NationStates Jolt Archive

Somewhere

Space is big.

Space is incredibly big.

Space is, in fact, simply freaking huge.

Somewhere out there in space a white cross-shaped object seems to hang motionlessly. That is, of course, an optical illusion. The Universal Diplomatic Gravitic Seaplane is moving rather fast – it just seems perfectly motionless because there’s few frames of reference for the viewer, and for those that are there, space is just too abominably huge.

And yet, it is moving. Aboard the craft, the pilot is not in fact controlling the Seaplane – rather, it’s autopilot is. The pilot merely sits at the control and chats to the Monningham family.

He doubts, of course, the mission. “See, they’re the ‘Pendrans. They have… everything. They’re uppity, and I’m not sure they like us or the nations we’re friends with very much. Why would they want to talk to us?”

Of course, he doesn’t say it like that. Being a Dohwar means that he has a high-pitched, squeaky voice, a couple of flipperlike appendages, and a beak. So when Kreek’neek talks, its sounds like it’s coming out of one of these ancient MIDI machines.

“Oh I wouldn’t know.” -Maverick Monningham smiles. He’s maybe forty-five years old. “But Kreek’neek… I’ve been to many missions – in some nations which are much worse then the Segments, really. Why do I care where I am sent? As long as I can cope with their culture and don’t offend them with my ugly blue tie, why bother? And I am sure a three-piece-suit offends more people in Liberty-City then it does in all of the Segments, combined.”

Miriam Monningham, his wife, nods. “And the ten-‘kay per year salary hike didn’t really make things worse, did it, Mave?” She is slightly younger then him. Augments, surgery, and the like make her look much younger, and her hair is blond while she was born a brunette – not that you’d ever know. Mave doesn’t.

“Aye. Paid for curricula and stuff for the kids – why, look at Marusia even now.”

Marusia was reading –a copy of Walter McCormick’s history of Old America, making notes with a pencil. An unusual sight for a 15-year-old, and yet the Ambassador was not really surprised. “She’s going to be handing in some form of essay on this in a few days. Don’t bother with Michael, though, he’s a little… problem sometimes.”

The older son was sitting, legs on a tabletop, reading Of the Amestrians And their Lies. “I am really happy he’s reading political books – even though he’s sometimes neglecting proper ones.”

“You see, my dear Egeruan friend, in government, like in business, there’s one main rule. You look out for numero uno. And for me and Miriam, the education of these two has always been numero uno.”

“Oh, I see, I always thought this of you. It is nice to have you confirm this… now, say, where do you want me to land this craft?”

“Umm, see that thing right over there?”

“Right next to the shore? Perfect.”

“Put it down there, please, darling.”

Message to the Scolopendran Government

Good day, this is Diplomatic Flight 0001-A from Liberty City, seeking permission to land at coordinates…

At least they had the sense to call ahead.

Trium-level HELLSING had a fit and the Office of Psionic Operations wasn't much happier, but the second was politely told to shove it and the first directed out of weapons range. Long, long before the gravitic biplane made it into Titan orbital space Saturn STC had already given it a priority pathway to the Segments. A two-ship element of Phantom III aerospace fighters scrambled from Al Mahdi ASDB and quickly intercepted the biplane, politely escorting it in with weapons loaded but not hot--what's the point in launching unarmed active fighters, ever?--and directed the Monninghams through their entry window.

The water-landing aspect of the craft in question threw something of a wrench into the plan. Segments ATC politely but firmly herded the seaplane to Zakaria Bay north of Stonozka, the capital, and the Phantom IIIs peeled off to loiter at altitude while the plane lands. The official responsibility for the operation hands off from the AeroSpace Directorate to the Mobile Infantry. The Mobile Infantry hands it down to the Mobile Infantry Sea Corps. The accurately-named MISC looks at their new assignment, shrugs, takes another swig of its tot of not-exactly-regulation naval rum and toddles over to the map of Titan to see what's in the area.

The bay is the responsibility of TITSEGCOACOM, more comprehendably rendered as Titan Segment Coast Command. Like all other COACOMs, the TITSEG branch consists of patrol boats, armed rubber dinghies, and a few ocean-going cutters of the Ibn Shad-han-class. These hundred-meter-or-so cutters were the largest vessels in the 'fleet' before the MISC became a real service of sorts outsystem with the Gyrinidae-class submersible battlemonitors, and their crews are the closest thing to 'proud' one gets in the TITSEGCOACOM when it comes to being captain of a floatyboat in the era of planet-devestating starcruisers.

http://server106.totalchoicehosting.com/~tpjzdd/albums/Mecha/ibn_shad_han_cutter_001.thumb.jpg (http://server106.totalchoicehosting.com/~tpjzdd/gallery/Mecha/ibn_shad_han_cutter_001?full=1)

Major Derevlian, skipper of FSMIS Tariq ibn Ziyad, reads his orders to pull out some Allachhrrrrzzz diplomats out of the drink and do it politely with a raised eyebrow. The onionskin official orders out of the teletype (of the exact same kind used on starships, for those interested in trivia) don't actually say "Allachhrrrrzzz," but the adjective in front of the word 'diplomat' where a national adjective would go tends to make the Major's eyes--or perhaps brain--slip on by like a cat on a freshly waxed floor. Like most other Scolopendrans, he's learned not to concentrate too much on that and just accept it, just like it's perfectly reasonable to accept how calendars never seem to synch up. Shrugging, he tosses the onionskin onto his gently pitching steel desk, plants the magnetic paperweight on top of it, and pulls the black plastic corded intercom phone from the wall. "Skipper, bridge. Set a course for twenty by two-eighty." He says it with a touch of old sea-dog, partially because he's the oddity of being one in the M.I. and partially because he's always thought that saying 'set a course' simply sounds awesome in the same way that pirates and pieces-of-eight are. The handset buzzes back at him. "Zakaria Bay, that's right. Also tell the crew to prepare for a snap inspection. We're taking on vee-eye-pees apparently. That's right. On the bounce."

Finishing his tot of rum, Major Derevlian gets up, puts on his red-and-black Class A shortcoat and the wide red fabric belt that goes with it, then settles his similarly-colored combination cover on his head before heading out into the passageway. Tariq ibn Ziyad springs into action--on the bounce, as it were--as its twin catepillar plasma drives spool up to full cruising speed. He never really bothered to learn what exactly that was in knots--he may be a sea dog, but couldn't give a jot about tradition--but knew it was somewhere around fifty or more. Basically, people weren't supposed to go abovedecks at those speeds.

* - * - *

Titan may be quite a bit larger than the Moon but it's still much smaller than Earth. The distance to the horizon from the seat of a seabiplane, estimated generously around two meters, is around three and a fifth kilometers. The cutter practically leaps over the horizon at its speed of one and a half kilometers a minute, and spends the next five slowing down and coming alongside.

