NationStates Jolt Archive

Generally speaking, the Allanean embassy in Scolopendra did not exist.

Well, there was a single office, in which Maverick Monningham sat for several hours a day. But it was not a big secret that the embassy had not enough work to do even for this one man – few, if any, Scolopendrans traveled to the United States for any reason, and even when they did, the regulations for anything but an outright application for citizenship would only make for a few seconds of paperwork. As such, one could say Maverick’s job was perfect – he had time to spend with his wife and kids.

But such is the nature of free time and idle hands – as we all know, these are very good friends of the Devil himself – that they lead people to think, and when they think they get ideas. And ideas are dangerous.

Eventually, Maverick Monningham hatches what most people would consider a deranged plan. And then, sooner then any might expect, the plan begins to grow muscles and skin over it’s bones. The first people who are brought into it are the other Monninghams – they will have to play a key role in the bizarre play that Maverick has in mind.

But they are not the only ones. Soon enough, Senator Georgio Adamsky is brought into the game. He is a major shot with one of the smaller coalition parties, and as such he can pull favors – not big favors, but a few that will help, in Maverick’s words, ‘prime the pump’. Former Secretary of State Victoria Sheshet is brought into the game – not openly, but for the favors and advice she can provide. And finally, Cassandra Smith, Maverick’s colleague in Issasrach, is also consulted – before the game can finally begin.

But finally, the arrangements are made, and Maverick feels that he must begin to play The Game – whether it breaks him or makes him.

And so he sits down and begins to type a letter to none less then Nadjiba Abd-al-Haqq herself. It is sent out not by electronic transmission – that is never trustable – but with a sealed package and a living courier who is tasked with delivering the message in person.

The message was simple:

Honorable Advisor!

I have the honor to invite you, not to a formal meeting, but rather to supper with me and my family, to be held at my humble abode on Tuesday evening in three weeks from now. My wife will be cooking, and I am sure you will not be disappointed – neither by the cooking nor by the business side of the discussion.

And so, on the relevant date and time, Nadjiba Abd-al-Haqq was expected at the spacious Monningham apartment – one floor above the small office that counted as ‘the embassy’.

While the luxury was not perhaps what Nadjiba was used to, the cooking would be more then up to par. There was the famous Stossel tea, and there were delicious steaks – Allaneans love red meat – and there was wine and of course there was a wide variety of candy – Allaneans love sweets, no matter how horribly unhealthy that may be.

Marusia and Michael were present, too. Marusia was trying to make herself ‘seen but not heard’ – though her mother did her level best to hint that ‘Marusia is really good at the piano, and she’d play for you if you’d ask, right Marusia?”. Michael was silent, polite, but perhaps overly interested in the sweets.

And of course there were candles. What’s a dinner without candles?

To be perfectly, sincerely, and brutally honest, she had been rueing this day.

In her average workaday life, she could always glance over the A-word in reports without letting it register, knowing that it was just friendly correspondance or saying that Ambassador Monningham had a question concerning the recent quartz deal, perhaps the largest trade ever with... that place valued in maybe the hundreds of thousands of workreps. Relatively cheap stuff, quartz. But now, to be invited, to his place, with constant reminders of who exactly he is and where he comes from... well, she can feel her brain sliding already towards that precarious abyss that most Scolopendrans know about, none of them like, and the reason why they don't really ask questions when maps of different countries end up overlapping on coordinate systems or the latest HELLSING escort carrier comes back from patrol bleeding from every seam. Literally bleeding, in space no less. Things can't do that, but they do, and it's best not to think about it. Willful ignorance really is the best defense against that sort of thing. Dealing with persref and persrec (the latter being more informal) was bad enough. This, dealing with a nation which exists... kinda... so long as they don't ask certain allies and look at certain maps or look at books written during a specific time period, is much, much worse.

Even then, the Monninghams aren't bad people. And the A-place has, well, by all of Agent Simmias' reports, improved. Sure, it was still crazy, but not to the extent it used to be. A more sane sort of crazy, an at least tolerable sort of crazy. The Monninghams, actually, are all very nice, by Nadjiba's reckoning. Sure, the pater familias is somewhat stuffy and the dutiful son is less dutiful and more playful, but they're all generally sincere people who when they aren't polite at least aren't being intentionally rude. Still, the fact remains that they make her sense of reality slip a little bit, sort of like being drunk but in a more sinister way.

