NationStates Jolt Archive

A wizened old man with a grudge to hold. His daughter... married to one of them! His life's goal, to discredit them and cause them harm as a nationality.

In time, he joined them with the intent for great sabotage, followed their teeming masses into space during the great migrations, and spied hard to learn what he could from the inside about the commie military machine he knew had to exist, lurking in the darkness to convert all of the solar system to their commie pinko liberal bleeding heart namby pamby hippy "tolerant" left wing ways. He'd show them. He'd show them all. He'd show the world, the whole system! After years of long work, he had found the evidence, learned scant knowledge from the more insular colonists, enough to rip the veil of secrecy from their fleet to the harsh light of the system, which would then unite and destroy it.

He handed the envelopes, doubly sealed, to the pilot, who'd agreed to take them on as a favor and pass them on to someone else who might be able to pass them to their recipients. Like a real mail service or some such, the old man hoped. Hopefully the letters would arrive at their intended destinations. He'd had to guess some, but hopefully writing to "Central Intelligence Agency, Titan Office," "Drone #4 or Current Resident, Zero One, Sixth Street of Seventh City," "Barrayar Relations Department, Cetaganda," "John Smith, Whoville, Whatsthatplace, Jupiter," "John Smith, Danville, Ganymede," "John Smith, c/o Spymasters Inc, Capital City, Neptune," and other such would alert someone in position to do something about it. He had set up a PO box and everything for them to write back to, and hopefully he'd be able to get to it without the commie pinkos getting to him.

The Letter of Brian the Betrayer. (Introduction) I may write a couple more sections. This is intended for more in-System but futuretech types. You know who you are.
At great risk to life and limb, and years of hard work infiltrating their communes and colonies, I have at last discovered the True Nature of the Fleet of the Tahar Joblissan colonists, and now attempt to communicate this to You whom it must Concern Greatly. It is a deadly Fleet indeed, and at least some of the Vessels it Contains cannot be but purely Military in application. They have many Vessels which claim to be of Scientific, Recreational, or Habitational of purpose, but betimes these be often Armed to the Teeth as well.

First among the unabashedly aggressive military Vessels is without any Doubt the "TJF-9," or "TJS-1," as I shall call it, for it is their first and appears their most common vessel. From nosetip to the end of its tail, it measures slightly less than 9 meters in length according to the Specifications I have managed to see, and is armed with pod weapons, much like a late 20th century missile fighter. I have seen some of these pods, and the largest of these measure nearly as long as the fighters themselves. Some seem conventional missiles, and others bear markings designating them ECM, Communications, Probe, Weapons, Decoy, or, most mysteriously, "CARGO." These are single man Craft, and their pilots are often referred to as fighter jocks by their fellow Tahar Joblissan Colonists; their clothing tends to conform to a common thread, and they frequently sport facial scars or tattoos, many closely similar to one another. The TJS-1 appears to burn methane for fuel, and uses solar power. The treehugging commie pinkos! My educated estimation, from spying upon them all these years, is that they may have a thousand of these dangerous fighters. They appear to have their origins on the island of old Tahar Joblis, which may itself have more.

These Fighters are carried by aircraft carriers of heretofore unimaginable size. I have seen with my own eyes great hulks fully hundreds of meters long that play host to these fighters. Careful optical estimates revealed one such carrier craft to be 400 meters long and roughly 80 meters wide, being mainly an oblong ellipsoid covered with hatches and blisters; I met no less than a dozen, and counted at least twice that number more who wore similar outfits, who hailed from that craft claiming to be the pilots of such craft. I hazard to guess two to three times that number aboard, for I only saw members of a single shift of the crew cycle through to visit station, and I have spied as many as three different members of this class at a great Congregation of Vessels; eavesdropping upon an crew member of one such, I heard him speak of a Vessel he dubbed his own posts' "sixth sister of a kind," and how she would, upon completion, have none of the little mistakes they made with the first five. This was eleven months past at the time of writing this, so I feel safe in assuming that the core of their fleet is six supercarriers of this type.

There is a round ball craft that I have seen. It is also a single man craft; a sphere some 5m wide, it must have military application. This TJS-2 is rare and appears native to the colonists. Odd protrusions lead me to believe it carries many concealed mass drivers and laser cannons. I have seen them deploy large parachute-things, which may serve as masking screens for larger vessels when set together in large numbers.

There is a light fighter or a courier, known as "Mongoose" after an aerial craft. It is light, and I have seen it often. Should all such be assembled as part of a great fleet, they may have as much as half the effect that the more enigmatic TJS-1, this TJS-3 is publicly visible, but never no more than a handful at once. They are commonly seen singly, running "small cargos." Information, in other words. These Mongeese are the core of their intelligence and their secure communications. They must use these as couriers for their secure communications; in order for them to play such a role, there must be hundreds - if not thousands - of them. If there are millions of them out there, in settlements of thousands, and each settlement has an average of one courier on hand for emergencies, thousands seems reasonable. Although lightly armed with a pair of mass drivers and a pair of pulse lasers, they, too, can carry external payloads, and may add substantially to the wall of battle when the commies come for you all at once.

The commies have infiltrated the entire system. I've heard them talking about friends and relatives in and around everywhere from Titan to Earth to the Asteroid Belt to the Kuiper Belt to "Near Sol Stations," and others live elsewhere. They seem to conduct their system fleet excersizes well above or below the ecliptic, where they may escape notice.

A "Cruiser" class dubbed the Seventeen Month Mayoral Term Limit appears to be a gunnery ship designed for point on attack and direct fire. With so high a crew as 100 for a 120m vessel, I suspect they intend to hole, board, and capture enemy vessels.
Maximum Dimension (Length): 120.5m
Operating Crew: 100
I also found a document relating to a "Destroyer" class referred to as the class of "Eighty Seven Yards of Doom," a clearly militaristic vessel whose primary purpose appears to be hunting down dissenters. The manifest officially listed the ship's mission as "Secure Ballot Verification for Recounts," but this thin fiction is hardly convincing. Who would assign a destroyer to ballot verification? No sane government would, which is why the crazy commie pinkos must really mean hunting down dissenters... through their dissenting ballots. "Recount" security indeed. Eighty seven yards must refer to the length of the vessel, which would place it on a smaller scale than the "Cruiser" mentioned above.

Curiously enough, I encountered a patrolling Vessel, whose captain laughingly referred to his vessel as "a nice wee lass." I was trying to track down this "eighty seven yard" vessel for further investigation. He told me in no uncertain terms that I was heading the wrong direction to find this "destroyer," which convinced me I was on the right track. Unfortunately, the destroyer must have sensed my shuttle's approach, as slow as I was, and I spent the next six weeks without encountering a single soul. I spent this time poring over images of the Vessel that had sent ahead warning to the Destroyer; spindly and needle shaped, it was roughly 150m long, and the main body 10m wide, with large ominous pods amidships. This Vessel, which I will dub "Cruiser B," may have carried secondary craft or possibly mines in these ungainly pods, much as their fighters carry missiles as pods. They may well have been missile pods, designed to flood enemy defenses while the ship darted away, slender and fast. Cruiser B probably is intended for strike missions, and will be seen hammering undefended civilian population centers when the g****** pinko commies attack you all.

I mentioned my worries about Tahar Joblissan boarding crews earlier in the section. These worries seem greatly justified by the powered space exoskeletons I have seen. Some bring a man's height a head beyond his own, and all are terrifying of aspect. Some appear not humanoid at all, leading me to suspect that the cyborg shock troops are not all human in origin, but bioengineered warbeasts of some sort.

