NationStates Jolt Archive

Somewhere in Menelmacar

Julia Friedman smiled happily as she walked on to the Revenian embassy. A month of painful operations was finally over, and she was ready for what her bosses were calling ‘The Big Hit’. During the operations, she had replaced entire swatches of her body with metal or plastics – in the same way some fighter pilots in Allanea did – and now became what some people know as a Gemini – a cyborg similar in all external effects, weight included, to a non-altered human being. Beyond slightly superior strength, the Gemini was capable of surviving up to 4G of gravity – which was why pilots used it. Another addition was a tatooed image of a beer glass on her back.

Julia’s papers identified her as a successful corporate businesswoman from Allanea, the owner of 5% of stock in Taggart Transcontinental, ’and so on, and et ad nausea’, as the PIVO official who issued her with her identity smiled. Oh, sure, she DID own the stock – the PIVO was smart enough to temporarily transfer the stocks owned by the Allanean Government into her property. But what Julia really was was a whore.

Well, a callgirl. According to Julia, there was some difference. Nobody knew what it was, really, except the price. Before the One-Day War, Julia received about two thousand five hundred Allanean dollars per hour for her ‘expert, highly professonal service’. In Zero-One’s strike, and the occupation that ensued, she lost everything she had. Recruiting a person into the Allanean Intelligence Agency has never been so easy.

Scans of Julia’s thousands-per-hour body would reveal she was carrying photography and recording devices, but no capacity to transmit. Her masters decided such capacity would enrage the very people they needed to appease. And they needed to appease them. Desperately.

The gorgeous young woman walked into the embassy, drawing whistles of appraisal from every male on it’s grounds, even despite her business suit and large briefcase. Businesswomen rarely ever elicited this response, but, then again, that is why Julia Friedman – also known as Agent 009 – was selected for. She was rumoured to be so attractive as to ‘raise the dead’, figuratively – and it might become just thatkind of mission.

She smiled at the embassy clerk – who was already eying her as if she was a foreign terrorist: ‘Now, what is the procedure here for meeting someone really high up the food chain, young man?’

The individual whom Ms. Friedman had presumed to be a clerk, was, in fact, not...but we'll get back to him in a bit.

The Revenian embassy in Menelmacar was one of only a handful of so-called 'embassies' maintained by the RDS. Being as all diplomatic affairs were handled by Earl Hartford's team onboard Calirnevris, the 'embassies' existed mostly to 'show the flag,' as it were.

Now, back to the clerk. As was stated previously, he was, in fact, not a clerk. His name was Drayne Neviros. Every Revenian installation not on Revenian soil had an individual like Drayne.

He smiled at the woman, as he did so, he looked her over. It was quite unsettling, as if her very soul was laid bare before those piercing silver eyes. Drayne Neviros, obviously of House Neviros. As with most members of House Neviros, Drayne bore a set of concentric circles on his left inner forearm. Eight of them, in his case.

Now, as for what Drayne is...the short answer was thus: Drayne Neviros was a Devilrunner. A Chromium Knight. The result of a collaboration between Harm Coldfist's Intelligence Directorate, Vysarian Stark's RevTek R&D, and The Warprince's Armed Forces.

Drayne Neviros, after enlisting, had undergone extensive surgery. Surgery that changed a deadly man, into a living, very deadly, weapon. The Chromium Knights were rotated throughout embassies and other such places, one individual per. Kept them alert.

Thus, the way that he twitched, just slightly. The way his eye seemed to flicker. These things were not insignificant. Quite the opposite. Run on.

"Ahh, the procedure, miss, would be to contact the Administrator's office onboard Calirnevris, and request an appointment from them."

He paused for a few moments, rather abruptly, slightly eerie. Perfectly normal among Revenians, where subdermal comm-links and other such things were commonplace, but for those not used to such things, it could be...disconcerting, to say the least.

"As you're here, procedure would be that you sit tight, Hrosvatir sends down a shuttle, then you get an audience whenever somebody feels like seeing to you. If it's urgent enough. Otherwise, you talk to me."

He raised a slightly eyebrow, "Now, why, might I ask, do you wish to see somebody 'high up on the food chain,' as you so eloquently put it."