Message read and face frozen breezily into a diplomatic smile, she writes out a response by longhand while the courier waits patiently.

Excellency:

I am honored to accept your invitation and thank you for your kindness in offering it. The suggestion of a working dinner is intriguing and I hope it will be as productive for our respective countries as it will be pleasant for us personally.

Sincerely,

ندجيبا الحقعبد
Nadjiba Abd-al-Haqq
Advisor, International Relations Section
Federated Segments of Scolopendra

She waves the paper for a moment for the ink to dry, puts it into an envelope in the official sky blue of the IntRelate section, then seals it before handing it to the courier. Seeing him off with a polite smile, she then considers making a few purchases at the drugstore on the way home from work. Okay, so she wouldn't be having dinner with the family that day. They'd manage, especially once they got an earful of who she was eating with.

Three weeks later and having traded her uniform for a sleek professional blue double-breasted business suit and skirt, she looks at the yellow can in her hand. KarmaCorp TechSystems Fractal-B-Gon, the most powerful aerosol anti-Lovecraftian madness agent available without a prescription or an Office of Psionic Operations license. Side effects include dizziness, shortness of breath, dry mouth, and decreased sexual function. Still, it's a small price to pay considering what happens to people who fall victim to acute brainslide and decide that cutting up their own faces is a pleasant way to pass the time. The cartography office of the Science Section still has a few cases of that every year. Hm, she wonders, why is it in an aerosol can? Probably because everything in the B-Gon line comes in aerosol cans. Let's see... instructions: apply directly to forehead. All right. She points the nozzle awkwardly towards her own brainpan, closes her eyes, and depresses the nozzle valve.

Fsst.

Well, this isn't so bad. A little bit of brushing to put the hair displaced by the lemony-fresh aerosol back into place, a glass of water for the dry mouth, and she's off.

The Monninghams live in a family-sized apartment, probably a bit bigger than standard for industrialized nations for a family of four (but much smaller than the Menelmacari equivalent, mostly due to volume restrictions and a different architectural mindset). So does she. So, other than the decor not having rich (yet inexpensive) rugs and tapestries and cushions being all about, and certainly not having that Arab touch about it, and no prayer mats, she feels well enough at home. Red meat is perfectly good; the Allaneans can make a mean steak, no doubt. Wine is fine, which may come as a surprise given her religious convictions, but these are the Segments and liberalization means that moderation trumps dogmatic restrictions, and well... she's always had a weakness for sweets, which may explain why she has a healthily soft figure despite the Federal Services' mandatory daily PT regimen. She seems perfectly comfortable, even if she drinks water like a fish, and generally follows the Scolopendran ethos of accepting what is offered but not asking for much. If Marusia doesn't want to play the piano, that's fine--she's not a trained monkey--but Nadjiba is careful to agree that she probably is indeed very good at playing the piano. All things considered, the evening probably goes most pleasantly, barring the stress of officialdom suggested by the whole thing.

And candles are always relaxing, especially if they're scented. Everyone likes jasmine.

Well, of course, nobody makes Marusia play the piano – but, to paraphrase a certain oncologist, the definition ‘makes’ is fungible. Enough winking and careful hints from Miriam, and the girl rises and makes several steps towards the old-fashioned black-wooden piano. She sits down there, puts her long, slender (“typical pianist”) fingers on the keys, and plays something from Schubert.

She’s indeed gifted – something that Miriam chooses to underline by rather overt fawning over the ‘little honey’ after the last note is played. “And isn’t she special? Of course, Marusia is who got the brains in the family. Michael is all rather too much into parties and skirt-chasing. Typical seventeen-year-old, really. Though one’d expect him to at least learn to play an instrument…”

“Mother.” – says Michael –“I play the guitar. That counts as an instrument, doesn’t it?”

“Hmm.” – Miriam remains unimpressed. –“He plays the electric guitar. And the saxophone. Not any proper classical instruments, you see – and everybody knows that even if you want to go into modern music, you must first learn to play a classical instrument. It schools the mind for music. But instead, Advisor, Michael prefers to… do this. He even used to be in a band before we moved here – the Howling Monkeys or something like that.”