My deepest suspicion is that it is some sort of land-space-Octopus. I have heard that the Tahar Joblissans on Earth took great interest in experimentation with their national mascot, after all, but I have nothing to confirm these suspicions. But be warned: When the commie pinko cybercosmoctopi board through holes barely large enough for a tennis ball and slaughter the crews of your ships, be not surprised at all. Fight back. Pack anti-octopus weapons.

Going through mail was such a tiresome task, Gregor thinks to himself. Even with a minion (read: husband) to assist, and subsapient EIs to filter out the strangest things, there was still a great deal of things that required an imperial look-over.

From across the room, Tarvi asks, "Gregor, do we have a Barrayaran Relations Department?"

"Barrayar, Barrayar..." Gregor mutters. "Not for about twelve centuries. We conquered them long ago. We've got a nice little villa out there, remember?"

"Oh, yeah. Maybe that's why they forwarded this up to us. Read it, its odd."

Gregor reads over the message, and begins snickering half way through. By the time he finishes with the 'commie pinko cybercosmoctopi,' he's forced to toggle on his augments' muscular control to keep from falling over laughing.

"Oh, powers. I've got to meet this guy."

A few days later, a reply arrives.


Mr. Brian,

I am most pleased to hear of this information you have passed on to us. My military planners found it very interesting. I would like to extend an invitation to visit my home. I wish to show my gratitude, as well as to discuss what we may be able to do about these communists who seem to have gained control of your nation. We can arrange a safe and secret pickup and transport if you so desire.

Emperor Gregor da'Macintyre yos'Vetinari
Imperial Union of Cetaganda

More of the Letter:
Of course, the cybercosmoctopi are not the only unconventional weapon that probably lies in their arsenal. Just three months ago, while I was deep on my self assigned mission of trying to infiltrate one of their more mobile "communes" - roving child-kidnappers seeking out converts to brainwash at an early age into their communist ways, although I never found hard evidence of this, aside from the presence many children on board, far more than I would expect in a population that size (roughly 55% of the population of that commune appeared to be under 18, or at least under 20, terran years of age.)

The crew sighted a pirate; unable to escape it for some technical reason I did not understand in the slightest, they slowly moved away and sent an urgent message for help, but were spotted by the pirates, who closed in. The pirates, crewing what I understand to be a cheap knockoff of a ship referred to as a "Tiger," a cruiser some several hundreds of meters. They radioed the Tahar Joblissan ship, which engaged in repeated delay tactics, from threats to emotional diatribes about the children and absolute policies of not giving in to pirates as well as having nothing worth stealing on board.

Sheer lies, of course.

However, the pirate vessel was not dissuaded, and closed, coming into boarding distance shortly. Then a most curious thing happened.

Sevaral rings roughly a thousand feet across and studded with strange geometric nodules - six apiece - arrived on the scene at a high v, accompanied by a pair of smaller winged vessels. Swinging by, they frightened the larger ship off by their mere arrival on the scene. Cited by the captain is that the older vessel, poorly maintained by pirates and probably not fully functional, was not nearly as well suited for combat, yet the evident fear of the pirate (in their farewell address, an "Oh, ****," screamed into the microphone before they cut off) as it tore off running at maximum acceleration the other way rather than face a single childstealing ship and a couple of mysterious open rings.

Obviously, these rings are some sort of superweapon. By means of some force concentrated into their center - primarily from the nodules, I'd guess - they produce a superblast capable of shredding larger ships with ease. The production of this force may be too hazardous to risk building a solid vessel around it, explaining their open structure.

I suppose this conjecture may be excessive; perhaps they are simply nearly indestructible rings that encircle an enemy vessel and contract around it, crushing it to pieces while it is unable to fire back upon its own hull.

Mr. Brian,

I am most pleased to hear of this information you have passed on to us. My military planners found it very interesting. I would like to extend an invitation to visit my home. I wish to show my gratitude, as well as to discuss what we may be able to do about these communists who seem to have gained control of your nation. We can arrange a safe and secret pickup and transport if you so desire.

Emperor Gregor da'Macintyre yos'Vetinari
Imperial Union of Cetaganda

"Brian," arriving at the asteroid station post office wearing a blond wig and a hockey mask, picked up his mail, hobbling slightly.

Mail, at this address? Wonder of wonders, I got to an intelligence agency! That, or the Tahar Joblissans are setting a trap for me. Time to move.

Fumbling with the letter as he bolted, he read it hurriedly, then a second time more carefully. "Emperor of Cetaganda?" He had trouble believing this. He penned a hurried reply.

I am glad to hear that my warnings have fallen upon ears that are not deaf. I would be glad to be able to get far away from the Tahar Joblissan menace and into the safety you can provide, but I am of course suspicious of security and identity, and desire material proof that you are indeed who you say you are. Send information for a pickup in this system, preferably a near Belt location, and any evidence to my new PO box of ___

I am glad to hear that my warnings have fallen upon ears that are not deaf. I would be glad to be able to get far away from the Tahar Joblissan menace and into the safety you can provide, but I am of course suspicious of security and identity, and desire material proof that you are indeed who you say you are. Send information for a pickup in this system, preferably a near Belt location, and any evidence to my new PO box of ___

"Hmmm. Paranoid a bit." With a few swift key strokes, a message was dispatched to the Second Fleet, the portion of the Cetagandan Space Service assigned to patrol the Belt.



Regretfully, there is little I can do to prove who I am. I have included a few things such as the Imperial seal on this paper and an encoded ident sequence in the paper itself, but obviously you can not verify that yourself. You can, however, send it on to the nearest Cetagandan embassy, consulate, or Belt station for verification from them. Furthermore, a patrol ship has been dispatched to wait at near <coordinates>, in the Belt as you suggested. You should be able to easily tell that it is not a Tahar Joblis craft.

Emperor Gregor Vetinari

Even as the letter makes its way through the postal system, a six hundred-meter Perimeter Action Sloop takes up position at the coordinates for the pickup.

Lady Serendis nos Fithurin, Prefect of Imperial Defense and Homeland Security for the Eternal Noldorin Empire of Menelmacar, also received a copy of the letter... she and several of her analysts looked it over carefully, before bringing it to Lady Sirithil, and much snickering was had all around at the highly entertaining vitriol.

When the laughter had died down, Serendis leaned against Sirithil's desk, and said, "But seriously, what do we do about this?"

"Well, aside from the fact that the vessels as described aren't all that much of a threat to us," Sirithil replied, leaning back in her chair. "There are some worrisome tendencies here. And we have allies to whom they could be a threat. Fortunately, Tahar Joblis has a long standing habit of keeping to itself, but if there's any truth to this fellow's claims, it's possible that habit could change. And we're still keeping an eye on them with this clone business."

"Right, milady... all right, I'll send this Brian a response, and I'll dispatch a ship from the pool, perhaps a frigate, to pick him up. He could be in danger."

"Send a cruiser," Sirithil replied. "A frigate isn't any stealthier, and the cruiser has more powerful sensors and defenses."

"Yes, milady... I think the Din-sûl has rotated back to the pool recently. They're a good ship."

"All right then! The Din-sûl it is."

Greetings, Brian, on behalf of the Lady Sirithil nos Fëanor and the Eternal Noldorin Empire of Menelmacar. It was with great interest that we received your communications regarding hidden Tahar Joblissan military activities. As is generally accepted among civilized realms, this apparent policy of hiding military assets behind innocent civilians is unacceptable.

We are sending a cruiser, the MIS Din-sûl, to pick you up; by the time you receive this letter, they will be waiting at [coordinates]. Send a tightbeam communication to that location to inform them of your location; you will find the ship is quite unmistakeably Menelmacari.

We hope to hear from you soon.