Julia smiled at the clerk. She didn't know who he was, of course, and his behavior appeared to her as being more than slightly arrogant - something that she was raised to expect from non-Allanean public officials. She wouldn't let an Allanean bureaucrat to walk around with this kind of attitude, but this was a different country, with different customs and culture. So all she did was smile.

Then, she bent over the table and whispered, allowing the 'clerk' a peek at her more than impressive 'assets'. "Listen here," she whispered in the same tone that she used with great success in her past career, "I'm on a mission from my government. An important, secret mission." The sound of the word 'secret' has some near-magical ring to it, but she didn't even let him time to evaluate the tone of that as she upped the ante: "My government wishes to open certain… negotiations with whoever is at the top of your food chain… secretly ."

Drayne raised an eyebrow at that, then made a slight hand motion. An aide hurried over, very Revenian in appearance, from the Light Duty Armor, to the SMP-10 in the drop-down holster on the aide's left leg.

"Rick, gimme a link to Sir Vernon," Drayne ordered.

"Aye, Sir."

The aide jogged over to a console and tapped in a rapid set of codes, then returned with a small handset, which he handed to the taller Devilrunner.

Drayne muttered a few rapid-fire words in Low Ascended, and whoever was on the other end, apparently a 'Sir Vernon,' presumably spoke back, as it took only a few seconds before he set the handset down.

"Alright, you're cleared for an audience with Field Administrator Sir Vernon Sevirek. He's about as high up as you'll get, unless you wanna take the trip to meet Sector Administrator Markinson. Anyways, if you'll follow me..."

Drayne led her up a few flights of stairs to the roof of the embassy. It was a low, flat structure that looked a whole, whole lot like a reinforced bunker. Unsurprisingly, there were at least four SLTM emplacements in plain view, with lord only knew what else concealed away.

In about fifteen minutes, an assault shuttle touched down on the roof, the faint golden aura of the Induction Drive fading away. (Coincidentally, it made a perfectly vertical descent, never leaving the Embassy's Airspace.)

The assault shuttle's ramp lowered slowly with the hiss of hydraulics, and Drayne led Julia up into the shuttle. The very instant they stepped onboard, the ramp raised, and the shuttle was airborne again, following that same perfectly vertical flightpath.

Before long, the shuttle landed in the flight bay of the RNS Hrosvatir. Skipping all the obligatory junk, Drayne deposited Julia, with two armed guards, into a chair in the office of Field Administrator Sir Vernon Sevirek.

Drayne didn't wait around, he had a shuttle back to the embassy to catch.
---
Vernon gestured for Julia to sit, then templed his hands on the desk before him.

"What can I do for you, Miss...?"

Julia smiled. So far, she was doing good. But she needed to do better. Far better. She gave Sevirek a smile – the kind of smile that would make billionaire CEO’s whimper for her mercy and cough up five-digit cheques.

“In fact, darling,” the callgirl said, “I need to go as far up the food chain as humanly possible.”

She thought briefly of her coaches at the ‘medical institute’ where her body was upgraded. Their faces, their voices. ‘You need to climb high, girl,’ they said, time and time again. ‘Very high’.

She thought of her family, burned alive as Zero-One’s missiles shredded their home, her uncle, fighting to defend his home from the onslaught of Federal grunts, her mother, who died in the famine that followed the One Day War. Her mother lived in a village far from the capital, and by the time Julia got to her, it was too late to save the woman from dying of starvation. She heard her mother’s voice, saw her face with the cheeks falling in, with the skin drawn tight on the skull, as she begged her: ‘Remember, Julia, dearest. Always remember what they did to us. Never, ever forgive.’

Julia was still smiling as she continued cheerfully: ‘I have a treaty to sign. So yeah, I need to climb high. All the way to the top, hon,' she said as she passed her hand on her hip.

Sir Vernon Sevirek, upon hearing Julia's statement, laughed. He laughed long, and he laughed -very- hard.

"Oh, my. I'm quite sorry. I don't know what came over me. Very well. I hope you packed for a long voyage, as you won't be finding anybody with the authority that you apparently seek in this system. Give me a moment."

His fingers tapped rapidly against a keypad, as he composed and fired off a message, transmitted via TransComm, a by-product of Project Remembrance, to the Controlling Entity in Nexus.

He soon received his reply.