“It’s the Howling Zombies, Mother.” – says Michael, clearly unmoved by this. After this, he reaches for another bit of chocolate.

After some cheerful munching and friendly chit-chat, Maverick Monningham suddenly becomes stern.

“Your honor, I did not, as you understand, invite you here for a friendly cuppa. I admire you and respect your company greatly, however, at the present, we have an important task ahead of us.”

“As you know, the United States has undergone a variety of reform lately – by virtue of us letting foreign instructors literally take over entire aspects of our Federal Government – may it become as small as to be easily drowned in a kitchen sink. We’ve had Sakkrans retrain our space navy, and we had her Majesty, our Queen, come in from the Eternal Empire and take over the entire thing for a while.”

“You may have noticed that a lot of this has worked – the Diplomatic Service now wears uniforms“ - Monningham was wearing his, a paramilitary dark blue outfit with golden buttons. The famous ‘Allanean hat’ that came with it was hanging prominently off a wall. – “and the Navy is now much less prone to slag planetary surfaces first and ask questions later. The Army has been cured of it’s obsession with oversized vehicles that weigh thousands and thousands of tons, and I understand that her Majesty the Queen had even put the fear of God into the two legislatures.”

“The Diplomatic Service is still afflicted with trouble though – disrespect for common procedure and for foreigners in general, lack of discipline, and complete and general ineptness - and did I mention ordinary corruption and bribery?”

Monningham pauses. “I can tell endless stories about how exactly the Ambassador to Questaria deals with his guests, how the Ambassador to Knootoss settles business, and so forth, but what you know of Allanean diplomats is likely enough”.

“So, here’s what I suggest – and bear in mind that if I get caught suggesting this before it’s performed, I’ll likely be… sanctioned.”

The actual penalty is prosecution on charges ranging from Criminal Incompetence in Public Office, High Treason, and suchlike.

“However, if we succeed, we’ll likely be lauded as heroes. Which is why my children are here in the room – they’re going to be participating in it.”

“My plan is for the Segments to send in a person sufficiently adventurous to try it and yet sufficiently diplomatic to succeed – to take over the United States Foreign Service and bash some brains into it. Of course, this person is going to need help and connections – which I’ll provide to the best of my ability – and some people acquainted with the local culture to serve as a sort of guide to Allanea. I can’t do that myself – I must remain in the Segments to do my official job. Marusia and Michael – though you can’t see it on Michael – are legally adult in Allanea. They can serve as such guides. I have already secured their consent.”

Marusia and Michael both nod – Michael grinning in anticipation , Marusia blushing slightly.

“So, Advisor? Do you know anybody who might be up for a little adventure?"

By now, Maverick's insistence on using 'your honor' no longer really bothers Nadjiba, no matter how many times she's told him to use 'Advisor.' He's just being his usual beyond-local-standards formal, and trying to pay respect. Two can play at that game; still, the phrase lets her know that something important is coming up. She listens attentively and even shows a little surprise beyond what her training would normally allow, which means she's probably positively shocked.

It doesn't quite add up in her mind, but the word 'adventure' brings up a single name into her mind, a name that, despite her best efforts, simply will not go away. No. Not him. Not in something like this. "Hm, Your Excellency... first, let me see if I understand what exactly you are asking. Are you asking for me to supply a diplomatic officer to train your diplomatic service or one to, ah, control it?" She laughs in a noncommittal but perhaps slightly nervous way. "I am dreadfully sorry if the latter is perhaps reading too much into your statements, but the phrase 'take over' has caught me somewhat by surprise."

The Ambassador shrugs. "Well. I would say, 'control with the purpose of training' - the honorable diplomat in question would achieve, with the help of... myself and my associates, a position of power within the Department of State, and de-facto run it - with the view that, when he leaves office, he will leave behind a legacy of actually, errm, competent diplomats.

"Hrm. Trying to, ah, wrest command of foreign diplomatic services is something we don't usually do, and I'm still somewhat curious as to how it should even be possible for the average diplomatic officer." He's not average. Then again, he has better things to do than this, which could be vaguely important and not something I want him on anyway. She still allows herself a little bit of nervousness in her smile. "Such things are not exactly something I should do on my own perogative... but it is intriguing, and if it is the only way we can help..."