~Lady Serendis nos Fithurin
Prefect of Imperial Defense and Homeland Security
Eternal Noldorin Empire of Menelmacar

Regretfully, there is little I can do to prove who I am. I have included a few things such as the Imperial seal on this paper and an encoded ident sequence in the paper itself, but obviously you can not verify that yourself. You can, however, send it on to the nearest Cetagandan embassy, consulate, or Belt station for verification from them. Furthermore, a patrol ship has been dispatched to wait at near <coordinates>, in the Belt as you suggested. You should be able to easily tell that it is not a Tahar Joblis craft.

Emperor Gregor Vetinari

Brian read this letter furtively, glancing over his shoulder even though he was alone. He had no way of knowing if this was accurate, nor was he really sure where the nearest Cetagandan consulate was. He could ask, but they might be watching him.

Thanks to the vagaries of postal delivery and his furtive habits, the ship was waiting a full two days before he actually read the missive.

It shouldn't be too hard to look up, though, if he could get on an anonymous terminal. He pocketed a fresh pair of gloves and set off back to the previous station, making sure to don a fresh disguise before boarding the shuttle over. This small place didn't seem to have a suitably private terminal, but his previous home had.

They might recognize him otherwise. The trip over was short; he hadn't gone far, just habitually hopped station to make sure nobody was following him. He uneasily wandered over to the public library/post office/newsstand of the station, hoping there wouldn't be anybody around in the back section with the informational terminals.

The lady at the counter smiled and waved. He looks so ludicrous, like a child playing dress-up. I suppose there's no accounting for taste.

"You have mail again," she informed him in a spritely fashion.

He blankly in another direction. His daily visits, never quite the same, had involved lurking around the lobby, rushing to his box when nobody seemed to be looking, putting gum on the camera, and most memorably running a bioscanner on the envelope the one time he'd actually gotten any mail.

"Come on, you make such a fuss about it..." She turned around and went back to filing outgoing mail.

Curious, but dreading that Tahar Joblissan counterespionage was at work, he eventually made his way to his PO box and retrieved its contents.

Greetings, Brian, on behalf of the Lady Sirithil nos Fëanor and the Eternal Noldorin Empire of Menelmacar. It was with great interest that we received your communications regarding hidden Tahar Joblissan military activities. As is generally accepted among civilized realms, this apparent policy of hiding military assets behind innocent civilians is unacceptable.

We are sending a cruiser, the MIS Din-sûl, to pick you up; by the time you receive this letter, they will be waiting at [coordinates]. Send a tightbeam communication to that location to inform them of your location; you will find the ship is quite unmistakeably Menelmacari.

We hope to hear from you soon.

~Lady Serendis nos Fithurin
Prefect of Imperial Defense and Homeland Security
Eternal Noldorin Empire of Menelmacar

He almost dropped the missive, and then stuffed it in his jacket, breathing deeply to clear his head. Checking to make sure the terminal was clear, he ran a quick search for Cetagandan Belt Stations, worrying over the problem in his mind. Which one of these should I trust, and which one is a Tahar Joblissan trap? There's bound to be a Tahar Joblissan trap in this, it can't be this easy...

I can double check the first one, this "Emperor." That I can do.

He scurried out of the information center with more haste than dignity, the coordinates of the nearest Cetagandan Belt station burning in his mind. He headed for the nearest emergency exit, hoping that an older propelled lifepod was at the end.

He was in luck. An alarm went off as he hit the ejection button, manually setting the course to bring him to a very special rock.

A rock with a cheap solar one man rider stuck to it. He'd gotten his hands on it years earlier when one of the commie pinko bastards had decided to replace it with one of the newer Space Mongeese and traded it down to him as a return favor for helping him salvage a decades-old derelict. He'd gotten a good close look at the Mongoose, taking close note of the four cannons - two laser, and two mass driver.

Two hours later, he was riding for the nearest Belt base of Cetaganda. Four more hours of low acceleration later, he was radioing ahead to them to make sure they didn't shoot at him. He didn't know the transmitter was broken, though, so his arrival was unannounced as he fretted over the lack of response to his hails and the dilemma of the two offers. And the curious matter of the coordinates. His suspicions were driving him wild.

He carefully patted the weapon in the small of his back. It gave him comfort.

Yawning a bit, a technician in Dollen Station Traffic Control reaches to toggle his comms. "Attention, approaching craft. This is Dollen Traffic Control. Please transmit identification, and standby to recieve approach instructions. You are currently number six in approach. Please confirm receipt." The message and a set of maneuvers go out over several radio frequencies, as well as a low-powered laser beam.

Yawning a bit, a technician in Dollen Station Traffic Control reaches to toggle his comms. "Attention, approaching craft. This is Dollen Traffic Control. Please transmit identification, and standby to recieve approach instructions. You are currently number six in approach. Please confirm receipt." The message and a set of maneuvers go out over several radio frequencies, as well as a low-powered laser beam.

"Dollen traffic control, this is visitor number six, confirming your radio message and waiting for instructions," he said into his [dead] microphone as he decelerated as hard as possible trying to fit into the holding pattern, and not succeeding very well with his low-powered craft. Batteries were close to dead from him rushing over as quickly as he could, and he had a leaking power conduit somewhere, which was draining off energy almost as fast as the aging solar panels were charging it up.

"Dollen traffic control, this is visitor number six, confirming your radio message and waiting for instructions," he said into his [dead] microphone as he decelerated as hard as possible trying to fit into the holding pattern, and not succeeding very well with his low-powered craft. Batteries were close to dead from him rushing over as quickly as he could, and he had a leaking power conduit somewhere, which was draining off energy almost as fast as the aging solar panels were charging it up.

In the control center, the tech frowns and studies his display. The ship was obviously attempting to hold the proper approach trajectory, but hadn't replied. "Attention unidentified craft. We have not recieved a reply, you are radiating an unusually high amount of heat and radiation, and you appear to be having difficulty manuevering. Do you require assitance?" As the message goes out, the tech summons his supervisor and alerts flight control of the possible need to dispatch a tug.

In the control center, the tech frowns and studies his display. The ship was obviously attempting to hold the proper approach trajectory, but hadn't replied. "Attention unidentified craft. We have not recieved a reply, you are radiating an unusually high amount of heat and radiation, and you appear to be having difficulty manuevering. Do you require assitance?" As the message goes out, the tech summons his supervisor and alerts flight control of the possible need to dispatch a tug.

"I think I have it under control, but some assistance would be nice. I have all the acceleration of a stuck pig, and that'll probably drop to zero once I'm in your shadow." He tapped the [dead] microphone off and squeezed on the controls, silently pleading with the machine to somehow come up with a better acceleration as he began his overshoot of the holding pattern. It was more the near complete lack of power [OOC: and subsequent heat, radiation, etc that would be produced therefrom] that was the real problem.

He would not raise a fuss upon being picked up.

"I think I have it under control, but some assistance would be nice. I have all the acceleration of a stuck pig, and that'll probably drop to zero once I'm in your shadow." He tapped the [dead] microphone off and squeezed on the controls, silently pleading with the machine to somehow come up with a better acceleration as he began his overshoot of the holding pattern. It was more the near complete lack of power [OOC: and subsequent heat, radiation, etc that would be produced therefrom] that was the real problem.

He would not raise a fuss upon being picked up.


"Well, so much for going off duty," mutters the tech, as he hits a red button. "Attention, this is Tech Jullene declaring an emergency. Incoming craft, designated C-12 on tracking, appears to be undergoing power failure and loss of manuerving. Request immediate dispatch of a tow."

As the Mongoose drifts closer to the former asteroid, a tug ship detaches from the docking complex sticking out from one end. It carefully approaches the small craft, then gently attaches to it using powerful tractor-pressor beams. It then fires its main drive, careful to keep acceleations low.