"Oh my. My, my, my. Well, it appears that not only are you cleared for a trip directly to Northfell, but we'll let you delay payment on the transportation. My, my, my. Lucky, aren't you. Well, I doubt I'll be seeing you again."

It was at this point that two black-battle armored figures emerged seemingly from the walls. One of them fired its rifle, from the hip, mind you. The round impacted Julia's carotid artery with minimal fuss.

Now, normally, this would be fatal. Except that the individual in battle armor had been using a CR-17, set on 'trang.' That particular setting corresponded to the third magazine well, which held a thirty-round of darts loaded with a paralytic agent. Meaning that she'd been hit with a hypo-dart that injected her with a two-hour paralytic. Get it?

Promptly, they had her blindfolded, and she would, get the sense of motion. This was caused by one of the guards picking her limp body up and throwing her over his shoulder like the proverbial sack of potatoes.

Skipping the technical stuff that we don't want to get into, when the paralytic wore off, she would be under twice the usual gravitic strain, with the blindfold still in place. Wordlessly, she would be man-handled to her feet, and, presuming active resistance on her part, bloody-well dragged along, tossed into a chair, restrained at the wrists and ankles with something that was immediately recognizable as cold metal.

Finally, at this point, the blindfold would be removed. Presuming she took the time to look around her, she would note that she was in a rather spartan room, with walls of some sort of black stone ('s basalt with funky stuff done to it.)

Standing before her, leaning up against the wall, would be a rather tall man (About six foot three,) who, at the moment, appeared to be playing the part of 'Creepy Sci-Fi Evil Warlord Prince.'

Now, the obvious two stand-outs about this man were the silver hair and silver eyes. However, Julia would have noticed the exact same combination on both Drayne Neviros and Vernon Sevirek.

On to the attire. He wore a pair of black pants bloused into a pair of black boots. If one had the eye, then one might recognize the signs of reinforcement around the toe. A tight black shirt on his torso showed off something of a rather nicely muscled chest. A black cape completed the ensemble.

He had a silver belt-buckle, a single silver earring, a lapel pin, and his weapons.

He wore a rather large sword on his left hip, almost three and three quarter foot of blade, with sixteen inches or so of hilt. The pommel adornment was a single fat ruby that seemed to flicker and wink as if it had a life of its own.

Paired with that sword was a smaller friend, maybe two feet long with what was referred to as a 'bladed-guard' by Revenian swordsindividuals. In effect, a sweeping quillion extended from the crossguard, curving back to meet with the pommel. This was meant to protect the knuckles, as well as adding a nasty slice to punches.

Now, this...rather imposing individual looked down at Julia.

"Alright. You wanted high, M'dear? You got me. If you don't know me, then you really shouldn't be trying to broach treaties. However, Owen here really loves introducing me, so I'm going to let him anyways."

The man gestured to a second individual, this one wearing battle armor, though without the usual helmet. He also had silver hair and silver eyes, and the resemblance hinted to possible kinship.

Owen, the armored individual, was a about half-a-foot shorter than the man whose identity Julia really should probably know, however, he had the distinctive look about him that was present in those 'grizzled veteran' types. Y'know, the really, really mean ones. The ones that -nobody- messed with.

"Missy, I suggest you refrain from any harsh words, because you sit in the presence of His Highness, Sir Dysaryn Levan Blackstar-Stark, Prince Celestian, Heir to the Iron Throne, Champion of House Stark, Lord Changer of Chaos, and by the Grace of the Pancreator, Warprince of Revenia."

Dysaryn, his identity now formally revealed, made a slight little bow. "Thank you, Owen."

The frighteningly dangerous looking man smiled, and it was a sight to chill blood, "Anytime."

Now, Dysaryn would return his attention to Julia.

"I have a few questions for you. Either you answer me, or I call in my friends, and they'll -make- you answer the damn questions. Also, don't try lying. I'll know. If you lie to me, I turn you over to my buddies. You don't want to meet my buddies. They'll up and ruin your whole day."

He paused for a moment, then began again. "First, you get to tell me about yourself. That means I wanna know Who you are, Who you work for, Why you want to talk me, What the devil-hell is so damn-vital important that you can't go through -normal- diplomatic means of contact, and so forth."