"Beggin' the cap'n's pardon," the enlisted helmsman arrrs, "but don't ye think that they be wanting to keep their pretty little plane?"

"Stop that, Private," Derevlian growls. "I've already warned you about it."

"Sorry, sir."

"Good point nonetheless." The skipper looks over his shoulder and calls back to who is graciously called the Hangar Commander--after the SASD warship position--despite the fact that her hangar only holds one sea patrol VTOL. "Tell the veetol battening crew to get out there with the winches and haul her aboard, on the bounce."

"On the bounce, sir," she replies chirpily.

"I'll just be heading aft then to meet our guests, then. Don't crash the ship, Private, or I'll keelhaul ye."

"Yes, sir." It's not exactly an idle threat given TITSEGCOACOM's status as a punishment cruise, especially given the Private's somewhat lackluster career.

Off the aft-starboard quarter, the major takes up a megaphone and leans off the side, bracing himself on the railings. "Ahoy... uh... plane. I'm Major Tagir Derevlian, skipper of FSMIS Tariq ibn Ziyad. We'll be sending men over to bring your plane aboard so we can take you to shore... twenty kilometers away. Why they didn't just direct you to land in the harbor and idle to shore is beyond me; I figure they wanted to buy some time to shuffle your reception from Al Mahdi to Blåttfisk." After realizing he's saying just a bit too much, he shuts up.

Two ropes come down from the mobile yardarms and two grey-camouflaged infantrymen slide down them, looping them around the upper wingroots and tightening them down handsomely. The Imnsvali tensiopolycord could pick up main battle tanks, so the care with which the crew on the ship put load onto the winches and draw the plane up and over onto the generously-named flight deck is probably not all too necessary. Either way, two black-and-green officers await once the plane is settled on the deck and battened down in place.

"I'm Major Derevlian," says the shorter of the two, "and this is my executive Captain Bush." Tagir is short and slightly on the rotund side, but dangerously so--the sort of man who is still quite hard and strong under a layer of good-living babyfat. His hair--what can be seen under the black brim of his hat--is metallic, a coppery sheen going steely, a rust effect that only heightens his red chronic sunburn-come-tan. Bush is tall, black-haired, professionally muscular, and looks like a steelworker with a chin that could be used for exploration in the Arctic Sea. If he had beady eyes he would fit the description of the kind of gorilla thug used and abused in hardboiled detective thrillers but instead they happen to be wideset, intelligent, and vaguely mischevious. Notably, he's tanned but not in the weatherbeaten way that his commanding officer is.

"You're in Scolopendran waters," Derevlian continues with a jovial half-smile and a voice that recalls the creaking of timber, "so I suppose it wouldn't be, ah... what's the word... remiss, that's it, remiss of me to say 'welcome to the Segments.'"

Liberty-City, State Department Headquarters

"I think they're in, Ms. Sheshet."

The lady peers over the operator's shoulder for a moment, and nods. "They should be landing rather soon. Now let's hope Monningham doesn't screw this up. This is really, really important, Josh. If he screws this up..." - the pause had a certain ominous ring to it. Clearly, Mr. Monningham had better not screw this one up. Josh, in the meanwhile shrugged. "Well, he's the best for the job, isn't he? I mean, it's not like you sent a completely random person there, Vic... I mean, Miss Sheshet."

Sheshet paused. "They are... important, Josh. Or rather, let me restate it in the words of my report: The building of a constructive relationship with the Scolopendrans is key to the future implementation of the conclusions of the Shaminsky Report, the Kagan Report, and the conclusions of the Mayer-Borochov Comittee Investigation and the Congress Inquiry on the Results of the Mayer-Borochov Comittee Investigation." Josh turned around, looking at the Secretary of State with a peculiar look in his eye - clearly he had his own doubts about the whole enterprise. "But, Ms. Sheshet - what is the Mayer-Borochov Comittee Investigation?"

"It's what happens when you have seven thousand Congress members. They go off on tangents and set up silly comittees in order to make themselves look important. At any rate... yes, you're right. The entire thing I just spewed off was just the Congressional way of saying 'very, very important and you better do as I say. For now, 'as I say' means you can take a break for a while. Go fire up one of the old games on your computer or something."

"I don't need to go anywhere, Ms. Sheshet, I'm already in front of my computer."

"Are you intentionally being such a smartass? Jeeze, and I just let you have a break when you're not suppposed to be having one. You know, it's not like I couldn't come up with work for you if I decided to be a... anyway, enjoy your break." -the Secretary smiled besides herself. She was not out of the room yet when the yell "Space Marines, attack!" first tore out of the computer's admittedly lousy sound system. Well at least it's not Hattrick...

Titan

Kreek’neek does not have a problem with the biplane being lifted up and towed onto the cutter - or with any of the procedural bits. He is a rather stereotypical Dohwar specimen - so as long s the humans aren't shooting at him or trying to cuddle him, he really doesn't mind. Yes, sometimes the humans do weird things. After a few years of work for the Allanean government, weird stops bugging you anyway - if it did bug you, and in Kreek'neek's case it never really did. So right now he simply relaxes as the Scolopendrans haul the craft (aircraft? spacecraft? watercraft?) aboard their ship.

There is a little flicking of buttons as he radios the usual polite responses, and then Kreek'neek and the Monninghams await patiently until they are aboard the Tariq ibn Ziyad. Then, the Scolopendrans see the door of the craft slide to the side - like on an old-fashioned Terran seaplane, in fact - and reveal Mr. Monningham in all of his glory. Next to him stands his family and, finally, the penguinoid pilot.


If you can do planet-devastating spacecraft, you can also do very interesting things to the human biology and lifespan. In the age of faster-then-light space travel, it doesn't really matter how old you are - or rather, it does matter, but at least it has no bearing on your looks. In theory, you could remain 16 forever. However, that's not what the Allanean diplomat did. As a matter of fact, Maverick Monningham's hair is a rather respectable shade of gray. He is standing there, upright and proud like a military officer posing for a picture. (He' not really military. He's a graduate of the R.E. Lee Military Academy, though.) He is - physically - around forty-five. How old he is biologically is anybody's guess - and Miriam isn't telling. He is wearing the usual diplomatic suit - the last heritage of the Spanish inquisition, it seemed. This time, the only departure from standard is the Allanean flag pin on it's side.

Miriam looks rather younger - her hair is long and brown, and her skin is deeply tanned - possibly this is because of her husband's previous appointment to the embassy in Kahanistan, or maybe because of the time spent on the beaches of Krasivaya - or perhaps it's artificial. The correct answer is, of course, all three - but again, it's unlikely that Miriam would be telling. She's not at all like that. And just like her husban, she' wearing an officalese suit. Only differnce in the style is that Miriam's suit is dark gray, not black.