She feels herself setting a bad precedent and sighs quietly. Doing things behind the backs of others is for the Intelligence Section, not IntRelate. "Are there any notable prejudices concerning metahuman or nonhuman species, or would that actually be... beneficial?" She knows they're weird, and a second option forms in her head.

"Metahumans?" - Monningham is genuinely stunned - "Antimetahuman sentiment?
Advisor, we have an elven queen and we had a Khristian President. What do you think this is - Iesus Christi?"

A pause.

"I apologize for my... abrupt outburst."

Nadjiba smiles. "Actually, that was the sort of response I was looking for. Hrm." She drums her fingers on the desk. "Doing things so, well, slyly is not really what we should do. However, I can rotate Diplomatic Officer Johnson out to the Allanea post to fulfill whatever roles are appropriate. I'll leave any decision to act to him, although he's a bit more... adventurous as the rest of us. I merely reserve the right to be able to recall him at any point so long as he still draws his pay from my Section. Hopefully that caveat is not too troublesome for you.

"I will admit, I am... leery concerning this endeavor. I cannot argue that it isn't necessary, but neither can I condone it either officially nor personally. I leave the final decision with Officer Johnson, as he will be the one taking the risks if indeed risks are taken. I will, however, keep this conversation in the strictest confidence. In fact, I will do my best to forget I ever had it."

That's what KCTS Memory-B-Gon is for.

The Allanean nods. "I never met you, Advisor. This conversation never took place. I don't know what you're talking about. However, there is a detail I should inquire about: this Mr. Johnson, how will he contact us when his decision is made? You see, my recommendation is for him to travel to Allanea under some pretense. There, my lovely two children shall meet him – say, at his hotel, or at Liberty-City Spaceport."

Michael beams at his father proudly.

"Their responsibility – what I like about my son and daughter is that they don't shun responsibility – will be to serve as his guides to Allanea. They'll guard him against… making mistakes of custom and etiquette, so to speak."

"I would do it myself, but of course I cannot leave my post in the Segments. Officially… they'll be visiting home."

"That is all the details. Thank you for your help, Advisor. I hope this all works out."

"The pretense would be his actual mission: to staff the mission of your opposite number, on our side of things." Nadjiba smirks. "If you're sending your children back for a visit, then they should be a suitable point of contact, no?"

"Quite reasonable, Advisor. Is there anything else that you need to know on this... sensitive issue?"

OOC: Posting because you said I could.

IC:

As an incoming spacecraft or aircraft descends over Liberty-Harbor, the first thing that it will see is five immense statues, plated in brass, seemingly standing on the very surface of the water, their hands raised in greeting. It is not clear from the large altitude who precisely they depict, but even at this distance, one can note the solemn bearing of the giant figures.

Liberty-City is not really a city – at least not in it's last reincarnation it is all. Rather, it is a loose network of counties, spreading for miles and miles in any direction – homes with red, slanted roofs, ball-shaped homes, family cotteges, survivalist dugouts, paper homes, homes made of glass and steel and even vat-grown Pilonese homes – though those are becoming more rare.

Allaneans will rarely agree to live in apartments – an Allanean will rather live in a shanty then an apartment. And so there are precious few apartment buildings. Even corporate towers are few and far between, jutting out of the landscape like loose teeth – the most prominent one, the 'Pilonese Kidney', has been destroyed by the Necrons.

At night, the city glimmers – a sea of lights to the horizon and beyond. However, it's glow is not the radiant beaming of Honk Kong or Marxburg – the city is not a city of skyscrapers. Rather, it is as if below the wings of the landing craft was a strange sea, populated with glowing creatures – the lights do not merge into a single glow. Only the highways cutting through the Liberty-City are beaming arteries of constant light.

* * *

The Liberty-City Airport is still called LCAX. Even though spacecraft land there. Like everything else in Allanea, it's built on the premise that space is abundant and real estate is cheap – and that bigger is, as usual, better.

Such is also Terminal Six, a giant, glass-and-steel structure. Through the roof, the night sky can be seen. Somewhere on the support structure, lights are fixed, washing the giant hall in soft white light. At the sides of the hall – far, far away from where Michael Monningham stands – are stores, peddling everything possible for newcomers. However, the owners of the airport – wisely – restrict these only to the size of the immense hall. That keeps the atmosphere vaguely calm. The air is fresh and cool – perhaps air conditioning somewhere, or just the Liberty-City weather.