Sheila passed her hands on her hips seductively as she looked the Warprince in the eye. ‘I see, honey. Straight and to the point, aren’t you? I like men like that.’ She winks as she begins.

‘I assume you don’t want any of the bovine excrement on my official papers. It’s only been done to conceal my visit. My real name is Julia, and I work for the Allanean-Tarasovkan intelligence agency known as PIVO. That’s Programma Identificacii Vragov I Opasnostei, i.e. the Enemy and Danger Identification Program. I have been sent here on orders of the Allanean Branch of the Program, to purchase information.

Namely, we have received some collateral information to the air that a certain amount of Khristians was evacuated from their homeland during the ADK war, and that these Khristians where subjected to some form of mindwipe. We have rumours that Federation forces are engaged in some form of maintenance of a prison world where the Kristians reside, and that they sent some reports detailing the operation to you.

Here is what we want: We want a copy of that report. We want all information available on the location of the planet in question and the details of said mindwipe. We want proof that the Federation is involved. And, for the public, I’d like a Revenia-Allanea free-trade agreement.’

She smiles as she continues:

‘I have implants that are recording what we say. Just thought you’d want to know.’

‘Now, I like to name my price when men tell me what they want. I think you’d like to name your own price, too.’

OOC: I’d like IC knowledge of the ‘Rocks will cry out’ reports thread, thank you. J

Dysaryn laughed. Now, normally, Dysaryn was a pretty nice guy. He was easy going, pretty likeable...it was almost too easy to forget exactly who and what he was.

Sometimes, though, it was painfully obvious. This was just such a situation. That laugh brought into sharp context all the stories that Julia had no doubt -not- heard about him.

"Ehk-hem. Excuse me. One moment."

He turned to Owen, and an extremely quick rapid-fire exchange of words had Owen reach for his radio handset, a purely theatrical necessity, and mutter into it.

Mind you, all this was in Middle Ascended. Which was an extremely complex language that one did -not- teach in schools. That and there were a number of undertones and complexities that were almost impossible to teach. So, unless Julia was a Halfling Ascended, (which she isn't,) then there was no way she could possibly understand what they were saying.

Anyways, the door opened behind Julia, where she couldn't see it. Two differing sets of footsteps indicated the entrance of two people. If one were -really- good, one might note the swishing of coarse cloth.

Dysaryn smiled then, and looked down at the captive woman. He shook his head.

"Stupidity is unbecoming. Your first mistake was admitting that you were Allanean. Your second mistake was admitting that you were here representing that government of Allanea. Your third mistake was demanding a free-trade agreement between Revenia and Allanea. Your fourth mistake was informing me that you are aware of the equipment inside your body."

He paused for a few moments, then continued on.

"I'll start with this 'free-trade agreement' bullcrap. What the hell do you -possibly- have that we could -ever- want. Allanea produces what? Drugs and Guns, right? We don't allow the importation of drugs, and we don't want your damn guns. Besides, you may not understand how far away from Sol you are right now...but I know. Missy, you're over twenty-five hundred light years from home."

Having thusly ended discussion on that topic, he moved on.

"Secondly, your 'everything you say is being recorded' bit. So what? What're you gonna do? Destroy my public image? Hunt for any admissions of the existence of a concentration camp for Khristians? Hah. Yeah. Right."

He sorta hunkered down in front of her, and looked her in the eye. "Further, you can keep up the blatant sexual references as long as you like. You're just digging yourself deeper into a hole. Now. Onto prices. My price is not monetary, first thing that you must understand. Revenia is not a poor country."

He smiled then, "If Allanea wants information, then Allanea is going to have to bleed for it. Firstly, you will answer the following question: If I were to disclose unto your government information on the subject we have discussed, to what purpose would this information be used. If you lie, I will know. Second, I want a one-sided non-aggression pact with Allanea. You know what that is? It means that Allanea swear upon its immortal soul that it will never harm an ORA Citizen. It means that the ORA, by the terms of the treaty, doesn't have to reciprocate the agreement."

He paused, to see if she comprehended thus far.

"Third and Fourth, if Allanea wants information, then you will be returned to that country in an RSN Ship accompanied by two bulk freighters. Those bulk freighters will return to the Supremacy filled with oil and rare metals. These are big freighters. The only rules on quantity are that the two freighters must contain both oil and rare metals, and that they must be full."