Marusia is wearing a long, long skirt - the kind you see young Jewish girls wearing in places where the 'Word of God' is still interpreted the hard way. It's not that the Monninghams are religious - it's just the only 'proper thing' in the family wardrobe off-hand. If you are Jewish, you do need to wear this stuff when visiting your Orthodox family. Even if you do think it's totally idiotic, as Marusia does. She has long, straight black hair falling to her shoulders and long, slender palms and fingers. She is, however, not what you would call beautiful - she is very pale, with a rather too big a nose, thick glasses - an image from 1920's Warsaw come to life again. It does help, of course, that in Allanea this kind of thing is considered rather cute.

Michael Monningham is taller, and perhaps better physically developed. His hair s cut short, and he's wearing a rather simple t-shirt and jeans. Not really proper clothing, but apparently the family could not get the better of him. At least he's not wearing the shirt with the slogan on it. He puts the book in his bag - a regular school bag, if Michael had ever been inside a school building. Hopefully they didn't see what he was reading.

The eldest Monningham smiles back at the Scolopendran officer.

"Good day, Sir. I am, of course, pleased to meet you."

To the three officers and various enlisted ratings on deck, the Allaneans look like five people. They've heard of Sunsetti ambassadorial penguins and so partially rationalize the Dohwar as something akin to that; additionally, the idea of a penguin flying a seaplane may as well be natural given that thinking of the name of the country, or looking too hard at the insignia or writing on the aircraft, tends to make the mind wander and not so much hurt as feel as if it went to sleep like a leg sat upon the wrong way. When one's seen all kinds of critters one tends not to be fazed overmuch by the occasional bout of oddity; if anyone thinks 'one of these things is not like the o-ther' in a sing-song way in his or her head, it's solely because they find the contrast personally amusing. Aside from the penguins the human people are, well, people who happen to be dressed in differing states of formality. The two in business suits essentially meet expectations, and the younger man in casual clothing stands out only slightly as very few of the soldier-come-sailors of Tariq ibn Ziyad's crew would ever hold making a trip in comfortable clothes against someone. The one dressed in the colloquial 'Sunday finest' is the one that, perhaps counterintuitively, stands out the most because of the anachronism suggested; something akin to watching an Amish maiden step out of a fast-food restaurant. Even then, she doesn't stand out much as her own peculiarity is easily justified: she wanted to make a good impression and therefore dressed a bit too formally. It's not her fault they got picked up by the miscellany of the Military Services instead of being met by the prim-and-proper blue-and-black Diplomatic Corps with their army group of forks on the right hand of the plate and their approaching-infinity list of rules of etiquette and forms of address. In other news, no one could have possibly cared less as to what he's reading. Flying around in the backseat is boring, after all. That's what the Mobile Infantry says, at least.

Major Derevlian returns the smile with a slight bow. "Pleasure's all mine, er..." He tries to remember the formal mode of address for an ambassador, pretty sure that the FSS Diplomatic Corps is rather odd for having it just be 'officer.' After deciding he doesn't know it, he proceeds as naturally as he can. "...sir. I was wondering if you're a bit hungry after your flight? We'll have to go belowdecks anyway if we make any sort of real speed and Tiz is a small ship. Not much in the way of niceties and creature comforts, you understand. Still, the officers' wardroom has a bit of room to stretch out in at least."

Turning to Bush, he starts a polite order in habitual Arabic before remembering his guests and reverting back to English so as not to be impolite. "Naq'ib Bush... uh... Captain Bush, if you could inform the bridge to bring us about and make for Blåttfisk, please?"

"Best speed, sir?" Bush replies with just the right amount of interrogative tone mixed with just the right amount of humility, completing the image of the stereotypical ideal adjutant with his hands folded behind his back.

Tagir ponders this for a few moments. On the one hand, best speed is the Mobile Infantry way, yes, but publically it would smack of wanting to get these visitors off his ship, which isn't exactly accurate. On the other hand, his ship is probably no more than an unexpected stop on the way to the DiploCorps and perhaps they would see dallying not as an invitation to stay and thus a compliment but rather a waste of their time. On the gripping hand, the DiploCorps will need time to rush everything they'd prepared from Al Mahdi to Blåttfisk, most of that time will consist of getting things on and off the planes, and it's his ship-come-yacht, dammit. "No, Captain, I don't think we should rush these good folks like freshly picked oranges. Wouldn't be polite, and we have to show proper Arab hospitality, neh? I'm sure that's what Advisor Abd-Al-Haqq would want."

Bush chuckles. Neither of the two officers approach anywhere near the usual Arab stereotype. "Of course, sir." Turning lightly on his heels, he bows with the precise grace of a robot ballerina to the Allaneans. "By your leave, ladies and gentlemen." Another turn and what seems a blink later he's already halfway across the flight deck to the intraship phone mounted on the hull where he can chatter in Arabic to the bridge to his heart's content. Yes, make for Blåttfisk. No, not at full cruise. Try, oh, half and we can split the difference later if we need to.

"If you will follow me," Tagir says with a hospitable motion of his arms before leading the way into the roll-out hangar. A patrol veetol sits crammed into the internal hangar along with its support gear and stores, everything arranged mostly so the rotorcraft resembling a teleporter accident concerning a rather unfortunate beetle and a perhaps more unfortunate modular utility helicopter can be pulled out quickly. While he and the Allaneans thread through pallets labeled "SENSOR BUOYS" and "AMMUNITION, POWERGUN, 20 mm" troopers abaft of them are already pulling out the segmented trapezoidal 'hood' over their seaplane and battening it down at the end of the flight deck. Biplanes have low stall speeds and it wouldn't do for the thing to try and take off of the deck by sheer aerodynamics--unlikely, but still, doesn't hurt to be careful. A quickly undogged door on the starboard end of the forward bulkhead later reveals a passageway that wouldn't at all be out of place in blue-water ships of centuries ago, a narrow steel corridor with exposed pipes and equipment boxes that leaves enough room for perhaps one and a half men to walk down shoulder to shoulder. Enlisted ratings brace against the walls to let the skipper and his guests pass, then get on with their work. They turn to port, then foreward again, dodging around the internal launch bays. Around here the thrum of the cutter's reactors reaches its loudest point, a sort of bassy thrum one probably couldn't whisper over but still not nearly as loud as the obnoxious neighbor who listens to music with heavy beats at all hours of the night. Laying below (going down) a ladder (really a flight of stairs), the bullseyes marking the position inside the ship tick from Deck 1 to Deck 2 and the Major takes another turn port and finally opens up a relatively flimsy metal door into the only compartment approximating a luxurious room aboard the ship.

