitterly to their diaries afterwards. If they chose to reject either of them, their own proposals came into play. Here, Tuuya had to admit with some relief, he had rather abandoned the philosophy of clarity which he had adopted for the benefit of the PM. In no way or form was the phrase “the reciprocating of which by the parties of the second and third parts shall be taken felicitously, but shall not be construed as indicative of a definite proposition, nor any form of acceptance of existing propositions or suggestions made by personages relating to this office” clear, and Tuuya was rather proud of it. Especially since that was just in the preamble.

*****

“So our options are essentially threefold, as I have just summarised, Prime Minister. Foreign may, of course, present different choices, but I suspect they will be in broad agreement.” Tuuya’s voice contained just the slightest hint of smugness as he looked over the paper before them.

“And why’s that?” asked the Prime Minister cautiously.

Tuuya smiled indulgently. “Because they’re too confused to think any harder than I, I suspect.” He cleared his throat conspiratorially, as though only the two of them knew just how flustered the Foreign Ministry could become in times of crisis. Both of them knew this to be untrue; it was the subject of frequent jokes in the corridors of power. And cartoons syndicated throughout the press in the entire Empire, but they didn’t pay attention to such low humour.

“As I have said there, out proposals can take two forms: an outright rejection of all of their terms, or an apparent bending to their will which will, in fact, not oblige us to do anything. The latter is rather more difficult to construct, but we should be able to send such clauses to our diplomats on Shining Light within the next three hours, if you should give the order.

“Three hours.” The PM chuckled, a velveteen laugh laced with displeasure. “Is that how long I have to decide?”

“That depends how long the wine lasts on Shining Light, I suppose.” And at that, both men could laugh.

*****

Whilst all the mingling was going on, Pethbrigg had been doing some thinking of his own. Since none of the other delegates, least of all the official running the entire congress, could be expected to come anywhere near him – which Pethbrigg understood well enough, even if he also didn’t care for their company one little bit – he had plenty of solitude in which to ruminate on the problem. The problem was this: fundamentally, his entire people were in a state of deep and powerful paranoia.

When he looked out on the world, he knew, he was the manifestation of a certain view, handed down from father to son, generation after generation. The outsiders, he had always absorbed (never been told; it went without saying, in fact, in most Oyadan circles) were, fundamentally, dangerous. They were dangerous because they were different, and because they sought to remake the world in their own image, whatever that world might be; and that change, being out of their control, could only have detrimental effects in one way or another. Foreigners were dangerous because they were foreign; they were the unknown quantity that could ruin carefully-constructed edifices just by existing. He remembered, many moons ago, asking one of his older and more fearsome mentors precisely why this was the case. The response had been an exposition of some fifteen minutes’ almost uninterrupted length from the elder man, whose bristling moustache had become positively barbed as his temper fired to its full intensity. Pethbrigg had lost his recollection of most of the rant, as the man became so incensed he seemed to swell beyond his normal size, his face reddening with every passing moment. But he remembered one thing.

The older statesman had leaned forward, until his small eyes, set deep into his flabby yet slightly wizened face, were no more than a few inches from the young Pethbrigg’s, who could back no further into his chair to escape their dancing, blazing hatred – a hate directed not at the young student, nor at his naïveté, but at the subject of the conversation, that great, distant mass labelled simply “foreigners”.

“Do you know what the foreigners would do to us, my boy?” he had enquired, almost politely, reining in the simmering fury in his features. “Do you?” The man had leaned back and flung an arm skyward. “They would have us little more than slaves! Slaves to them! They would enter this world, that we built from the ground from nothing, the land of our fathers and grandfathers, and have it for their own!” The arm had danced madly in the soft lighting of the club where they were resident, surrounded by men in high-backed chairs who drank brandy like it was water and wine like other people drank cheap soft drinks.

“The foreigner,” the other had said, “desires nothing more, on seeing us, than to break us. Break anything that is inconvenient to him, break anything that stands in the way of his government or his companies. They don’t care,” the statesman had insisted, eyes narrowing still further until his pupils practically disappeared, tiny black dots sandwiched between rolls of fat around his ruddy cheeks. “They don’t feel any real personal antipathy to us, by and large; all they care about is using this planet, her people and her colonies for their own ends.” With an air of smugness, he had sat back and taken a sip of some nameless drink, about which Pethbrigg only recalled a fiery taste and an urge to be violently sick, then sleep for three days. “They are hellish, they are destroyers; that is why the people of this world hate the foreigner.”