Then, having stated those terms, he leaned in very, very close to her, and looked her directly in the eye. It was quite possible to lose oneself in the Quicksilver depths of his eyes, and they seemed to lay bare every secret she possessed.

"Finally," he said, so close that she could feel the heat of his breath, "I want Alexander Kazansky's head on a pike above my gates."

Julia shrugs. “We don’t only make guns and drugs. We make… everything. From maglev trains to cars, and to essential services. And if I were you, I’d lower tariffs and let your citizens choose, anyway. But that is not our subject.

Where I come from, you usually tell the other person you are recording him. It’s a gesture of simple politeness. I am sorry that you misunderstood.

On a further note, as you know, Alexander Kazaznsky is dead (OOC: That’s what she thinks. That’s what nearly everybody in Allanea thinks. Polygraph or sodium pentotal won’t help). Very dead. Blown apart by one fighter-bomber or another above the Union of Socialist Republics. No head left.

We will gladly sign your non-aggression treaty, since we have no intent to attack your citizens, anyway. Of course, if you go around trying to kill us, it is only natural that we defend ourselves. Otherwise, I can guarantee the complete non-aggression of the Allanea.

As to your question, our nation needs Khristians. We intended to use the information you provide us to – peacefully, mind you – leverage one of the nations who has access to the planet let us pick up a few hundred of them. We intend to restore they memory and employ their expertise to boost key Allanean industries. Further, if we buy out only fifty Khristians, it will be great to assuring friendship of those still connected to the Martian Confederacy – and not actually disturbing the status quo. Now, you might consider the policy stupid. But that is our policy, in full truth, and you can see it’s not harmful to you.

Now, how big exactly are your freight…’

Julia turns around sharply at the sound of the footsteps:

‘Good day, gentlemen.’

OOC: Julia is not lying.

Dysaryn laughed. He laughed directly, in, her, face.

"Oh. Shit. You are arrogant. You think I'm going to -GIVE- you Khristians? Ohhh...no way. Yes, the planet does exist. The system is called Mercury. It's about two hours travel from here. You'll never find it."

He grinned insanely, then. "Entry in Mercury unescorted by Revenian or FSP ships is an act of war. That means that I take Third Fleet, mosey on over to Earth, and do what D'ron was too nice to do."

"Ah, I see you've noticed my friends. Meet Kornisthal and Drevireth, both Inquisitors of Temple Avesti. They're here to help me make my return statement."

He gestured the two men forward, and they stepped around to flank the chair Julia was restrained (Rather securely, mind you. Centimeter thick iridium bands,) in.

"Now, my dear Julia. I am old. I am unimaginably old. I am not human. I am not nice, I am not compassionate. I am -not- merciful. I am -very- powerful, and, right now, I am -very- angry. So. The ante raises. If you accept, I will give you coordinates for Mercury IV. I will inform you of other choice bits. These will wait until after you have accepted."

He paused, to allow that sink in. "The price remains as before. You will satisfy each term of my demands. If not now, then some time in the future. As, if you speak the true, Kazansky truly -is- dead, then that would be an amazingly simple request to complete, as you never -will- have to complete it. However, if, as I believe, the average Allanean citizen is a moron, and your precious messiah is quite well...then you turn him over to me."

He smiled, then, "But that shouldn't matter. He's dead, right? Moving on. The number of freighters doubles. Plus, two transports to be filled with natural gas. Then. I want a military base built in Allanea. I want it to be well defended, and extremely well maintained. By Allaneans. I want it to be accessible one hundred percent of the time to any ORA personnel who might need to use it."

He paused for a few moments, then continued on, "I also want five tons of gold, two tons of platinum, and one hundred thirty two tons of silver."

He smiled at her. He was so close, she could almost feel his skin touching hers. It was -quite- overpowering. Dysaryn just seemed to -radiate- power. For a damn good reason. The man -was- the Lord Changer.

"You satisfy those requests, then you get a censored and abridged set of reports in a locked file and set of coords. You want more, make me an offer. The demands made are non-negotiable. Either you say yes, or you get sent home. In a number of different boxes. Your body carved into letters spelling the words 'Nope. Try Again.'"