Shortly, the two craft ease into a slip, at which point the tug detaches and pulls away. Physical clamps are attached, and a zero-g gangway extends to attach to an airlock. At the stationside end, several people wait just past a large red strip that marks the beginning of the gravity zone.

A young page enters the long hall that contains the throne of the Protector of the Borderlands,
"Eadwacer Cyng, we have received a missive for Kublai Kahn, director of Pleasure Dome Construction, Freod City. The postmaster examined the letter and felt that you should read it."

Se þeoden takes the letter and reads it. "This is very interesting. Though I doubt we are at any risk, perhaps we can use this to our advantage. Far too often we depend on the other Eorlas Yutes for our information. This time we shall have some to give to them."

He re-reads the letter, "And, if nothing else, he shall prove amusing."


Mine freond,

The letter you have sent concerns us greatly and we wish to learn more. This letter will arrive with two (discrete) secgas of my own for your protection and to escort you to Þa Mearclandas Freodes.

Eadwacer Cyng


The letter is sealed with wax and taken away by Heremund and Coelmund, two young warriors in civilian wear normal for Tahar Joblis, but with cross-bows hidden beneath their clothes.

At the rendezvous point, MIS Din-sûl hung motionless... the belt extended like, well, a belt across the sky, not far off, and sunlight reflecting off the tumbling asteroids occasionally flashed across the anti-sunward side of the Menelmacari cruiser. Six hundred fifty meters of void black and blood red and sun gold, a sleek and deadly shape to the hull, every bit of her a work of art, built by a people for whom everything is a work of art, she was everything a Tahar Joblissan ship was not.

"Anything?"

"Not yet."

"Damn. TJ's probably caught the bastard by now anyway."

Din-sûl waited.

"Well, so much for going off duty," mutters the tech, as he hits a red button. "Attention, this is Tech Jullene declaring an emergency. Incoming craft, designated C-12 on tracking, appears to be undergoing power failure and loss of manuerving. Request immediate dispatch of a tow."

As the Mongoose drifts closer to the former asteroid, a tug ship detaches from the docking complex sticking out from one end. It carefully approaches the small craft, then gently attaches to it using powerful tractor-pressor beams. It then fires its main drive, careful to keep acceleations low.

Shortly, the two craft ease into a slip, at which point the tug detaches and pulls away. Physical clamps are attached, and a zero-g gangway extends to attach to an airlock. At the stationside end, several people wait just past a large red strip that marks the beginning of the gravity zone.

"Brian" wasted no time debarking, stumbling for a minute in the sudden gravity before demanding to be taken to their leader, making enigmatic shushing motions from behind black sunglasses whenever they pressed him for his name. The dark brown trenchcoat and flourescent purple wig completed his disguise as the insistent stranger tried to get the Imperial note verified and at the same time make certain that none of the apparent Cetagandans were, in fact, Tahar Joblissan agents.

While his looks and his actions raised a few eyebrows, the man is lead by a security officer across the station and into a set of offices. There, the officer takes the letter and asks "Brian" to wait for a few minutes in a reception room. After a short period, "Brian" is ushered through a door into a large office, where he is shown a seat across a desk from a middle-aged man.

"Good mainday. I am Duke Edward Dollen, stationmaster," the man says. "I must say, this is most unusual. We've analysed the paper as you asked, and have uncovered a molecular patterning code imbedded in it. It contains a message from His Majesty Gregor V requesting and requiring Cetagandan stations and outposts to give the bearer, one 'Brian,' verification of this letter's authenticity, and, for that matter, any assistance he may need."

The duke folds his hands on his desk, and continues in a grumpy tone, "I neither know nor care what this is about. I like my station quiet and free of any intreague. So, I am offering to have my technicians repair your vessel and allow you to get on with whatever it is that's caught the Emperor's eye."

----

Meanwhile, a few million kilometers away, the patrol ship Aarau comes to a relative halt at the arranged coordinates. The ship's outer paint layer was currently set for grey with the blue and red trim, the parade colors of the Second Fleet. The six hundred meter ship also had Cetagandan drakon insignia on each of its three 'wings.' Inside, a few eyebrows were raised at the MIDF cruiser present about fifty thousand kilometers sunward.

Ciryatári Elwen peered at the holo. "There's Cetagandans out there," she says.

"Yes, milady," replied her sensor officer, "They just arrived..."

"Hmm. They've come to a stop. Far too close to be coincidental. I wonder... open a channel."

[MIDF QEC PROTOCOL ENGAGED]
x - MIDF Gravitic Cruiser Din-sûl
o - Cetagandan Patrol Ship Aarau

Hail and well-met, Aarau... this may seem like something of an odd question. Or perhaps it does not. But perchance were you sent here to meet with someone?

~Ciryatári Elwen nos Fingolfin, MIS Din-sûl

[MIDF QEC PROTOCOL TERMINATED]

"Good mainday. I am Duke Edward Dollen, stationmaster," the man says. "I must say, this is most unusual. We've analysed the paper as you asked, and have uncovered a molecular patterning code imbedded in it. It contains a message from His Majesty Gregor V requesting and requiring Cetagandan stations and outposts to give the bearer, one 'Brian,' verification of this letter's authenticity, and, for that matter, any assistance he may need."

The duke folds his hands on his desk, and continues in a grumpy tone, "I neither know nor care what this is about. I like my station quiet and free of any intreague. So, I am offering to have my technicians repair your vessel and allow you to get on with whatever it is that's caught the Emperor's eye."

Any assistance I need? Well, that must indeed be legitimate. I should check his reactions. "Repaired, and I'm afraid the engine may need a bit of an upgrade. I won't be requiring an outright replacement with a fast courier, but it has been too slow for my purposes, even if they probably don't know about this vessel." Here, he waved his hand ambiguously out at the stars and then at the well aged vessel sitting on the hangar floor. The Duke's reaction to the notion of "outright replacement" of the vessel should tell him just how far "any assistance" really extended, grumpy Duke or not.

A short time later and with a smartly refurbished and repaired vessel, he was exiting the station, to the relief of any Cetagandans who found his constant glances over his shoulder, ridiculous disguises, and occasional muttering disturbing. He started to head towards the coordinates set forth by the Cetagandan missive, then recalled two things.

First, the strange coincidence of the coordinates. That second missive may well have been a Tahar Joblissan trap. Second...

"Oh, crap! I left my notes in the post office!" Well on in years and not trusting the pharmaceutical and medical innovations of the Tahar Joblissans, he forgot things every now and then, and it just now occured to him that he'd placed his handy notebook in his PO box while he was scanning the Menelmacari missive to see if it was a bomb or tailored bioweapon, and hadn't taken in back out.

With any luck, nobody would've disturbed it, but this meant braving the post office again. On the other hand, that notebook had a coded section containing all his notes on the communist plot to take over the solar system. He had to retrieve it.

He turned, enjoying the higher acceleration of the craft as he darted back to the Tahar Joblissan station, docking at the nearest exit to the post office. Carefully, he donned a disguise he was certain he hadn't worn in there before, and quickly tromped down to the post office. Shouldering past the two warriors wearing a large flowing purple robe, replete with deep embroidered hood*, he darted towards his PO box. Yanking it open, he grabbed the notebook and practically bolted for the exit, moving as quickly as his aging and poorly conditioned legs would allow him to scurry.

Gotta get out of here before they spot me.

*Which, translated into modern English, could say "Don't Tread On Me" on the left side and "I Know Your Secrets" on the other side, but "Brian" was not familiar with ancient languages, and had, as a matter of fact, mistaken the old-style script, thinking it a meaningless pattern. The hem, meanwhile, proclaimed him as fearless as a pair of mice who've broken into a cathouse and drunk all the mead.