Michael is standing, holding two large cardboard cups filled with something cold and fizzy. He smiles to his younger sister.

"Here, your drink."

She lifts her head from the Quassuto tome she's taking notes from. "Thanks, Mike. You know, you're… different."

"I am?" – he doesn't look much different. He is armed, of course, even though it's an airport, but then, that's Allanea. Everybody is. Even Marusia has some form of submachinegun hanging from her shoulder. But otherwise – he's wearing a T-shirt with his favourite band's logo, deep-blue jeans, and a pair of heavy boots, and smiling almost the same way he smiled at the Sakkran party.

"You are, too. You're calm now."

"And you, Miss Monningham, are weird." – grins Michael

"Am not!"

"Are too!"

This goes on for a while, with Marusia pausing to take gulps of her drink through a long straw.

"I wonder though – where is that 'Pendran, after all?"

Well, it sure is different. Diplomatic Officer Marcus Johnson never got out of the habit of looking out the window nearly all the time whenever he's traveling by air. When a city is obviously planned--and even the libertarian spread of Liberty City classifies as a planned city--one can tell, or at least guess, a lot about the inhabitants given: both what they thought they were thinking back then, and the consequences of it now. Look at Brasilia from the air and see the high-rises forming an abstract airliner with a curved wing, and you know that back then they were looking towards a brighter tomorrow aided by technology... and from the highrises, they're probably tired of living in each others' armpits and that explains the much broader and less dense urban spread around it. Here? Well, the Allanean tendency towards libertarian freedom (with a strange sort of totalitarian undercurrent, a subconscious desire for order from the chaos?) is pretty well known, at least by Johnson. He's a bit of a weirdo himself, due to events a little closer to the fractal nature of things than his baseline peers, and so has a natural 'what me worry' attitude towards things going this way and that which would give his more 'reality'-driven comrades brainslide. Still, so where they're coming from is obvious. What's the reasonable, natural consequence of it? Well, I guess that's just one of the things I'm here to find out. The centralized infrastructure that usually makes civilization works generally doesn't grok completely a decentralized lifestyle. There's either going to be chokepoints, infrastructure dominating the countryside, or maybe a little bit of both.

Stepping off the occultly tribalistic HELLSING-modified Scarab utility shuttle--no matter what IntRelate wanted, the OPO didn't feel like taking any chances--and into the usual international terminal grind doesn't bother him much, if at all. It's just another day in the life of a 'Pendran civil servant, and he'd gone international before. Almost never officially, for reasons he couldn't blame his country or his service for, but he'd gone through this before. Mistakes get made, he doesn't care; he gets them straightened out with an easy, folksy nonchalance that tends to put people at ease, even if his physicality tended to raise their eyebrows.

Well, he's wearing the standard sky-blue-and-black Class As of IntRelate, in the usual double-breasted cut of a Triumvirate uniform except with a silver 'S'-shaped centipede on his breast to get across that, no, he's an actual Scolopendran, and equally silver crossed olive branches with single pips in the middle where rank would normally go. This probably already indicates him as something of a fish out of water, given all the propaganda over the years that for reasons of divergent R-branes no one had thought to counter or even acknowledge. Then there's the fact that, despite being quite smooth-skinned, eloquent and enunciating whilst not locquacious, and looks every part the professional diplomat, he happens to be Homo sapiens robustus, better known as a metahuman Ork. A good hundred-ninety-five centimeters tall and massing around ninety-seven kilograms, he'd make a decent bouncer; were he closer to baseline, his skin would be very pale, which is why green happens to be his dominant color. Overall, he would not be considered one of the Triumvirate's stereotypical races.

He was told to expect two young adults and given their picture; that was just something else he reviewed on the trip out and so he recognizes the Monninghams at about the same instant they recognize his uniform. "Ah, there you two are." He has a hefty suitcase in each hand, he immediately sets one down to free up his right hand for enthusiastically folksy handshakes. "Michael and Miriam Monningham, I presume? Officer Marcus Johnson. Sorry for the delay, but no matter where you go the paperwork's always the same, so long as there actually is some sort of higher organization involved. So, what's on the agenda?" He smiles smoothly around his jutting lower canines--not quite tusks, or maybe very small ones, but he speaks easily enough around them--with a slightly mischevious look to his eyes before continuing. "Tho' if I may be so bold, I think dinner's in order first. Where's the closest and-or best place I can get a huge bleeding-rare steak?"