He kissed her, then. It was obvious from the way he did it that he had more experience in the sensual arts then she could ever hope to amass in her lifetime. Possibly because Dysaryn Stark had been born over five hundred thousand years ago.

Skill. That was Sir Dysaryn Stark in a nutshell.

Julia laughs. ‘Look, Sir, I might be blonde, but I sure ain’t stupid. I know exactly what an abridged government report means. It means you blot out what, nine out of ten pages, and send use the rest, and we get to pay you, too. Mind you, in my previous line of work, we were more honest than that. So full reports is what we want. Or no deal.

By the way, how big are those freighters of yours?'

Dysaryn smiled. "We'll cover freighters first, then move to your apparent partial deafness."

"The freighters we're talking about are non-military Interstellar medium freighters. They're about the size of a large container ship. Haul around eight thousand TEUs."

He wandered off for a moment and grabbed a chair. He easily hefted the shiny polished steel piece of furniture, and set it down. He then set himself down.

"Now. For the second part. You apparently didn't catch the last bit of my statement. The part where I said 'You want more, make me an offer.' At the moment, I'm feeling pretty generous. So, you've got a shot."

"So. What'll it be? You say you want the whole report. Alright, let's skip the inbetween parts. Make me an offer. Surprise me, Julia. Make it happen. Ball's in your court. Play it right, and we can both leave this room happy. Play it wrong, and since I'm feeling so generous, I'll give you another shot at it. After my friends with the flame-guns..." at this point, he made a sweeping gesture to indicate the two robed Inquisitors on either of Julia's flanks, "have picked you over for useful information."

His eyes told all. In those incredibly deep, almost hypnotic eyes, one could find the truth.

Not a threat. A promise.

Julia shrugs.

"If that is the case... ten of those freighters, Sir. Is that an option?"

He sighed. It was a sigh of decided disappointment.

"Strike One. I had hoped for better. Just a hint: I don't need or want the materials in the the freighters, Julia. I just threw them in to make the deal look respectable. Keep that in mind."

At this point, Dysaryn would nod at the two Inquisitors and turn his back. We'll skip the gruesome details, but suffice to say that the two Inquisitors were masters of their art. The art of inflicting pain while keeping people alive and making them talk. Well, not always making them talk.

Only when the subject had anything to say.

So, after about fifteen minutes of screaming and such forth, Dysaryn would turn back around.

He looked at one of the Inquisitors in a decidedly inquisitive (forgive) manner.
It seemed as if a quick conversation took place between the two, but no words were spoken.

Dysaryn then returned his attention to a Julia who was decidedly much less pristine in appearance.

"Care to try again?"

Julia shrugs as she coughs forth some blood. "I do not believe I have any clue what you may want or the authority to negotiate further. I suggest you tell me what you want to deliver to my superiors. Oh, and I believe you just lost the opportunity for the night of your lifetime - long as it may be."

Dysaryn smiled, then. Fingers on his right hand tapped out a rhythm on the fat blood-red ruby set in his Warblade's pommel. Set in the pommel of the Blood Red Blade. Of Chaosbrand. The Crimson Steeled Sword.

"Ah, very well. You deliver my previously established terms, and by way of apology for the actions of my friends, I'll give you what you want. One report. Sufficient?"

He looked at her questioningly. Of course it was a test. Everything he had done was a test. A test of worthiness. She had failed, of course. More specifically, Allanea had failed.

Thus, he did not deliver the final warning. The one where he said 'Any interference with operations within the Mercury System will be taken as an act of war against the Exalted Star Supremacy of Revenia.'

No. He didn't give that warning, because by failing his test, Julia, and by extension, Allanea itself, would not have heeded that warning. So, he did not give it.

Julia shrugs, every inch of her body still aching from the "treatment".

"It is the only thing I'm can consent to, at the moment. As for the rest, we'll have to see if my superiors like your terms."

bump

Back on Earth, a day later

The Chief Degustator smiled as he saw the supplies - the result of several stripped asteroids ripe with gold, platinum, and oil - being loaded into the freighter. The treaty was signed already.

All that remained, he though, was to transfer Betty.

Betty was just 16 when she massacred her family. She was given the death penalty, and has recently exhausted her appeals. Now, PIVO gave her the choice - go to Revenia or be dolphinised. Being as she was a virgin, dolphinisation for her would be a very painful way to die - even more than for everybody else. So her choice was obvious.