Pethbrigg would never forget the old man’s rage as long as he might live. And yet he didn’t need to ask just why people thought so; he need only take a shuttle to any other world in the then-fledgling Empire, for the great ring of debris that orbited Oyada would take decades to disappear, gradually being whittled away by gravity and enterprising scrap merchants. And farther out into the system, around the huge gas giant Telhar, was the most permanent reminder of all: the sprawling, silent graveyard, divided with eerie neatness into pockets of different types of ships, organised by class, by age, by contamination and damage status, that was the final memorial to the futility of an age. Pethbrigg was far too young to remember the wars, of course; but he was not too young to remember youthful journeys out of the system, past the silent ranks of ships, nor the feeling of uncomprehending dismay as his mother and father pointed out the vessels his family had fought and died upon. They were vessels which had been instrumental in warding off the last round of attempted invaders from Oyada’s shores – though only just.
The treaty that had ended the Belt Wars had always been one of the subjects he had aced during his education, for he found it endlessly fascinating; it was a record on paper of two peoples’ attempts to grapple with each other and, against all odds, erect a framework for a comprehensive and lasting peace between them. In more youthful days, indeed, Pethbrigg had hoped – and how ruefully he smiled, on remembering that lost hope! – that he too might one day be the architect of some similar document. Over the years, as all youthful dreams must, the dream had passed; but worse, and far more disturbing in Pethbrigg’s musing mind, was the fact that even the desire to try had passed. He shook his head, his own features resembling those of his long-dead mentor in the inverse, and sighed deeply.

Zhilra glanced from her laptop. “Something on your mind, or is it these diabolical cheese nibbles?” The quip didn’t take, and she abandoned her work without much rancour. “Come on; it takes a fair bit to disturb you enough to ignore free food.” She smiled encouragingly, leaning back into her chair and stretching, cat-like, on its reasonably-padded and thoroughly shin-proof surface.

Pethbrigg rumbled a little, a spent volcano still trying to drum up enough enthusiasm for an eruption and managing little more than a puff. Then, abruptly, he turned to her. “Do you trust these foreigners?” he asked, his eyes sharp, burning brightly against the weary shadow overlaying his countenance.

Zhilra’s answer was immediate and predictable. “Nope,” she replied, almost brightly, looking absently at her fingernails. “Why, are you going native?”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” Zhilra looked upwards and frowned. “Well, apart from the going native bit. Why would I trust them? They’re hardly to be trusted by default.”

“And on what grounds do you base that assumption,” Pethbrigg enquired politely. Zhilra could always be relied on to flare up if her knowledge, or the basis of her views, were questioned; she was so proud of her education that she had had two duplicates of her degree certificate made, so that anyone visiting her home, her office or her own briefcase could see for themselves her qualification.

A slight flash of scarlet passed across Zhilra’s sculpted face, pausing longest in her eyes and the corners of her mouth, twitching ever so slightly into what might have become a snarl, were it not ruthlessly suppressed. “By the fact that they seem interested solely in what they can get out of us now; by the fact that foreign interest always amounts to commercial matters or means of making us defend them, first and foremost. And of course,” she added with a hint of arrogance, “by what’s left from the war. Pretty strong evidence that we can’t trust foreigners, I’d say. Just look at what it took to make the peace treaty work – mutual disarmament, months and months of negotiation, and to this day we hardly have cordial relations; and that was after we’d beaten them to a stalemate, after they’d failed to destroy us time and time again.” It was a textbook answer, an answer Pethbrigg himself had given time after time and had never, really, stopped to question.

“You see, I sometimes think… well, occasionally I think we got it the wrong way round,” Pethbrigg responded hesitatingly.

She snorted derisively. “What’s this, a Damascene conversion on the horizon?”

“Not quite. But sometimes I think we looked at the wrong end of the kaleidoscope, so to speak. What we seized on was how the wars began – mutual mistrust, the triumph of self-interest over self-restraint, misjudgement, ambition. We spent so long thinking about that, and about how close it brought us to subjugation, that we forgot the end result. We forgot that, in the end, both of us wanted and needed peace; and most importantly, we forgot that we brought permanent peace about through negotiation. Not by force of arms, not by isolating ourselves from the world and the antagonist, but by talking and thinking.”