There are many stereotypes about the Allaneans. Some of them are true. Others are not. One of those that are true is their love of meat. And so the nearest place serving meat is in fact based right in the passenger terminal. It is called Predators' Meet, and it is named aptly – there are steaks (tartar, medium, well-done), kebabs, swarma, and there are even hamburgers – if you call something that costs eighty bucks and is nowhere near being fast food a hamburger.

The tables are made of polished red wood, and Michael grins as he drops a handful of colorful banknotes on the counter. "A steak for the gentleman here, and perhaps…" – he names his sister's favorite soft drink – "for the young lady, as well as a hamburger. And a T-bone for me."

Marusia starts to say something, but Michael simply stares at her as they pass to the desk. His father has given him an almost unlimited budget, and he intends to use it, by golly.

"Officer, would you like something cold and fizzly? Or perhaps wine?" – he smiles – "Cold and fizzly always does it for me. Or perhaps cold, fizzly and alcoholic?"

They proceed to the table, and there they make themselves comfortable – Marusia in front of Johnson, and Michael to her left.

"Officer, I suspect you are not going to be starting your work today. But we are. We're going to take you to the Monningham house – our parents are away and will not hurt you." – Marusia grins – "I think I'm going to order a Jeepney there, but starting tomorrow, when we get Dad's car out of storage, I will act as your driver."

She shoots her brother a steely glance. "No, Michael. You do not get to drive it."

"But the fact you are not starting work today, doesn't mean we aren't – in fact, we already started. We're here to be your guides to the nation and everything about it – so if you have any questions at any time…"

"…feel free to ask." – smiles Michael.

"In fact, you should start asking now."

* * *

The Monningham house rather big – three stories and a basement, most of it is unoccupied. It is a very traditional house – much as Maverick Monningham is a traditional man.

Even though Monningham the elder isn't a religious Jew, he practices the traditions – even though he's not quite certain he believes in God. Thus, there are mezuzas at the entrances and a green Quassuto in each of the children's bedrooms. There are also other obvious marks of the father's old-fashioned character – ranging from a fireplace, to old, elaborately-decorated weapons on the walls and photographs of Maverick Monningham during his army days and of Miriam Monningham during her days as Miriam Rosen, hotel receptionist.

The house is full of devices – more so, perhaps, then a Scolopendran house. There's a set of computer-controlled air conditioners, robotic cleaner mice, external cameras, personal computers (that happen to control the house's various electronics), voice-activated microwaves in the kitchen, and so forth. Some of the devices would likely appear to be plain nonsensical – like the voice-controlled microwave, for example.

Of course there are guns – but most of them aren't anywhere obvious. The family safe room is not just a bomb shelter and orty shelter – it's also a gun safe.

And of course, Johnson – during the meal, the journey to the house, and while being shown his bed – is not merely 'free to ask questions', the two insolent youngsters practically shower him with information.

"The five statues are Founders – five people who've contributed to…"

"The Mayor of the City isn't all that important – more and more of stuff like water and roads is done by county councils – makes sense, too, when you grasp the sheer size of it all."

"No, the police wear no uniforms. Just the golden star things, just like before the Split, in the Old West."

"That music? That's coming from the Death Horror Metal club over there. No, that's not Death Metal, that's Death Horror Metal, there's a difference. And that right there is the office of the Body Modification Association of Allanea, they're actually pretty big…"

"Cold, fizzy, and alcoholic will do just fine, my good man," Johnson says in his usual laid-back folksy geniality. Never complain when people are spending a good deal of money on you; either they're wanting to do it, at which point asking them not to is insulting, or they're not, at which point they're just being foolish, as far as Mark is concerned. "I figure there's no time like the present to get acquainted with the local brews. As for starting my job... well, no, of course not tonight. I just got here, after all."