The Degustator smiled. Soon, Julia would be back, and he would again enjoy the services of the most talented professional in Haven.

(OOC: Cutting to the chase)

The freighters made transit into Northfell, laden down with the materials he had requested. Silver, gold, platinum, osmium, vanadium, chromium, and petroleum. And held in a stasis unit onboard one of those freighters was 'Betty.'

It wasn't too terribly long before the freighters docked with Daggerstar Station, Northfell's massive System Controller, second in size only to NexCon. Though Northfell was Revenia's capital planet, and system, Nexus was...well...aptly named, to say the least.

Immediately upon docking, each the airlocks were rushed by Twilight Seraphim, their silver-wings insignia and flat black Myrmidon combat armor identifying them rather...well.

Having checked out each freighter, assuring that there were no...little...surprises, as it were, 'Betty's' stasis unit was carried out into the Daggerstar Station's massive staging area.

Dysaryn Stark, dressed in his usual black shirt, pants, and cape, stepped up to the stasis unit. He placed his hand on the reader-screen, and twisted to the right ninety degrees. This caused the locks on the unit to disengage, and with a hiss of equalizing pressures, the unit opened.

Discerning quicksilver eyes looked over the girl, analyzing qualities, such forth. When he'd heard of the offer of a murder victim, he'd been hoping for somebody a little bit more...substantial...but hell...he'd worked with less, before.

He nodded, slowly, as he closed the unit and re-engaged the locks. "On-planet. Mortis. Kral and Xan to meet me there. Things to do."

One faceless warrior in the black-and-red War Armor of his Blood Guard easily lifted the one-tonne stasis unit, and set off for a shuttle with a companion. Perfect.

Dysaryn then turned to another pair of individuals in the same black-and-red War Armor, holding Julia immobile between them.

Dysaryn produced from his pocket a rather unique vislate, one without any ports or access methods of any sort. On the back was a warning: 'Do not try to take this a part to get at the innards. The circuit will erase itself, destroying all data within the slate. We don't do replacements."

It was true enough.

He slipped the slate into a pouch attached to a harness about Julia's torso. The pouch would be dead center, lower torso. Not crash resistant. Not his problem. He delivered the report to Allanea. It wasn't his problem if some moron fell on it.

He patted her on the rump, as one would pat a favored dog, then took the crash helmet from an aide and settled it onto her head. He fastened the chin strap into place, and snapped the opaque face-shield down, effectively blinding her.

But not deafening her.

"Do try and convince your idiot government to refrain from the course of action you described. Otherwise, the report is with you. Good luck."

He took her took from her escorts, and easily hefted her, one-handed, actually, over to a very unique device. It looked a little bit like a flower, with a chair in the center. He set her down in that chair, and strapped her in. A port in the side of the helmet accepted a series of tubes and leads. The only thing she'd feel from this was the mouth-piece locking in place. This would feed her a nutrient juice at scheduled intervals. Tasted foul, but it'd keep her alive.

Having finished the final prep, Dysaryn patted the top of her helmet, and walked away. The petals of the 'flower' folded upward into a hexagonal pyramid. This, then, was transported onto a starship quite different from the large freighters.

A Chevalier class Pursuit Cruiser, to be exact. Streamlined, stealthy, it was the opposite of the massive boxy freighters. It could also make the journey to Sol in only three weeks...
---
(Three Weeks Later, above the United States of Allanea)

The RNS Chevalier hovered over an unpopulated section of Allanea. From the boat bay, a single drop pod was deployed, cratering the ground upon impact. It opened, to reveal Julia, still secured in her chair, helmet, leads, and all.

The tubes popped free, and the chair would slide forward on a set of tracks and tip over, straps retracting as it did so. Julia would be spilled out onto the ground, and the pod would close, thruster igniting as it returned to the Chevalier, the ship would then acquire safe Starfall distance, after checking in with Calirnevris, and head home.

Julia would only know that the gravity had returned to earth standard, and that she was face-down in some mud. The helmet was still in place, so she was still blind...

The datpad strapped to her chest was undamaged, thanks to the mud that pod had landed in. Had it been hard ground, it would have been destroyed. See, that was how Dysaryn worked. If the pod landed in something soft, everything would be fine...if it didn't...too bad.