Coincidentally, roughly a light second away from the two vessels, a vessel roughly 2 miles long passed southwards from north of the ecliptic. Passing through at a leisurely pace and watching its surroundings intently, the crew of the methane tanker noticed the two six hundred odd meter vessels sitting and waiting.

"I hope those aren't pirates," the captain said, noticing the classes resolve as Military.

The two hundred meter wide Tahar Joblissan Colonist flag on the side, green and black with a blue border and small blue center square (and some white spots, too), would be nearly impossible for the cruiser and sloop to avoid noticing if they cared to visually inspect the tanker.

"Well, shit, this isn't good, milady," the first officer commented, pointing at the holo. "If Brian shows up, he's going to panic and think we're working with Tahar Joblis."

They watched the huge tanker ship continue to pass 'downwards' through the ecliptic.

"Tanker-boy had best move along," Elwen mused. "If we really had to, we could core them like an apple, probably before they could squeeze off a message, but I'm not about to risk starting a war.... try to extend sensor range as far as you can, and be ready to get a tightbeam off quickly to warn Brian off if he shows while the TJ is still in range."

The two soldiers step in front of Brian as he tries to leave the post office.

One turns to him and says, "We have a message to deliver to you, but this is not the place. Far too public and someone may notice us. Let us retire to a more private location. Do not worry about enemy agents, we have been dispatched to protect you."

He slips the letter into Brian's hand and then steps aside for him to continue. The other soldier, meanwhile, is scanning his surroundings for any signs of enemies while muttering something that (if translated into modern English) would say, "I don't understand this sneaking around BS. This is not the honorable way to do things. We should simply march in, take him with us, and ask him quesions later."

The two soldiers step in front of Brian as he tries to leave the post office.

One turns to him and says, "We have a message to deliver to you, but this is not the place. Far too public and someone may notice us. Let us retire to a more private location. Do not worry about enemy agents, we have been dispatched to protect you."

He slips the letter into Brian's hand and then steps aside for him to continue. The other soldier, meanwhile, is scanning his surroundings for any signs of enemies while muttering something that (if translated into modern English) would say, "I don't understand this sneaking around BS. This is not the honorable way to do things. We should simply march in, take him with us, and ask him quesions later."

"Brian" was shocked when they stopped him, stunned in his tracks. Oh no! Enemy agents! His mouth gaped in surprise, and as they stepped aside, he staggered a few steps forward wordlessly, collapsing to the ground as fresh blood stopped reaching his brain. His lips would turn blue momentarily, the letter crumpled in his unconscious hand. Decades of constant stress and mistrust for Tahar Joblissan medicine had all piled together with stress, shock, and fear. The brown wig fell off, revealing wispy gray and white hair over a mostly bald head.

The woman behind the desk gaped momentarily, and wasted no time in rushing out. "Are you all right?" she called as she darted out towards the trio, every intention of calling for emergency medical services in her mind as soon as she was sure he wasn't going to just get up and dust himself off.

"Oh shit!" Coelmund looks at the scene before him but keeps silent despite the words coursing through his modlocan. He glances over at Heremund who shrugs.

"We can't just leave him here or else an enemy agent really will get him. I'll handle the crowd, you just get him out of here." Heremund turns to the woman behind the counter. "Do not worry, I'm a chirurgeon."

Meanwhile Coelmund leans down, checks Brian's pulse, and slings him over his shoulders and starts jogging off towards his ship.

{Realtime QE Comms; Standard TYCS Field Security Protocols}
x ICV Aarau (PAS; 1 Perimeter Flot, 2nd Fleet, CSS)
o MIS Din-sûl (MIDFGravCru; Menelmacari Imperial Defense Force)

Hail, Ciryatári Elwen. Well, I must say that I can neither confirm nor deny being present to pick up a potential source of intelligence, possibly arriving in the form of a relatively low tech vessel. I'm sure you know how it goes. My counterpart and I aren't entirely clear on all the details, just that someone high up wants to chat with this contact.

By the way, I'm about the send a short message to that freighter passing by. It doesn't look all that armed, and it doesn't seem to be paying us any special attention. Still, any hypothetical person or persons coming this might not like their presence, so we're hoping to keep them moving along and that there's nothing to see here.

Colonel Benjamin Howard da'Kielon vor'Kosti, Captain

{Communications End}


{Radio Broadcast; Open Comms Protocols}
x ICV Aarau (PAS; 1 Perimeter Flot, 2nd Fleet, CSS)
o Civilian Freighter (MIDFGravCru; Menelmacari Imperial Defense Force)

Civilian vessel, this is Aarau, a patrol ship of the Cetagandan Space Service, Second Fleet. We and the MIDF Cruiser Din-sûl are currently preparing to perform anti-piracy exercises in this area. We'd appreciate it if you would vacate the area as soon as is convinient for you. Wouldn't do to have the civvies we're here to protect get hulled by a stray laser beam or missile.

Eleanor, Ship's Mind
{Communications End}

"Oh shit!" Coelmund looks at the scene before him but keeps silent despite the words coursing through his modlocan. He glances over at Heremund who shrugs.

"We can't just leave him here or else an enemy agent really will get him. I'll handle the crowd, you just get him out of here." Heremund turns to the woman behind the counter. "Do not worry, I'm a chirurgeon."

Meanwhile Coelmund leans down, checks Brian's pulse, and slings him over his shoulders and starts jogging off towards his ship.

"You are?" She wondered at the peculiar phrasing, but halted in her tracks by the strangers professing a competent handle on the situation, she just stood there wringing her hands as Coelmund and "Brian" disappeared. "Is that..." That doesn't look like normal medical procedure, hauling him around like a sack of potatoes... Something prevented her from saying this aloud. "Never mind." She waved him away, heading back to her counter.

{Radio Broadcast; Open Comms Protocols}
x ICV Aarau (PAS; 1 Perimeter Flot, 2nd Fleet, CSS)
o Civilian Freighter (MIDFGravCru; Menelmacari Imperial Defense Force)

Civilian vessel, this is Aarau, a patrol ship of the Cetagandan Space Service, Second Fleet. We and the MIDF Cruiser Din-sûl are currently preparing to perform anti-piracy exercises in this area. We'd appreciate it if you would vacate the area as soon as is convinient for you. Wouldn't do to have the civvies we're here to protect get hulled by a stray laser beam or missile.

Eleanor, Ship's Mind
{Communications End}

"That's nice. We're on our way out in due course with all the hurry in the world, and thank you for the warning. I don't think it'd be hard to notice where we are and not chase down our tails, but we all appreciate the heads-up. It's nice to know you aren't pirates yourselves, or we'd be in real trouble."

The tanker chugged along, acceleration low.

A second voice chattered into the mic. "And if you heard from my cousin Bobjoe lately, tell him I said hi, last I heard thought he was out moving to summat near youse folks in Cetaganda. Said facepainting was a very elegant means of expression and couldn't wait to show me how at the next family reunion." The second speaker looked back sheepishly at the captain. "Of course, guess it's probably a big place over there and you probably don't know him, but you're the first real Cetagandan we've had comm contact with this year-part." Aimless chatter, but a fine diversion from the prospect of being "accidentally" shot at.

The captain spoke back up. "Don't let us keep you from working out ways to take out the belt pirates."

{Radio Broadcast; Open Comms Protocols}
x ICV Aarau (PAS; 1 Perimeter Flot, 2nd Fleet, CSS)
o Civilian Freighter (MIDFGravCru; Menelmacari Imperial Defense Force)

"Can't say that I've met him myself, madame," replies Eleanor, "but then, having a spacecraft -" she's quite careful not to say warship "- as a body tends to limit the people you meet. If you speak with your cousin sometime soon, suggest he stop by some of the old core Districts if he's on the Ring. Face paint outside of formal situations isn't as common as it was a few centuries ago, but they still use it a great deal in the more traditional Districts. There's always people willing to teach a-" uncultured outlander, even the Barrayarans have a bit of inkling of proper Protocol after a thousand years "- visitor the art."