He sighed deeply again, surprised and quietly pleased by the length and coherence of his impromptu speech. “We forgot that you can prepare for war while still pursuing peace, and that one can be bound by ties of… well, ties of whatever you want to call it, without being entangled. And now we’re all so accustomed to thinking it all the time that we never stop to think that maybe, not all foreigners are like some disease.”

There was silence between them for some moments, an awkward, pregnant silence, before Zhilra finally spoke, her voice softer than before and without its trace of slightly sardonic amusement.

“I think you could have a point there.” She looked uneasily from her superior – and in an odd, almost perverse way, her friend – to her computer and back, willing it to accept some message and distract her from the sudden strangeness of their chatter. “But while it’s true that we achieved peace by negotiation, we only achieved negotiation by having fought the enemy to a stand, to the point where victory was impossible for them, but both sides could still lose, as I understand it.” She played with her hair for a moment, and concluded her thoughts with what struck her as a happily poetic summary. “It showed that we can talk to foreigners, and that we can negotiate with them, but only if we have them on our own terms. If they can dictate the terms to us, what then?”

Pethbrigg nodded slowly, understanding, feeling the comforting confidence of the old ways in his mind like a welcome drug. “I doubt, somehow, that the results would have been so equitable, had we been the ones who risked all and lost…”

He was interrupted in his thoughts, abruptly, by the shrilling of Zhilra’s computer. The reply had arrived: their terms were set out. Zhilra turned the machine towards her boss, and they both read, their eyebrows rising and falling in near-simultaneous surprise.

“Well,” said Pethbrigg with a deep breath as he finished reading, “those’ll go down well.”

Considering that the proposed clauses consisted essentially of enough conditions to ensure that nobody would, in fact, be obliged to do anything, there was a reasonable possibility that Pethbrigg would be right. But he rather doubted it. He rested his head on one portly hand as Zhilra ambled off to locate one of the officials in charge and inform him that the Oyadan proposals were, at long last, ready. What she didn’t tell them was that she expected they would all scream like monkeys on an electric fence.

Meandering throughout the desolate corridors of the Shining Light with little intention of rushing back toward the conference room, the Chairwoman and the General quietly walked beside one another neither really wanting to say a word at this moment. The times still continued to be uneasy between the two with Siri constantly reaffirming her position of having no involvement in the death of Amanda’s grandfather, while the other refused to budge from her beliefs, always stating her hatred and condemnation toward anyone who abides by the dark teaching of the Sith Lords. Neither seemed to be willing to admit their faults concerning the matter, much less they were actually wrong about it all. Thus it had caused their lives to be strained around one another and resulted in their near avoidance. Though, in the times they absolutely had to be around the other, the conversation was light as possible and often involved the nature of the situation at hand, very rarely deviating from it.

“So,” the general stated matter-of-factly, finally breaking the silence between the two. “What do you think of everyone at the conference?”

Half-glancing over to her human subordinate then redirecting her attention ahead toward the end of the corridor, the Chairwoman spoke. “Such an odd question…,” she stated flatly. “Well…the Midlonians seem to be at the forefront of this conference, spearheading the movement towards integrating all members at the table into the alliance. Through their efforts, they’ve settled a majority of the questions and concerns dealing with it and probably have done the most to get this all to work. Of course, they also stand to benefit greatly from the free trade aspect by means of their numerous international conglomerates that stand ready to enter new markets and expand in existing ones due to the lowered barriers brought forth by this treaty. You could very well say the same for others, but I believe they are ones whom it will benefit the most and one cannot fault them for that, for they are doing so in the most equitable way possible, thankfully.