Actually, it's about as luxurous as a nice but not executive business lounge or a decent library. Compared to the rest of the ship, though, it's the Ritz. It holds a small galley to port, a moderately large dining table that could seat ten in the middle of the compartment, a line of comfortable-looking reading chairs against the starboard bulkhead, and a couch facing a holotube foreward. The furniture is all of the blocky inexpensive-but-comfortable school of design and is probably much lighter than it would look at first glance. "Sorry there's no ports," Tagir says as he pulls out some seats at the dinner table, "but the engineers insisted the Ibn Shad-han-class only have windows on the POB... er... port-operations bridge as a matter of armor protection and stealth. Oh, all the obnoxiousness we've had to deal with on this class in the name of stealth. Is there anything I can get for you? The galley doesn't look like much but is a decent enough cook, assuming that no one here is the kind of gourmant that insists nanolathe patterns don't compare to the home-cooked 'real' thing."

Liberty City, Opera Nationale

People associate Allanea with a variety of differing ways to entertain yourself – gaming, modeling, ship spotting, outdoor orgies and rave parties. Those who know better also associate Allanea with a few pleasures of the more elegant kind. One of these pleasures is opera, introduced to Allanea by the Reichskamphians.

While the attempts of the previous Emperors to introduce Allanea to what they considered proper civilization had largely failed, the baroque buildings, the opera houses and symphony orchestras remained a permanent feature of both Port-Allanea and the new capital, Liberty-City. Especially, one must stress, the opera houses.

The Opera Nationale building is huge as far as opera houses come. It has twenty-five high-luxury ‘presidential’ boxes. One of these boxess is indeed a Presidential Box today – that is, President Kazansky is actually in it. He is, as usual with his appearances in public – wearing his armor suit and his mask. None sees his face – or hears his true voice. As such, nobody can figure out whether he is enjoying the opera – or perhaps not. It remains only to hope his opinion will be posted on his blog. Whether negative or positive, being mentioned on President Kazansky’s blog is publicity, and every business wants publicity.

In the meanwhile, outside, an immense Duesenberger-3000 model speeds down Madison Highway, it’s speedometer showing a three-digit number so obscene it’d surely make an Amestrian clutch his heart. It carries a single person – Victoria Sheshet herself, the Secretary of State. She dodges between two enormous trucks, and steps on it. The futuristic engine – some form of advanced nuclear or fusion reactor, nobody really cares – begins to howl under the Secretary’s not-so-tender ministrations, and becomes a veritable bullet of steel and aluminum, shooting out of the Madison highway as if it was an actual gun barrel.

The Secretary giggles to herself – something about sovereign immunity – as she breaks the intracity speed limit by a few dozen miles per hour, the immense car tearing all the way down Napoleon Bonaparte Avenue. She hits the breaks like a bank robbery driver (or like the stock car racers the President sometimes prefers to watch), the Duesenberger squealing like a butchered pig. She makes her way into the underground parking lots below the Opera Nationale. Only seconds later, she leaps out of the car without opening the door – God bless convertible cars and a good physique. A flunky of some form approaches her immediately.

“Good day, Ms. Sheshet, your ticket please?”

“I don’t need one.”

“Oh, but Ms. Sheshet, just because you’re Secretary of State doesn’t mean you can watch the opera for free! We don’t even let the President…”

She stops for a second, blushing. “Oh no…” -she pauses to read the inscription on the boy’s shirt. –“No, James, I didn’t mean it that way, I’m sorry. I mean, I am going to the President’s box, he already paid for it.”

Now it was the boy’s turn to blush. “I’m terribly sorry Ms. Sheshet, I misunderstood.”

“Not a problem.”

The Presidential Box was of course luxurious. Alexander Kazansky was standing, his hands folded on his chest. He was perfectly motionless, and one could not guess any emotion whatsoever under the steel plate that concealed his feature. It served it’s purpose.

Victoria Sheshet tapped him lightly on his shoulder, and he turned. She did not want to speak, in order not to disrupt the opera. He turned, and she heard a rasping, machine-like voice speak to her.

Good day, Viccy. What kept you?

“Oh nothing, Alex. We sent a diplomatic crew to Titan today. I think you lose the pool.”

“They will actually talk to us? Wow.”

She shuddered at the horrific mechanical tone the machine gave his voice.

“Alex… my God.”

“What, Viccy?”

“Even when I see you without this mask… I know about your curse – and I saw your without your mask… and I still don’t know what you feel.”

“You only see me without my mask when I choose to take it off. That is, when it’s safe. When I feel what I’m supposed to feel. Or… at night.”

“But… Alex…”

“You’re not supposed to know what I feel. Nobody is, okay?”

She shuddered at the mechanical tone. He was speaking. “And I don’t love you. I told you that before.”

“Do you then still…” –she shut up before she asked her question.

On Titan

In the meanwhile, the Monningham family made with their food. They didn’t want to appear as really prolific eaters – and therefore four hamburgers – kosher hamburgers, mind you – were generated by the machine, combined with glasses of really cold soft drinks. They drank them – the elder Monninghams ordinarily, the son, lifting the glass to his mouth like the people whom Gideon didn’t reject, and the daughter, leaving it on the table and sipping it gently through a straw.

In the meanwhile, Kreek’neek made with his favorite food – a small and really cold raw tuna on a plate. “Fish should be cold.” – he explained to the Monninghams. “Cold and raw. You humans – with the exception of the types that prefer sushi – really always get it wrong. You cook your fish. You even do it with spices. And frankly, no. Just no.”

“I suppose you also make soda from it, Kreek’neek?” – asked Michael.

The penguinoid made a shrugging motion. “It’s not a fish flavored soda. It’s a fish-fat flavored soda. I suppose you would never get the difference.”

“No, I refuse to touch this stuff.”

“You would excuse my son’s manners, Kreek’neek.” – smiles Maverick Monningham. The penguinoid mumble-squeaks something polite – he was actually rather enjoying this argument – knowing in full he could not really expect to prove anything to the boy. This kind of argument, however, is done for fun. Not to actually prove anything.

In the meanwhile, Maverick tries to engage the Scolopendran crew in conversation. He asks questions about the Diplomatic Corps and about local politics – and he’s not being very subtle about it.

“Look, I know I’m sitting in your kitchen, being a nuisance, and eating your food. But my job is to speak to your diplomats. And frankly, my career back home could be – let me understate it mildly – affected negatively if I screw up. Let’s just say they still have criminal charges for incompetence in the line of duty.”

He pauses.

“So, do you think your Foreign Service people are going to like us? You know what they say about first impressions and the like, they’re really important.