Y'see, Dysaryn wasn't evil. Not at all.

He was Chaotic.

Allanea, a month later

The Chief Degustator swears. 'So, how is she?'

'Bad, sir. She suffered near-complete sensory deprivation. It is estimated that it will take about six months to bring her back to any semblance of sanity - and that's if we use the Thomas Szasz* definition of "sane".

'Damn' He sighed. He won't be getting that treatment after all. 'And the vidslate?'

'Just what we wanted. The typists and photographers are now busy reproducing it.''

'Oh well. What next?'

'I'd say that old movie applies again. Remember 'The Matrix'?'

The Chief Degustator smiled.

* * * *
TO: Kaskad, Bureau 6, Colonel Polkovnikov
SUBJ: Operation Delilah
FROM: Big Brewery

Delilah worked out. Samson damaged her a bit, but we got the goods. Attached please find the requested documents and location of planet in question.

OOC:

*Thomas Szasz, famous psychiatrist. Google it.

Allanean Defense Forces Information Security Protocols

Pargraph 3b, Safety in Isolation

1a. It is forbidden to import information from civilian computers to PIVO or military hardware.

2a.If such is necessary for the unit's mission description, all work must be done on a computer physically separate from the PIVO/AAF network, and only print-outs may be used from that computer. The hard drive must be routinely formatted.

OOC: I used to work tech support for the Israel Defense Force. :)

RNS Sovereign Right, patrol pattern, Mercury System

Admiral Erik Winters sat his command chair in a decidedly relaxed manner. It wasn't sloppy, or in any way improper. It was exactly as stated: relaxed. The Admiral's posture was a reflection of his current mode of command presence: if you were relaxed, your subordinates were relaxed.

Of course, he -wasn't- relaxed. How could he be, when he'd just received word from Fleet Command to expect 'visitors.' Well, that in and of itself didn't particularly bother him. Sixth Fleet always expected visitors.

No, it was the idea of who those visitors would be. A Solar nation, still recovering from effective total destruction...with the CAPABILITY and WILLINGNESS to launch a direct attack against the very people who had once already defeated them. A nation, FANATICAL enough, to send what mobile interstellar forces it might possess, to challenge a system as far from home as Mercury was...

"How do they think they can defeat us, Admiral? Attacking us with what they could scrounge would be like attacking a Mark II with a stone spear!"

The question was ignorance itself. It wasn't Captain (SG) Adele Velisuar's fault that she had been in the right places at the right time, with the right people, to coat-tail herself into a command position.

"How can -we- defeat a people who -would- attack a Mark II with a stone spear, Adele?"

The fact was, regardless of fault, that she was unsuited for command. She might be the next best thing to a Capital-Fighter AI when it came to computers, and she was, but damnit, she -shouldn't- be commanding a destroyer, much less a command dreadnought.

However, Erik Winters wasn't about to complain. He knew that he had few friends among Rebekka Wister's vocal minority, and he knew that he had been given Sixth Fleet and ordered to Mercury because of them. Further, he knew that any replacement Flag Captain would be -worse- than the current one.

So, Erik Winters acted as his own Flag Captain, and Victor Kel, Sixth Fleet's Carrier CO, was always ready to lend a hand, just in case things were to slip past the Admiral.

'n Sixth Fleet's battle line was in excellent shape, for Erik Winters was an excellent admiral. 'n his flagship wasn't to bad herself, for Erik Winters had been an excellent Skipper, long before he had been an admiral.

'n his Carrier Group was one of the best drilled, best trained, and most efficient Carrier Groups in the entire RSN. Thirty Five light carriers and a command carrier flagship. Five Thousand fighters. Lightest fighter element of any of the eight major fleets, but sufficient.

After all, Sixth Fleet merely had to hold on for an hour or so, then reinforcements -would- arrive. Less, now, considering the warning. Winters wouldn't be terribly surprised if the entirety of Third Fleet, plus the Warprince himself were lurking on the other side of the warp-point leading to Nexus. Probably under the guise of training maneuvers.

Ready to pour through that warp point immediately upon Sixth Fleet's call...

Erik Winters smiled a predatory smile, ran a hand through his silver-white hair, and returned to his novel.