“The Austarians…they do appear to be taking a cautious approach to this all, making certain to not commit to anything before discovering how well this alliance will work internally and externally. I cannot blame them for such either as assuring that this will not conflict with their existing ties is paramount to acceptance. It is better to know these things and then join than to discover such problems later. Though, one must be careful for complacence in an observer status can be quite detrimental toward future associations because full members might consider that nation to be more of an outsider who wants the ties but not the commitment. I certainly hope that our friends will not take that route…”

“Now, for the Tarasovkans…their concerns over the terms of the alliance are certainly understandable in the grand scheme of things for I too share these thoughts. Far too much control over vital areas of the economy has been given up for the sake of free trade. Do we truly want someone who has no loyalty toward the Grummian or in this case, the Tarasovkan state to be handling their banking, utilities, and defense contractors. Certainly not. These monopolies must be maintained for the security of the nation and that of the economy. We have seen what has happened when devious corporations have taken control of banking systems then cut and ran…utter collapse of the economy… ”

She shook her head and continued onward after a brief pause. “And of course, the concerns over their forces perishing because of someone else’s mindless stupidity. It certainly is not our job to clean up the messes of another, but we are more than happy to provide defense to an ally who truly needs it and to assist in whatever way possible in the case of a calamity that is not their own fault. We have intervened in civil wars; we have helped in mass devastations and have taken in millions of refugees. But I do not feel that a nation careening towards destruction due to their own stupidity needs our help. Thankfully, the Tarasovkans understand this…

“Anyway….those from the Resi Corporation seem to be quite willing to accept these terms as they are with little complaint, which is understandable for they are ones who stand to profit greatly from the Concordat as their very nature is a capitalistic one. Expanding abroad is the most beneficial thing a corporation such as their own can do. And I foresee little problems coming from them in the future and I suspect that they will sign and be gone from this station without a further word.

“Now, I had figured that the Roanians would be the most difficult of ones in attendance and quite possibly the first ones to walk out because of the very nature of these terms. However, this appears to not be the case, and I am pleasantly surprised. Perhaps the reasons they have stayed are due to this desire for the return of the Concordat of old, perhaps this is a move towards more dialogue with other nations, or perhaps it is some other…hidden motivations that have not come to light. Even more so, the release from the quota system is a near revolutionary gesture by them and does reveal their commitment to this new alliance. I can be sure that they will be one of the dedicated members along with the Midlonians.

“And finally…the Oyadans…” the elven female sighed while saying their name. “Problematic, perhaps xenophobic, and surely the most stubborn…while I know little about them other than what I have seen here today, I am unsure if they will last for much longer here, much less provide anything in a proposition that will be agreeable to the rest of us. I feel that it will be bloated with terms that do nothing more than to protect their measly little state and corrupt the very goal of this alliance. I do hope that I am wrong and this is nothing more than simple worries, but I feel that it is not the case. I believe there is nothing more that we can offer them other than perhaps the status of an observer alongside the Austarians. It could very well be the best for them presently. They can keep an eye on the alliance and its members, along with the activities that we perform, and in the long term, we can come to a better understanding concerning them and vice versa. I believe that running into the matter with them is not the best way to handle this matter; I feel they are a people that are careful about what they enter into and do take long periods of time to open up to. We cannot change this, nor should we try to. The best we can do is attempt to be as accommodating as possible without compromising our beliefs…”

“Now, we shall see how this progresses, eh?”

Finally reaching the end of the lengthy corridor, the two Grummians made their way back through the doorway and into the conference room, eyeing each person in attendance as they took their respective seats. The Chairwoman herself settled back into her chair and peered across the table toward the Oyadan delegation, smiling brightly towards them. Perhaps it was genuine, perhaps it was not, only her thoughts truly knew.

“I trust you are ready to make your proposal, Mr. Pethbrigg?” she asked politely.

Hillcrest merely nodded to Siri O’Neil and the General as they returned to the conference room. He took a sip from the glass of iced water in front of him, letting it sit in his mouth for a moment, cleaning the alcohol away before swallowing.

Nearly everybody on board bar the damn Oyadans He thought to himself, looking towards the delegates who were sat around him in a semi-circle. The walls had been lit now in a cool blue and some very soft classical music was playing in the background. Odd because he hadn’t ordered it, but he supposed it may be more relaxing for the delegates involved. Also may be putting the delegates into the mood to wind up this part and maybe move on to the dinner.

“Well, I’m glad everyone is now back into the conference room and we may now continue. Mr Pethbrigg. You have some suggestions for the Oyadan guarantee of membership I take it?”