"And don't worry, captain. We take pirate hunting quite seriously - after all, even if our civvie ships tend to have weapons, we prefer that they, and for that matter any other civilians in the Belt and major shipping corridors, never have to see one in the first place."

{Transmission ends}

Just to lend a bit more realism, Aarau launches a trio of recon drones out into the Belt, away from the freighter - and, coincidentally, expanding the search zone for "Brian's" ship.

On the fringe of the system, things were going less smoothly, of course.

Paranoia is a wonderful thing.

Heremund and Coelmund wait until their out of sight of the counter before they break into a full run. They quickly dart down several alleyways in an effort to lose anyone who may have noticed them furtively trying to shake non-existant shadows.

At last they arrive at an out of the way airlock. Hidden by it are two space suits.

"Are you thinking that we should have thought this out better?"

Coelmund glares back. "Don't you dare try to pin this one of me! Umm, do we have one of those universal docking thingies on our ship?"

"Maybe..."

"Maybe?! You don't know!"

"Well, it's docked with everything so far."

"Ah, to hell with it. You go out to the ship in your suit, try to dock it. I'll drop 'Brian' here in my suit and I'll go across without. I've had to do longer vacuum breathing than this in training."

The plans go off without a hitch. That is to say that the ship fails to hitch properly to the airlock so Coelmund does need to vacuum breath for about five seconds during the transfer. He goes forward to take over piloting the ship and sends Heremund back to look at the patient.

ATC, this is the ship Wanmere Freodes requesting a course to proceed to Freod City. Purpose of visit was . . . recreation.

As opposed to the fake pulse taken back on the station (where no pulse was found), the real pulse also finds nothing. Fortunately, the only statement that hasn't been a lie so far was that he really was a chiroegen. He quickly thrust a tube down Brian's throat for oxygen, checked the ECG (flat-line), dropped a ton of nitroglycerine in him, and injected Myocardial Repair Nanites directly into the heart to begin their repairs. It'd be close, but he should recover.

As opposed to the fake pulse taken back on the station (where no pulse was found), the real pulse also finds nothing. Fortunately, the only statement that hasn't been a lie so far was that he really was a chiroegen. He quickly thrust a tube down Brian's throat for oxygen, checked the ECG (flat-line), dropped a ton of nitroglycerine in him, and injected Myocardial Repair Nanites directly into the heart to begin their repairs. It'd be close, but he should recover.
He did recover, although some brain damage may have occurred. A very mild stroke had occurred immediately after the great seizure of the heart attack, and his cardiovascular health was astonishingly poor. If the nanites were self aware, they would be wondering how it was that this man had not had died from a heart attack years previously.

He would not fully regain consciousness for some time.

Back on the station...
The postal worker mulled over the strange events of the afternoon. When the resident security expert showed up to pick up his mail, they got to talking about it.

It seemed very curious indeed. She fingered an envelope he'd dropped earlier; it wasn't addressed, but simply had "Brian, Somewhere, Somewhen" stamped in the return address. Puzzling over it, they came to the conclusion that this must be his name.

A half hour after reaching this conclusion, the security officer noticed docking logs indicated "Brian's" ship had been docked, and that this "Brian" appeared to be - comparing the postal worker's description - the very same individual who had stolen an emergency lifepod a day or two earlier. He took note of the docking log, walking down to the appropriate dock. According to the slip record, it would still be there.

He arrived just in time to catch sight of the small ship blasting away on a pre-set course that would bring it towards the rendezvous point set out by the Cetagandan ship.

Actually, thanks to a calculation error by "Brian" in presetting the course, it would be off by 26,000 miles - a whisker in stellar terms, but a range at which it might prove difficult to spot a small dark object once the drive stopped burning.

Thanks to the occaisional active radar and lidar pulse from its drone network, the same ship does get spotted by Aarau - or rather, its logged in the database. While there are tens or hundreds of kilometers between asteroids, there are still a lot of the buggers, especially of the size of the small ship. Without active broadcasts, the object is simply marked down for review as a possible target. It near-zero relative velocity is noted, though, raising it on the priority list and, within an hour or so, a drone is vectored its way to do a close in passive scan for the usual signs of a ship, such as heat being radiated, radio signals, and unusual radiation sources.

Thanks to the occaisional active radar and lidar pulse from its drone network, the same ship does get spotted by Aarau - or rather, its logged in the database. While there are tens or hundreds of kilometers between asteroids, there are still a lot of the buggers, especially of the size of the small ship. Without active broadcasts, the object is simply marked down for review as a possible target. It near-zero relative velocity is noted, though, raising it on the priority list and, within an hour or so, a drone is vectored its way to do a close in passive scan for the usual signs of a ship, such as heat being radiated, radio signals, and unusual radiation sources.

As a matter of fact, thermal radiation is relatively low, although the trail of expanding microscopic ice crystals from the drive system leading away should be a dead ringer for activity.

The fact that its running lights are on and the blurry cockpit dimly radiating visible light would also be something of a dead giveaway.

With a jolt, a maneuvering thruster coughed, sending the craft into a mild spin.

"Well, that's a ship if I've ever saw one. Shall I bring it aboard?"

Captain Kosti nods to the shellperson's avatar. "Signal them, first. Wouldn't do to startle this guy."

As the ship manuevers to get a clear shot and configures one of its lineguns to tractor mode, the small rotating craft is hailed.

"Well, that's a ship if I've ever saw one. Shall I bring it aboard?"

Captain Kosti nods to the shellperson's avatar. "Signal them, first. Wouldn't do to startle this guy."

As the ship manuevers to get a clear shot and configures one of its lineguns to tractor mode, the small rotating craft is hailed.

There is no answer, the craft still slowly spinning in space. No answer at all, although the cabin light blinked off, and then on again.

Shrugging her virtual shoulders, Eleanor latches on to the ship and begins slowly pulling it in closer to the sloop. As it draws near, she uses active scanners to detect possible signs of foul play, including but not limited to usual quantities of fissionables, active weapons or systems that could serve as weapons, and fusion bottle activity (or the presence of a fusion bottle at all). All the while, tightbeam hails continue.

"Heremund, how's our guest doing?"

"Well, he's gonna live. Memory might be a tad spotty, and he's gonna need some chrome or a lot of luck if he plans on staying alive for more than a couple months." Heremund gives a light sedative to help Brian relax while his body repairs itself. "How's it look up there?"

"Have we heard anything about governmental maneuvers or activities? We got ships from Tahar Joblis, Menelmacar, and Cetaganda just sort of hanging around, oh, and scanning every bit of ether passing under their noses. Think they're looking for something?"

"No . . . of course their not looking for something. There just scanning every bit of ether in front of them, probably looking for this guy!"

"Calm down. No one will pay any attention to us. Anyway, this vessel has government registration. They should just let us fly by."

"Calm down? Here we are in the middle of an international, interplanetary, and interspecies event and you want me to calm down when the extent of our espainage training was 'Try to look inconspicuous and don't tell anyone what you're doing?' I'll 'calm down' when were back in Freod!"

Wanmere continues calmly flying on the standard course to Freod.

There remains no response from the vessel as Eleanor pulls it in. Its sole occupant is interested in what's going on, but isn't proving particularly communicative. This will change, of course, once the Cetagandans open the craft up.

Meanwhile, "Brian" is starting to stir. He will begin immediately raising a fuss about being kidnapped by Tahar Joblissan agents, that his rights have been violated, and that he's innocent of any and all wrongdoing.