Other than a jovially bemused smile at the interplay between the Dohwar and the human Allaneans, the older-side-of-middle-aged Major doesn't seem to concern himself too much with how his company eats, or how much, or what exactly is on the plate. He serves everyone else from the nanolathe first--"no, sit, sit, it's my ship so you'd best be accepting my hospitality," he says in a decent impression of the attitude of grandmothers across the 'verse--complete with a few comments concerning a fishing competition last month when he serves Kreek’neek, then serves himself. He just gets a small sandwich, no more than something to nibble on more than anything else, then opens a cabinet and instinctively lets his hand sway towards a bottle filled with a distinctive ruddy liquid before remembering himself, closing the cabinet, and making do with some water.

It isn't difficult in the least to get Tagir to talk, Khayyam's favorite metaphor or no. Subtlety is nowhere near a requisite, given his old sea-dog mentality and apparent refusal to get much offended at much of anything. If nothing else, he only seems a little sad and disappointed, albeit understanding, that Maverick seems to be monopolizing the conversation. "The DiploCorps, eh?" He shrugs and scratches the back of his neck, then reaches forward to pinch some dust off of his green officer's cap sitting on the table as he collects his thoughts. "I've not had to deal with them directly, see, so I don't know much but what I've heard and seen from a distance. They've got a reputation for being professional and seem to expect as much from their opposite numbers from abroad. They're a bit like a military service themselves... more of a military service than other places, I hear, and definitely a uniformed service... and so I suppose they like their titles and customs and courtesies, but not quite the same way as other diplomats do (so I've heard). Hmmm. We've got three grades of Diplomatic Officer; Junior, standard, and Senior. You should refer to any of them as 'Officer.' Nadjiba Abd-Al-Haqq is the International Relations Advisor and thus our top diplomat; her title is 'Officer.' They're generally loose about 'sir' and 'ma'am,' using the philosophy that it's nearly universally applicable. Civil servants are like our enlisted; because 'servant' hardly seems a respectful title we use 'Cis,' prounounced like 'sis.' You know, short for 'sister.' I always thought that was funny."

He's obviously going through stuff he's was trained in a while back. "As for liking you... well, from what I've seen, no reason they shouldn't. 'Sides, let me tell you a story about our philosophy on stuff like that: back in the day the SASD regularly trained foreigners of friends and close allies in basic and advanced technician work so they could go back and make better aircrews wherever they were from. Well, one time this one foreigner worked right hard but still failed the course and so he was shipped back with a bad report card. Glowing recommendations as to his character, but he had no mind for technical things.

"He got back home and, said home not being quite as progressive as we are, his government had him shot for dereliction of duty.

"After that the SASD never failed anyone ever again. They'd get extremely low grades, hairline passing, so they'd automatically be passed over for the people who actually did well. But they didn't fail people. Despite stories to the contrary in some circles, sir, we're not monsters and if we're judgmental we at least try to have the good grace to keep it to ourselves. Like you? Hell, don't see why not. But you shouldn't worry about being blamed for 'incompetence.' We certainly don't shoot the messenger."

And so, the Allaneans sail into port. The rest of the conversation is jovial and light – Kreek’neek even giving the captain what he considers to be some useful advice if one ends up going ice fishing. And eventually – as was just said – the vessel begins approaching its destination.

As the diplomat and his family prepare to descend from the vessel, Maverick looks down on Michael and speaks. “Look, son. You take your sister, go and have fun around town. Try not to do anything silly, okay? After we’re done, we’re going to meet you at the corner Y and N street, okay? Just don’t get yourself arrested. Save this stuff for after we get diplomatic immunity, okay?” – he chuckles.

Michael grumbles inwardly. Oh no. Marusia is such a square sometimes. Out an about with her as a boat anchor? Gee, thanks, Dad. But there isn’t really a choice, and the Monningham offspring head out to have their fun. Well, Michael can’t really have much fun now, but he’s going to try.

And while his parents are dealing with ‘important business’ (How important can it be? They’re just another nation! There’s thousands!), he’s going to get himself (and Marusia, too, she’s not that square) a can of beer.

We’ll see how it goes from there…

Blåttfisk isn't what one would call the biggest city on Titan. A small fishing town on the southern shores of Zakaria Bay, so small that even Tiz dwarfs the small fishing vessels around her. Standing out in the harbor, the MISC crew settles the seaplane back into the water so it can idle in towards the dock, just like it probably should have done in the first place. The appearance of a coastal cutter is something of a surprise treat for the Topside inhabitants of this lazy little town, and the townspeople, of almost every imaginable shape and color associated with healthy humanity, are out in what could be called force to see the pageantry. The town itself takes form as the seaplane approaches the wooden pier; it consists mostly of smallish buildings of Art Deco and Streamline Moderne style, probably made of concrete, painted in various colors, some garish, some not. Further back are a few taller buildings, maybe five stories at most, but they can be counted on one hand and are rather broadly spaced. It's as if someone took the city of Metropolis, threw it into a blender with a smallish European coastal town, and chunked it up before picking out the not-ugly bits and spacing it out. It's quaint in a futuristically retro Raygun Gothic sort of way. To say that government vehicles painted in the sky-blue-and-black scheme associated with the Diplomatic Corps choke the streets would be a lie; there's only two of them, both electric groundcars. That's two more than usual, though, so this is truly a big day for Blåttfisk.

Waiting on the pier as the Monninghams disembark is a woman of average height, wearing a DiploCorps uniform, olive-skinned and with long black shoulder-length hair that curls at the end a little, all naturally. She's not skinny and she certainly isn't even plump; 'solidly built' would seem to fit best although it implies a hardness that would be inaccurate. Standing with a sort of innate regality that screams dignity without condescending, she bows shortly to the Allanean party as they disembark before introducing herself. "Assalamu 'alaikum. I am International Relations Advisor Nadjiba Abd-al-Haqq, and I'm honored to officially welcome you to the Federated Segments of Scolopendra."

Eventually the kids ask permission to leave and it's granted with a smile; it's not so unusual. Uniformed civil servants quietly inform the police to keep an eye on the foreign nationals, just so when they're all funned out they can be directed back to their parents. Cars are boarded and the little motorcade drives to one of the nearer high-rises (such as it is) that happens to be a local hotel. Blåttfisk is something of a tourist town but it's off-season so the requisite hotel conference rooms are free; just like everything else, the wood-paneled conference room gives off the same Art Deco economy of line and minimalism of form that the Scolopendrans seem to like so much.

Nadjiba motions for the ambassador to take a seat, then takes her own. This is something of a delicate dance; she has to see whether or not Maverick is one of those brought up not to sit down until the ladies are seated and then decide when to sit. Nothing in particular is expected in this case; it's just a matter of finding out. Once everybody's down and comfortable, she folds her hands and leans forward. "So, Ambassador. We're a bit far from what will be your embassy; we've arranged for a chartered flight back to Stonozka whenever you're ready. You've had a long trip, though, so we'd like you to relax before you make your connecting flight, so to speak. While we're here, is there anything we can do for you?" The question smacks of asking after more than just Monningham's comfort.