Pethbrigg returned the alien woman’s smile with his own, which was slightly spoilt by the fact it looked as if he’d been ordered to give it at gunpoint. In fact, it was less a smile than a muscular seizure, the sort used as a cruel plot device by particularly mediocre horror authors when the evil villain – in between binding interestingly-proportioned women to railways and stroking a somewhat obese white cat – says to his captive, gazing upon the corpse of a friend/loved one/pet, ”well, he died with a smile!” as he poured the contents of a conical flask, marked with a prominent skull and crossbones, into a decanter. Pethbrigg wasn’t that good at false sincerity with his face. With his mouth, he was excellent; but in order for it to remain effective, he was unfortunately obliged to remain completely poker-faced. In any event, he gave the damned alien his best I-really-don’t-like-you-but-I’m-being-diplomatic smile, and continued his stately progress towards the seat he’d vacated some time before.

Characteristically, Zhilra didn’t even bother with the seizure. She didn’t bother, in fact, even acknowledging the existence of O’Neill. Pethbrigg’s indecision was unusual, and that was unnerving; and when she was unnerved, Zhilra was poor company indeed. Her instinctive response was crablike; she preferred to erect, in her every action, a gigantic sign reading “keep clear at all times” around her person, and then to patrol the perimeter of her consciousness with a loaded shotgun, figuratively speaking - and occasionally not-so-figuratively, for that matter. So she stalked past, not caring one iota what the aliens thought of her and her country, and took her place on the opposite side of the room from Pethbrigg, casting an occasional scowl his way whenever she came back to his unrehearsed speech. Damnit, she kept thinking, why the hell did he have to choose now to turn into some sort of hippie? Couldn’t he just have stayed his usual self? Perhaps, she considered, it was the lack of alcohol. Pethbrigg hadn’t bee completely sober for more than six hours in a long time; in fact, she realised, since she’d begun working for him. Making a note to buy him a triple of something strong when the chance arose, Zhilra closed her computer with a long-suffering sigh and set her chin on her palms, to watch the next round unfold.

Pethbrigg rose magisterially to his feet, tottering a little as his impressive bulk shifted flabbily around, and increasingly certain that he should stop drinking forever. The hangover was past its worst, but he still felt as though a cat had used his mouth as a litter tray. Still, it had been worth it. Especially when that fellow insisted on buying bottles of champagne for everyone before entering into a stirring rendition of “When I was a Lad”.

“Indeed so, Mr. Hillcrest,” Pethbrigg responded smoothly, and with all the warmth of a Little Chef pancake. “Having had time to confer with my government, I am pleased to declare that they have reached a compromise position. While we would sooner have ourselves to ourselves, we accept that this alliance will, eventually, be to the benefit of all involved.” He cleared his throat as the lie passed smoothly from within its battered confines, and continued: “We therefore present the following proposals concerning the areas of contention.

First, regarding the matter of mutual defence: while the suggestion by Chairwoman O’Neill and the Tarasovkan delegation regarding this matter seems undeniably sound, and would contribute a great deal to our government’s peace of mind, we have one further clause to add. To whit, we should desire that the members be at liberty to remain free of obligations to mutual defence, should they judge that they lack sufficient forces to come to the aid of another member without compromising their own internal security, this to apply regardless of the threat to which a member may be subject. Naturally, it should be the prerogative of the other members of the alliance to enquire as to what forces are available and might be deployed; and, of course, this should not be taken as excusing a member from any obligation to sign up to the mutual defence pact.” This was, of course, an utter lie. Pethbrigg knew perfectly how it would work; in the event of an emergency which seemed even remotely risky, Oyadan assets would be kept well clear of the conflict. Anyone who enquired as to why would simply be met by the blank, rock-solid wall of “security concerns”; there was nothing to prevent them from asking, but they wouldn’t get an answer, come hell of high water. He kept this to himself, of course, and went on.

“Regarding the free trade agreement, we are in broad agreement with our colleagues in Tarasovka” – bloody foreigners that they are – “and consider their position acceptable. We, too, would reserve the right to decide which sectors of the Oyadan economy should remain free from interference, and which subject to protection; this may change over time, so naturally we should much desire to retain control over the entirety of this decision-making process. However, so as to ensure that the members are satisfied with the reasons for Oyadan protection measures, should they be enacted, we would be prepared to oblige the members to submit full reports to their alliance partners, for their consideration, should any such changes be made.” Having concluded the mumbo-jumbo, he smiled somewhat more warmly. “After all, our allies have the right to be told.” But not the right to know!