Back on the station, however, things are less calm. The security expert was not having a good day.

"My girl! She's missing! You have to find her!" That had been thirty minutes ago. Now he had found her. So to speak. He'd found her trail, and it led right up to a very familiar empty berth that he'd already been to that day. This led to some obvious conclusions, and in a very short period of time, "Brian"'s reconstructed picture, along with Heremund and Colemund, were going out on an all-points bulletin across the system as possible suspects/witnesses wanted for questioning in the kidnapping of a little girl. Immediately.

This was, of course, not making life any easier back on the station...

The ship is first pulled first through one of the large aft mainbay hatches, and then sideways into a smaller armored capture hangar. A flexible docking tube extend and attaches itself to the ship's airlock and pressurised. After a moment, Captain Kosti floats down the tube in an skinsuit and knocks on the hatch. "Anyone home?"

"Woah, hold on there. We don't work for Tahar Joblis. You sent a message to our principal and we arrived to escort you safely to our nation. When we arrived, you decided to suffer from a massive heart attack. We revived you, but you may feel a bit off for a few days. We'll deliver you straight to a hospital."

The ship continues to glide across space at a decent clip, while obviously trying not to draw too much attention.

OOC Note: Both of these guys and the ship are expendable.

The ship is first pulled first through one of the large aft mainbay hatches, and then sideways into a smaller armored capture hangar. A flexible docking tube extend and attaches itself to the ship's airlock and pressurised. After a moment, Captain Kosti floats down the tube in an skinsuit and knocks on the hatch. "Anyone home?"

Little Jessie crept behind the pilot chair. The craft had stopped moving around and had gotten grabbed by some big thing that didn't look like Daddy's freighter. Or Dad's freighter, either. Mom was going to spit nails if she'd heard she'd been wandering on a strange spaceship. Maybe they were real aliens in the spaceship. That would be interesting.

Maybe they were pirates. She tilted her head and imitated a rakish leer to herself. That would be really interesting! She squirmed, and the sound of papers crinkling whispered through the cockpit. But probably not good. Pirates never really seemed like the sort of folks who like to play with eight year old girls, and even the funny old stories where they ran around in big endless swimming pools with wood ships stuck to the water said pirates were mean people. Bad people.

She held her breath with the knock on the hatch. They were coming! She held her breath some more. So they don't hear me breathing.

"Woah, hold on there. We don't work for Tahar Joblis. You sent a message to our principal and we arrived to escort you safely to our nation. When we arrived, you decided to suffer from a massive heart attack. We revived you, but you may feel a bit off for a few days. We'll deliver you straight to a hospital."

The ship continues to glide across space at a decent clip, while obviously trying not to draw too much attention.

"Brian" settled somewhat. Then he bolted upright. "Did you check your hull for tracking devices? They plant them on ships, you know." He jerked his head to the side in that knowing way that paranoid folk in movies do when they not-so-enigmatically talk about "them"s that one should know about. "Never can be too careful, and now that I've probably blown my cover, they'll not hesitate to set the cybercosmoctopi on hunting me down."

"Hello? Hello?" Kosti opens up the hatch and enters, followed by a marine in a combat suit and a medic. He begins searching the ship, starting with the cockpit. "Is there even anyone in here? We're friends. I'm Captain Kosti, Cetagadan Space Service. I we were suppose to meet this ship here. Or at least a ship, and this one fits the description."

Jessie felt a burning sensation. Don't breathe, they'll hear you breath, but she couldn't hold it anymore, gasping in a new breath before starting to hold her breath anymore.

She closed her eyes, hoping the big men tromping inside the tiny courier craft wouldn't find her behind the pilot's chair.

"Hello? Hello?" Kosti opens up the hatch and enters, followed by a marine in a combat suit and a medic. He begins searching the ship, starting with the cockpit. "Is there even anyone in here? We're friends. I'm Captain Kosti, Cetagadan Space Service. I we were suppose to meet this ship here. Or at least a ship, and this one fits the description."

"Nobody's in here!" She hoped that "Kosti" would believe this.

"Huh?" The three Cetagandans share confused looks. "Does whoever that is really think we'd fall for that?" asks the marine. The captain only shrugs and head towards the source of the voice, a chair at a control bank. Coming up behind it, he looks over the top and says, "Hello?"

"Huh?" The three Cetagandans share confused looks. "Does whoever that is really think we'd fall for that?" asks the marine. The captain only shrugs and head towards the source of the voice, a chair at a control bank. Coming up behind it, he looks over the top and says, "Hello?"

Weren't they listening? Jessie thought to herself.

"I said nobody's here! Are you deaf or something?" She stared up at Kosti. Adults never listen. I don't want to get stupid like that when I grow up. She shifted, crinkling papers beneath her. "You just have an overactive imagination, Kosti. It's an empty ship."

She stared into Kosti's eyes, hard, arms crossed over her chest.

Meanwhile, elsewhere, her mother was getting more distraught, "Brian" continued on his way to Freod, and the Dragon was lying as bait for presumed real interstellar pirates or other hostiles.

After a moment, gears shifted inside Kosti's head. 'Ok, its a kid. She can't possibly be worse than my brother.'

"Oh, well, alright then," he says aloud. "I'll just go and leave my figment alone. I'm getting pretty hungry anyways. I'll just head on out to the mess and see what's for dinner. Some pie would be pretty nice, too."

"Brian" settled somewhat. Then he bolted upright. "Did you check your hull for tracking devices? They plant them on ships, you know." He jerked his head to the side in that knowing way that paranoid folk in movies do when they not-so-enigmatically talk about "them"s that one should know about. "Never can be too careful, and now that I've probably blown my cover, they'll not hesitate to set the cybercosmoctopi on hunting me down."

"Tracking devices?! Oh shit. I'm suiting up."

"Gee, that's not conspicious. We're just going to do a casual spacewalk in semi-military gear while travelling at high speed through TJ space."

"Well, if we have a tracking device it doesn't really matter now, does it?"

"Grumble Fine fine fine. Go an check the hull."

Heremund goes outside the ship and starts checking the hull for tracking devices. He's a tad paranoid by this point and is checking everywhere. With everything going on he can be forgiven for not being at the top of his mental form and only processing some information much later. In fact, it is only when he's about to visually inspect the propulsion output does the word "cybercosmoctopi" enter his mind. He stops and his mind grinds for a second and can only reach a single, unspoken, conclusion.

"Hwæt?"

"Tracking devices?! Oh shit. I'm suiting up."

"Gee, that's not conspicious. We're just going to do a casual spacewalk in semi-military gear while travelling at high speed through TJ space."

"Well, if we have a tracking device it doesn't really matter now, does it?"

"Grumble Fine fine fine. Go an check the hull."

Heremund goes outside the ship and starts checking the hull for tracking devices. He's a tad paranoid by this point and is checking everywhere. With everything going on he can be forgiven for not being at the top of his mental form and only processing some information much later. In fact, it is only when he's about to visually inspect the propulsion output does the word "cybercosmoctopi" enter his mind. He stops and his mind grinds for a second and can only reach a single, unspoken, conclusion.

"Hwæt?"

And deep in space, a scientist turned in his sleep, his dreams disturbed by a vision of cybernetic and cephopodic glory. Or horror. With a grimace and a grumble, he turned his dreaming back towards happy thoughts, like nubile post-adolescents and cute puppies.

No tracking device would be found - none, anyway, planted by the Tahar Joblissans. Perhaps a smidgen of debris from an unclean de-docking, but "Brian's" paranoia was clearly overstating things. The nervous old man thought back over all his notes while the search for the nonexistant tracking devices went on.