* - * - *

Blåttfisk isn't a happening town, at least not Topside, and it's unlikely that foreigners are going to stumble into the Caves of Steel when all they're looking for is a bar. A bar they do find, or, more accurately, a pub. The name isn't really important; the Roman characters have all sorts of funny circles and umlauts and whatnot above the vowels, making correct pronunciation unlikely at best, and the flowing Arabic script underneath is probably only the best approximation they could come up with. The atmosphere is dark, and yet brightly lit from outside through the picture windows; the floors are tiled in a curious geometric pattern and the bartender is the darkest-skinned Swede the universe has ever known. If one's into racial profiling, one's bound to get confused. Fortunately, such things have never given anything but short shrift in the Segments; if the other patrons are any indicator, this is perfectly normal.

Yes, they have beer. Several different kinds, all good, on tap. Whether the names are recognizable is up for debate. The rest of the clientele ranges in age from young to old, with college-age clientele taking up some tables next to the sparsely-populated bar. When it comes to describing the people, one could get away with 'Swedish-leaning' if one didn't mind being horribly inexact. There is, of course, an Arab influence dominant in about a third, and there's a few expat Noldo (part of Blåttfisk's non-negligible minority culture) sitting in one corner.

Obviously enough, Scolopendran architecture isn’t anywhere like an Allanean city, even though the Ambassador doesn’t see it polite to mention. In Allanea, land is plentiful (partly because Allanea had always been huge, and partly because wars and gifts from foreign powers have been constantly increasing it’s size) – and so, while sky scrapers are considered excellent for corporations, very few people except those thought to be very poor actually live in apartment buildings. As such, Allanean cities are mostly immense spreads of territory covered with cottages of varied shapes – almost like Blåttfisk, you would say, except of course for the five-story buildings. These would likely have no niche in Allanea – except as some rich man’s mansion, surrounded by an immense park or a small hunting lodge.

As for the cars… oh well. They’re totally unlike Allanean cars. There’s a reason why Allanea’s biggest car manufacturer has as its motto the simple words: ‘Not around. Through.’ But again, the Monninghams, compared to most Allaneans, are very polite. And thus they do not say anything. Instead, Maverick Monningham smiles courteously to Nadjiba.

“Good day, Your Honor.

I am most honored to meet you here.”

The Allaneans then follow the directions that are given to them. There seems to be a worked-out ritual for who sits down first – Maverick’s wife after Nadjiba Abd-al-Haqq, and only then Maverick. Not a word is said to coordinate this – it seems such is an instinct for the Monninghams. Which it could in fact be, given Maverick is a graduate of the Robert E. Lee Military Academy.

He pauses a little at Nadjiba’s question. “Well. I suppose I will have to mention certain things. There are gifts in the plane for you and the Speaker. Not very lavish, unfortunately, but I hope you will like them.”

Maverick is of course understating. The gift package constitute a variety of rather expensive picks from the best of Allanean material culture – each of the two packages costs as much as a small car. There is a variety of stuff there – wines in bottles, Stossel Tea, elaborate daggers, coffee, and, interestingly, for each of the Scolopendran dignitaries, an expensive custom-made hat of the kind associated with TwenCen country stars. There is also (packaged separately) a dozen or so hats, one for each member of te Scolopendran government.

The Allanean diplomat continues. “Our main goal is basically to establish a relationship with Scolopendra – to have normal and productive diplomatic relations, an embassy exchange, and so forth. The goal is to establish a way for our nations to talk to each other and to learn about each other. A framework, if you will, for productive international relations. I would, of course, hope that this will be the beginning of a wonderful friendship.”

“There is, however, one interesting issue I would like to discuss. I was instructed by my superiors to inquire about the possibility of an international student exchange between our nations. You of course understand that, given the, umm, stereotypes some people may harbor of Allaneans – and I would not for the moment want to suggest that you personally harbor them – it would be beneficial for our country to both have as many people as possible come and learn about our culture and to have as many people as possible go to other countries and learn about their cultures.”

Then he pauses. “Well, that is all, Your Honor.”

Elsewhere

Two bottles of beer are asked for, and a single glass. Michael watches, with some apprehension, as his sister takes a table and begins pouring the beer into the glass and drinking it rather quietly – getting, as Michael would say, ‘methodically stoned’. He looks about, hoping some guy would hit on her and make this much, much easier. Of course, so far no guy is in sight.

And so he opens his bottle and tilts his head backwards, drinking it ‘like it should be’ – straight from the bottle, swiftly, yet without spilling a drop. It’s not clear how early this boy started drinking, but it’s clear he’d have broken some drinking age law, if his state would have had one. He hopes some local sees him being so cool. But, anyway, he needs another bottle. He goes to get one, while keeping half an eye on his sister.

He returns, only nearly bumping into some lady that seems of the requisite age. He smiles, and with all the social skills of a teenage boy on a hunt, he says:

“Umm, hi.”

Nadjiba chuckles diplomatically, holding her hands up in a subtle form of the universal gesture for pause. "No, please--'Advisor' is fine, 'ma'am' if you must, Ambassador. I'm sorry we have to be different when it comes to titles and forms of address, but we feel it reminds us of the humility that servants of the state need so they remember where their responsibilities lie."

Likewise, all friendly yet professional politeness when it comes to the gifts. "Thank you. We have some little things for you at your new embassy and quarters. I like surprises, but somehow never seem to be able to keep them secret." While she talks, the civil servant riding shotgun quietly murmurs directions in Arabic to take care of the things in the plane before they go bad or anything. The one time those Treznorian dragon steaks went off in the artificial sun... the stench of spicy decay didn't fade from the DiploCorps atrium for two weeks no matter what they did. The Health Directorate was most certainly not amused.

Once everyone is situated, folds her arms, leans forward, and prepares to speak.

At that instant a junior civil servant sneaks in and plants a Federated Segments flag in the corner behind and to the right of Nadjiba, so on the left from the viewpoint of anyone facing her. That it's a junior Civil Servant is determinable from the fact he wears Class Bs with a sky blue shirt (making him Diplomatic Corps) and the black circular patch on each sleeve where military enlisted rank would go have only a single silver-weave bullseye in the exact center. Other, probably higher-ranking, civil servants have circular arcs around that central dot; the more arcs, presumably the higher rank. Nadjiba doesn't show any sign of annoyance at the interruption, or indeed acts as if it is an interruption; she simply pauses in thought for a few moments until the civil servant leaves. "Well, we would like very much to establish a diplomatic embassy in your nation--simply a small mission, as for right now we don't really have any citizens there to worry about and so consulate duties would be extraneous. It's only fair that efforts to establish friendship are mutual, and since you went to the effort to come here we should reciprocate with a similar show of commitment to the cause.