“I’m afraid the defence clause confuses the matter on my part, why precisely would the Oyadans be unable to assist in a crisis outside of being under constant attack themselves. It seems to me the piracy problem must be quite significant if you’re unable to send ships because of them to assist an ally. And being “optional” kind of negates the reasoning of the clause in the first place, even though it is already very ambiguous in the shape of requested aid.”

He held up a pen and clicked it at the same time clicking his tongue.

“I am also concerned that so many barriers are being established in what was the free trade clause agreement. The emphasis is on limited restrictions in order to ensure that no member is compromised completely, but conversely no one member takes many benefits for none of the trading benefits to others either.”

“Put flatly Mr Pethbrigg, I’m not sure why Oyada is here when most of it’s manoeuvrings so far seem to be in taking the additional protection that the alliance offers, yet not the additional benefits or responsibilities attached. One might call it very one-sided.”

"The optionality clause as expressed by the honourable representatives of Oyada is seen by me with a great deal of concern," Ithun Khat, the Taraskovyan Foreign Minister, stated as he eyed the delegation in question. "It is logically understood that any clause on mutual defence already contains room for maneuver in the case of an objective and explainable impediment to the providing of forces in any given threatre. However, any such impediment must be duly and objectively motivated.

"It is the very essence and the reason of existance of any instrument of collective security that military assistance of sufficient nature is provided to the allied state under agression. Without this, any instrument of collective security is simply void of sense and reason and, as such, does not exist outside the physical or digital support it has been written on."

As the two delegates finished the polite, formal protests, Zhilra leaned back a little in her chair, resting her head in her clasped hands and keeping her face set in a mask of calculated neutrality as her superior swayed gently alongside her like an errant blimp, heavy frame groaning slightly under the strain of remaining upright and stiffly formal for any length of time beyond that necessary to bellow imprecations at some half-visible delegate, or issue a more peaceful (and decidedly rarer) concurring nod of his round, hairless head. As she stared at the vaulted ceiling, Zhilra couldn’t help but notice a small fly, gently buzzing its way, aimless and yet with great purpose, around the top of the chamber, searching for an escape which its instincts told it was necessary, but which would lead to an instant and rather messy demise should it succeed. How appropriate, she thought, as it buzzed over towards her; our instinct, as a species, is to seek out companionship, and yet when we do it always seems to bring problems. Or maybe the old bugger’s right. Maybe it’s our instinct to shy away from other people, and that’s causing problems. How the hell do we know? And as she intently tracked the uninterested fly looping erratically above her head, Elana Zhilra wanted nothing more than to trade places with it. Life would be so much simpler without other people; but failing that, how much more straightforward could it be if you simply had nothing to do with them?

Beside her, Pethbrigg took in the veiled insult from Hillcrest (who he would very much have liked to beat savagely to death with his own self of self-satisfaction) with equanimity. Hillcrest was a loathsome little man, whose boundless arrogance and perfidy were hard at work, but he did have a point; Pethbrigg, being far from foolish, had seen that point in the distance some time before, and was now ready to counter it. His smile growing a little in warmth – in much the same manner as a melting snowflake – he took up the floor again, bestowing his bulky magnanimity on the Taraskovyan.

“Indeed; that is all my government seeks; the proposal made is quite clear in its expression. It is for the member governments to judge whether such an objective and quantified reason for non-involvement exists, is it not? And I trust that all of you understand the difficulties, of security and of what the ignorant would refer to as bureaucracy, inherent in providing comprehensive and complete copies of highly sensitive information during difficult times.” His kindness duly given, he rounded on the supercilious Dyer with a toothed half-smile. “However, given the consistently unhelpful and, in fact, rather irritating attitude exhibited by some in the discussion thus far, perhaps I would be assuming wrongly of some. I draw your attention, again, to the proposal given by our counterparts in Taraskovya with regard to the free trade agreement of the Alliance, and ask what, precisely, it is that you object to so strongly in our essentially identical proposition, Mr. Hillcrest, given the apparent lack of objection to the already tabled proposal.