Soon, he thought to himself, soon I will be living in a proper civilization again. It has been too long.

After a moment, gears shifted inside Kosti's head. 'Ok, its a kid. She can't possibly be worse than my brother.'

"Oh, well, alright then," he says aloud. "I'll just go and leave my figment alone. I'm getting pretty hungry anyways. I'll just head on out to the mess and see what's for dinner. Some pie would be pretty nice, too."

Cued by the mention of dinner and the sudden reminder that she hadn't eaten a thing for hours, Jessie hesitated. The others might not be so easy to convince as the pliable Kosti, but she was hungry, lost, and was faced with a sudden realization that she wasn't sure how to get home from here.

"Yup. You're feeling verrry hungry. So hungry that you'll want extra helpings of dinner. And dessert." She padded after him quietly.

Cued by the mention of dinner and the sudden reminder that she hadn't eaten a thing for hours, Jessie hesitated. The others might not be so easy to convince as the pliable Kosti, but she was hungry, lost, and was faced with a sudden realization that she wasn't sure how to get home from here.

"Yup. You're feeling verrry hungry. So hungry that you'll want extra helpings of dinner. And dessert." She padded after him quietly.

"Well, let's go then." Passing the medic and marine on the way out, he gives them a shrug and a smile. He makes his way from the hangar to the officer's mess, taking his time to make sure his imaginary friend doesn't get lost or miss a lift. After about ten minutes of travel through the ship's broad, open corridors and a few odd glances from passing crewmembers, they arrive at the mess.

"Hmmm. I wonder what I should have. Looks like today there's fried chicken, roast beast, some kind of sushi, and pork tenderloins. Plus the usual salad and fruit bars."

Implant Comms Capt. Kosti -> Eleanor
>> No luck with that ship. Just some kid, probably got aboard and set off the autopilot by accident.
<< Hmmm. After this long, I doubt our contact is going to show.
>> Hell, it could be his ship for all we know. Why else would it come here?
<< I doubt we can back trace it at this point, though.
>> I'll try to get her to tell me what station she's from. We'll need to know anyways. Oh, and send a electronics crew to check out the pod. An EI like you shouldn't have too much trouble cracking the security. Maybe there's something in the logs or navigation system.

"Well, let's go then." Passing the medic and marine on the way out, he gives them a shrug and a smile. He makes his way from the hangar to the officer's mess, taking his time to make sure his imaginary friend doesn't get lost or miss a lift. After about ten minutes of travel through the ship's broad, open corridors and a few odd glances from passing crewmembers, they arrive at the mess.

"Hmmm. I wonder what I should have. Looks like today there's fried chicken, roast beast, some kind of sushi, and pork tenderloins. Plus the usual salad and fruit bars."
She puzzled at the unfamiliar terms, trailing Kosti silently.
I know what a salad is, and what fruit is. Even fruit bars, those're those compressed ration thingies. But what the heck is sooshie?
Peering past Kosti didn't help with her confusion any more. She didn't see any fruit bars, but there was a selection of fruits at a counter.
Kosti talks funny. He must be a pirate, I can't understand what half the things the pirates say in the stories. She hungrily tailed him, eager to put down as much of whatever food as he got. Preferably when he wasn't looking. Figments of imagination don't really eat food, and he might catch on.


Implant Comms Capt. Kosti -> Eleanor
>> No luck with that ship. Just some kid, probably got aboard and set off the autopilot by accident.
<< Hmmm. After this long, I doubt our contact is going to show.
>> Hell, it could be his ship for all we know. Why else would it come here?
<< I doubt we can back trace it at this point, though.
>> I'll try to get her to tell me what station she's from. We'll need to know anyways. Oh, and send a electronics crew to check out the pod. An EI like you shouldn't have too much trouble cracking the security. Maybe there's something in the logs or navigation system.
If the electronics crew bothered to actually peer at the mess of papers behind the seat, they might notice a great deal of substance written on them. "Brian" didn't trust computers very much... he preferred hardcopy.

The navcomp proved of little help. According to it, the ship was in imminent danger of approaching too close to Tau Ceti for comfort and in projected danger of thermal failure as a result. The logs were at best cryptic, but the engine, recently refit at that Cetagandan post, should be fairly easy for the Cetagandans to trace.

After waiting a minute, Kosti sighs, loads up a plate full of chicken, grabs a couple of oranges and a small bowl of strawberries, and heads over to a table in the corner of the room to sit. A few other off-duty officers in the room give the pair odd looks, but no one makes an audible comment. "So," he asks, "why would I imagine that there was a little girl in that ship? I mean, what possible reason would there be one inside a spaceship?"

The crew quickly identifies the new drive as an outdated EX-201 SuperFuzor, and easily tracks it back to the station it originated at. Eleanor manages to talk with an annoyed security officer long enough to establish that, "no, I don't know where that ship was from and no, there was no little girl, and please don't bother me again." Its all 'she' can do to not put the poor navcomp out of its misery, but instead she settles for reprograming it after copying what litte data it had. Meanwhile, after sending the crew back to their usual duties, she tasks a half dozen drones to go through the ship and locate any papers and scan them into the database. Hopefully those will have something useful.

After waiting a minute, Kosti sighs, loads up a plate full of chicken, grabs a couple of oranges and a small bowl of strawberries, and heads over to a table in the corner of the room to sit. A few other off-duty officers in the room give the pair odd looks, but no one makes an audible comment. "So," he asks, "why would I imagine that there was a little girl in that ship? I mean, what possible reason would there be one inside a spaceship?"

The crew quickly identifies the new drive as an outdated EX-201 SuperFuzor, and easily tracks it back to the station it originated at. Eleanor manages to talk with an annoyed security officer long enough to establish that, "no, I don't know where that ship was from and no, there was no little girl, and please don't bother me again." Its all 'she' can do to not put the poor navcomp out of its misery, but instead she settles for reprograming it after copying what litte data it had. Meanwhile, after sending the crew back to their usual duties, she tasks a half dozen drones to go through the ship and locate any papers and scan them into the database. Hopefully those will have something useful.
Careful to wait until Kosti looked away - pointing out things on the other side of the room if necessary - Jessie ate, curious at the strange "chicken." It tasted rather unlike anything she'd ever eaten before. Greasy, too. After a couple pieces, she started to pay more attention to the more familiar fruits.

The drones encountered something they may not have been programmed to deal with in a timely manner... literally thousands of sheets in a rumpled, messy, and disordered pile... written by hand in special reflective ink that "Brian" had thought would turn invisible when he heated it, but only faded and changed color unevenly.

Detailed with hundreds of hand sketched pictures but little scaling, the sketches showed a range of ships from battleships to fighters, some shaped like cubes or spheres while others were shaped like rings, needles, diving hawks, or carried large bulbous pods. A few even looked like large tankers.

The most recently written section detailed departures and arrivals of Tahar Joblissan ships as well as ones he'd seen or heard of passing by. The patterns all fit, if one knew where to look; the Tahar Joblissans were shifting enormous amounts of shipping outsystem. Fewer and fewer of the great methane barges, such as the one that had flown by earlier, were staying in system.

They're up to something, he had written. "Something big."

Speaking of "Brian," it occurred to him at this point to rifle through his notes and drop a bombshell.

"So, you wouldn't happen to know what planet the Tahar Joblissans are planning on levelling with the fleet they've been assembling outsystem these past six months, would you?"

Back on the Cetagandan ship, a little girl was starting to feel very nauseated. Time to find a bathroom. Or a trash can. Or maybe she'd just throw up all over Kosti. That wouldn't be good.

OOC: What happens often as not when somebody eats, say, meat when their system is completely unaccustomed to it... *hurk* Oh, and this link (http://forums2.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=378523) might be of some clarifying interest.