"It's not really my place to determine student exchanges, though; not in entirety. It is partly an educational concern so I would have to confer with Advisor Hertzfeldt, our Science Section Advisor. He'll probably just ask a few questions concerning the curricula of your institutions of higher learning and then he'll vet which ones meet our accreditation requirements. Of course, when he asks I'll make sure he sends a similar dossier over to your staff just in case you've got similar policies that way. It should take a week to vet at maximum, and that's assuming he's unusually busy." She smiles. "Last time I checked, between you and me, he isn't. I'll make sure your requests get expedited.

"Now," she continues, leaning back a bit into her utilitarian yet actually aesthetically pleasing and quite comfortable chair, "is there anything I can get you? Food, drink, a light snack, a filmstrip acquainting you to our great nation?" Her smile suggests both a joke and a willingness to follow through.

* - * - *

Llaugardagurlaurdaglørdaglördag (or something like that)*

Drinking with no intent to taste, a strange accent, and obviously trying too hard.

Foreigner, probably.

Now, the Segments has a relatively cosmopolitan view of foreigners. They're people to learn from, coming from a different social background and different experiences and so generally interesting to talk to. That's the primary motivation that keeps Michael from being blown off by the mild ectomorph he's addressing, despite the fact that she's conservatively dressed but not religiously so. This means she's wearing something that looks a lot like a cross between fatigues and a flight suit--a tremendous number of pockets and most of them apparently in use--and while it's certainly not dumpy one can't say that it draws attention to her thin figure. "Hey." Something in the pronunciation suggests it's not exactly English. "Liking the beer, I see. Here on holiday?" Honest curiosity. "I'm Rakel, one of the regulars. I hope I don't assume too much, but I haven't seen you here before."

* apologies to all people who can actually understand any member of the North Germanic language family.

The Allanean smiles. “Once the embassy is properly established, ma’am, I will arrange for detailed information about Allanea’s leading higher institutions to be submitted to Mr. Hertzfeldt. I would not like to seem unprepared, but unfortunately I do not possess such information off-hand. I am sure, however, that either the Congressional Research And Statistics Service or the Department of Education will be able to provide me with the information needed. I beg your pardon of course.”

The crucial thing is not to screw this up. He again remembered with a shudder what precisely was done to the person who annoyed the Menelmacari to the point that they actually called the Allanean Department of State to scream at the Secretary of State. At least he could calm himself with the thought that he would not be prosecuted for criminal incompetence unless he screwed up really bad.

Granted, given Allanea’s difficult position in the world was caused in part by the rather low quality of the previous generation of diplomats, one could easily understand the concern Allaneans felt when it came to the conduct of their diplomats – and the need for the criminal incompetence statutes. One could also understand Maverick Monningham’s nervousness, as well.

“As for the diplomatic embassy you would like to establish in the United States of Allanea, that would be most easy. All you would have to do is choose a location in Liberty-City – or, should the fancy strike you, elsewhere – and purchase or rent a building there. Generally, our government does not have a problem with any locations for embassies, and unless you keep nuclear explosives in there, nobody really minds. We are a tolerant nation – although some foreign dignitaries think us too tolerant.”

“As for a drink, that would be marvelous. A hot one, though. Our pilot prefers the environment aboard the plane a bit… too cold, in my opinion. His native planet is rather… frosty.”


Somewhere else

Michael has done this thousands of times, so there’s no reason to be embarrassed. After all, what’s the worst thing she could do? Turn him down? Have really strange habits? Been there. Done that.

And so he responds to ‘Rakel’ in kind. “My family are…” - he struggles for a second, not knowing what is the proper way to refer to the nation in front of the locals. The Segments? Scolopendra? Quiet a few Allaneans have not such a bright view of the nation and it’s rulers as the Administration, and while Michael is not one of them, he is rather afraid he’d be taken for some form of intolerant racist jerk – “… here for a diplomatic mission.” This oughta impress. And if she laughs, well, that’s a conversation starter right there. “My name’s Michael. That there is Marusia, my kid sister. She’s sometimes a little… shy.”

Nadjiba looks over at Maverick with an expression of mixed curiosity, very mild confusion (perhaps 'surprise at something unexpected' would be more accurate), and concern. "Please believe me when I say it's not a problem, Ambassador Monningham--certainly nothing to apologize over, though you can have my pardon if it'll make you feel more comfortable. We don't expect anyone to have such, ah, specific information at the drop of a hat. Relax. You're doing fine. The only consequence of you not having an expansive listing of universities, their courses, and the learning objectives in their curricula is that we'll have to wait until you do have them to expedite things." She smiles gently and shrugs. "To be quite honest, we weren't expecting to get anything 'accomplished' before getting back to Stonozka. It's just my policy that talking shop at least a little bit establishes an agenda. Acting with all due haste on the agenda can be left for when it's a little more appropriate. After all, you've just got here."

That being said, she gets up and slides open one of the wooden panels that, up until now, only seemed to have a decorative function along the walls. Leaning conspiratorially close to it, she murmurs something quietly in Arabic; in response, there's some soft metallic clangs and clicks and she turns back with a tray sporting a very modern-looking conical electric samovar (http://www.widerview.com/gg2325.jpg), three handleless teacups, and two small handled bowls of similar modernity to the samovar, both lidded and one with a spout. After bringing the tray back over to the conference table and setting it down, she pours the tea concentrate into each of the three cups and dilutes them down with some of the hot water from the bottom half of the samovar, filling the room with the smell of black tea spiced up with what smells to be some cinnamon and sassafras. She distributes the cups to her guests before taking her own and sitting back down, leaving the cream and sugar out for the Allaneans to cut their tea to taste.

"I could see how that could get uncomfortable. We're not exactly adapted to the temperatures a Dohwar would find homely." The advantage of MISC's foward intelligence meant she could spend a short amount of time looking up some trivia. Due to the somewhat... unusual nature of things, the Federated Segments had more or less no idea who the hell the Allaneans were; the very small amount of research they were able to do before diplomats were on their doorstep like trained attack jobs revealed that not only were the Segments apparently well-known, but well-known in a sort of paranoiac propagandist hackjob. Fortunately the policy so far didn't seem to be 'make best friends with' but instead 'deal nicely' when it came to the Staters. Therefore, what they thought on the whole simply doesn't matter to the disembodied agent of national will that is the DiploCorps. "Anyway, since you're here, do you have any particular questions about the Segments, or a wish to describe your own?" She carefully avoids having to vocalize the brainslide that comes from the concept of 'Allanea.' Working with Agent Simmias on a daily basis is all well and good, but OPO brainspooks are always a curious lot when it comes to fracticality. Even Hesche. Especially Hesche.

* - * - *

"Diplomats, you say? Hmmm. That's a new one." Rakel looks more thoughtful than impressed for a moment, then comes to a conclusion that still doesn't seem overly impressed. Not disdaining, not in the least, but not 'rock star' impressed either. Just an interesting fact filed away. "That means you're probably a marked man. Not in a bad way, but the cops are probably on alert to make sure you stay out of trouble. That probably means up to and including those faux pas called 'diplomatic incidents.'"

Upon the indication that Prowling Foreign Yob has company, Rakel seems more interested in company. No, not that kind. "Well," she says, indicating a table in the corner populated by a decidedly mixed crowd of races, genders, and species, "you and your sister could come hang out with us instead of sitting all alone."

Michael is slightly disturbed by this information – he even glances furtively about, almost expecting to see an Evil Jack Booted Storm Trooper right behind his shoulder, but of course there isn’t one. In the meanwhile, he has much more important things to do. He turns to the crowd – positively, those foreigners may be more civilized that they first appeared – and smiles happily. “Hello people. I’ll be fetching my sister in a moment. Boy, are you going to like that. She’s hot.”

Marusia is there in a second, glass and half-finished bottle in hand. She blushes a bit as she sits down. “Umm… hi. I’m Marusia, Mike’s sister.”

* * * *

No, Maverick Monningham has no desire to ask questions about the Federated Segments. He has spent the last month before his mission studying a variety of trivia about the nation, and so is aware of a variety of stuff starting from the percentage of people who voted for the differing parties last year and ending with the ranking schemes on civil servants’ uniforms. So there’s very little he could ask. On the other hands, it seems Nadjiba gives him an opportunity to do something rather different – an opportunity to the describe Allanea. “Oh. My own nation. That is… rather different then many people abroad think, I’m afraid. It’s not quite like what you expect.”

He begins talking.

The sun rises over Liberty City Harbor – immense, opening out to the Greater Prussian Sea. Immense freighters move slowly into harbor, and between them, legions of yachts, waterbikes, boats dodge like a cloud of colorful butterflies, parasails moving in slow, majestic patterns above the shore, the hum of motors inaudible in the distance. Maverick watches from an observation deck on a corporate skyscraper on the very edge of the commercial district. The sea is in front of him, and he sees the city stretch out and away along the shoreline – thousands and thousands of green yards and home roofs all round the harbor. Red slanted home roofs, multicolored globe-shaped poured-concrete homes, white flat roofs – it almost seems he can spot the recliner seats on top. Every home is a family, a life, a completely different person.

From here, the districts of the city are not visible - all you can see is the caleidoscopic glow of life itself, of millions of different people. Madison Highway can be seen, cutting through the city in it’s sixteen-lane glory, a rainbow-color artery through the heart of Allanea, with cars speeding like bullets to and fro. It would be trite to compare the city to a living being, but here’s the truth: it’s alive.

Maverick continues talking, enchanted perhaps by his own words, or perhaps convinced wrongly that this somehow interests the other diplomat. Or perhaps it does, who knows.

Liberty-City is the new capital of Allanea, so moved after the Emperor of Greater Prussia granted Allanea an immense island in the Greater Prussian Sea. It grew fast, and it is now the very symbol of Allanean life. Imagine, for instance, you’re Maverick Monningham.

Maverick’s car is moving slowly, slowly, through traffic in TrekTown – another suburb of the city. It is a rather large car even by Allanean standards, and it is probably annoying the locals with their miniature electrics. It prowls slowly through traffic, giving Maverick time to look at the pedestrians – some in deep red suits for some reason much too tight, others in black leather with strange metallic bits added. Some have their foreheads surgically modified to look kind of wrinkly. A Dohwar waddles by, carrying groceries, a ‘communicator’ pinned like an immense bit of piercing to it’s white belly. A pair of lovers are kissing in the street, and nobody really minds – even though the girl is as near to naked as one can possibly be. She reminds Maverick of himself and his wife when they were young.

For some reason, Maverick hasn’t been interrupted yet – perhaps the ‘Pendran is too polite, or perhaps this is actually interesting, who knows?

Miriam and Maverick are standing on a hill in the Liberty City Park – a sprawling patch of pure emerald green that would be seen as oversized if not for the immense city that surrounds it. She is wearing a tube top with the words BITE THEM IF YOU DARE on it, a wraparound skirt in crazy psychedelic colors, and, of course, two guns. He is wearing a dark-blue diplomatic suit for some reason – he’s still in the Academy. They look down upon the city – blinking with colorful lights – city lights, house windows and immense commercial banners that you could fly a ship through. Somewhere out there there’s a really big one – on some form of television tower, perhaps – standing out from the city below it. Miriam point to it and smiles. “I love this city. Look at that light. Like a jewel.” He laughs. “Will this do for a wedding ring, dear?”

“I’m sorry.” – Maverick cuts himself short. “I must be boring you.”

Pimping out one's sister is generally considered poor form and thus Maverick moves one step closer to marginalizing himself. Rakel introduces her friends with their various names; the connecting strand seems to be that they are all college students. Beyond that, one's an engineer and another is a communications major, so they run the gamut. They politely and enthusiastically greet Marusia; Michael, not quite so much. Not dismissive, to be sure, but evidently not as enthusiastically.

* - * - *

Yes, because trivia makes the nation. No need for culture when one has statistics and numbers... besides, the difficulty with learning details without direct experience is the tendency to read things in a misleading fashion. The Segments doesn't even have political parties in the traditional sense and to read them as such would be an inaccurate analogy at best.

If Nadjiba's bored, she's not showing it. "No, do continue if you'd like."

In some cases the pimping is mutual – or perhaps Marusia really does think these things about her brother. Whichever it is, what she says could be summarized about like: “Well, this here is my big brother. Don’t listen to him, he’s cooler then he says he is – well, he can be an ass sometimes, but big brothers are always like this. He always wins essay contests and sports trophies and stuff like that. He’s really cool in languages, too, speaks almost as many as I do. But you know what – I can kick his ass in any arr-tee-ess game you like and look good doing it. Say, Absolute War 2. Right, Mike? Remember how you and your buddies played three-on-one on me in that LAN party, I believe we used the Randomistan War mod, and I played as the Ithrandians and totally owned you guys? That rocked.”

“You cheated, sis’.” – replies Michael, but it’s obvious from his tone he doesn’t really mean it.

* - * - *

“No-no, I wouldn’t bother you with it. Of course, you can always visit beautiful Allanea whenever you like. By the way, this Artificial Sophont Flavor stuff I heard of, is it still made?”