It seems Predators' Meet's atmosphere agrees with him, and he eats his bleeding-rare stake with relish, even if it is bounded by the rules of polite etiquette. "Start asking now, hmmm? Gone from escorts to taskmasters, I see." He laughs quietly--not chuckles, actually laughs. "Ah, well, stuffiness ain't ever been particularly high on my list of character traits to acquire, so I can deal with a few directives from the younger generation. A few, mind."

He smirks from behind his tusks. "Anyway, if it's an inquisition you want... I'm going to have to know the basic social lay of the land, from top to bottom. All those fancy dossiers I usually have to read before going overseas were awfully sparse this time. How do people interact? How do they address each other? What little bits of blather make up small-talk to pass the time, or is silence preferred? What's taboo? What sport should I follow? Silly things like that which give me the requisite professional facade, y'know."

* - * - *

He's a very laid back person and seems to take most everything in stride... and as much as the Monninghams deluge him in information, he's always got another question to ask... or quip to make, depending on how it strikes his sense of humor. "So we got a Death Horror Metal club and a Body Chop Shop right next to each other. Seems fitting, I suppose. Think they get some sort of synergystic creativity kicks off of each other?"

Michael raises an eyebrow. "A sport? That's rather difficult, really…"

But then, suddenly, Marusia interrupts. Her tone is unemotional, stiff, as if she's reciting a sociology lecture:

"The big problem visitors to Allanea sometimes experience is the fact that Allanean culture is highly fractured. As a matter of course, Allaneans follow dozens of different hobbies, subcultures, religions, and so forth – the only thing they have in common is a tenacious willingness to preserve this variety, and an attraction to a certain strange kitch – contemplate, if you will, stereotypical Old American popular culture in terms of social role."

"Marusia!" – glowers the older boy – "You are reciting from your book by memory!"

"From my notes, actually."

"Well, don't do it, you're boring Officer Johnson to death. Look, the point is, everybody in the goddamn country has his weird thing – people suspend themselves from hooks running through their flesh, they dress up like animals, they ship-spot, they taunt Dohwar – not a good idea to take up that one – whatever. But there are a few things that are extremely common. In terms of spectator sports you would be best off if you followed either Rules-Free Wrestling – that's like professional wrestling abroad, except it's not fake, they actually do kick and punch and headlock each other, and sometimes people get hurt really bad – or racing. Racing is really big. There's also people who follow gaming tournaments, but that's stuff that's much more fun to be in then to watch. Same for airsoft. Again, none of these are universally common, but if you follow any of those, you'll be pretty much fine."

Marusia piped up again: "You forget the big one."

"Oh yeah, that. Shooting. Not a spectator sport, but it's really for the best you start doing it – practically everybody in the whole goddamn nation fires a few dozen rounds a month, and a whole lot more people hunt then race. Also – and that's obvious by now – you need to carry a gun. One that's obvious and clearly seen, I don't care if you have a folding Supreme Emperor in your hip pocket, you still need to be carrying a weapon that people can see. It's supposed to be a sort of status thing."

"Now about etiquette… there's two sorts of people in Allanea, the sort that got taught in fancy schools where they teach people how to arrange sporks and knives on a table before dinner and they're really into all sorts of formalities – and there's everybody else, who isn't. But there are two big rules that apply for everybody."

Marusia interjects, her voice becoming stern. "Whatever you do, don't you dare diss something other people do for fun – don't start talking about how furries should 'yiff in hell', or something like that. That's… very, very rude. It's about as smart as spitting on a Kzin's fur. And dueling is legal, so don't do it unless you're very sure of what you're doing."

"Another thing- and I think Michael hasn't got it squared away yet – that the fact most people here don't believe in formalities… wait, I'm getting confused."

Michael takes over again. "Here's the thing. Originally the different rules of politeness were invented to express your respect for the fellow sapient. Now, people here don't mind the actual rules, if they can see that the respect is there. Let me show you. Look over your shoulder."

Pacing through the crowds is an Army officer in a parade uniform, glinting with various medals.

"See the fellow doing the R. Lee. Ermey impression? If I walked up and asked him in a fanbody-polite mode, like, "what's the time, Captain?", he wouldn’t care much about me getting his rank wrong. But if I was like "hey, Colonel, what's the time?", and my tone would be like all 'die-babykiller', he'd be pissed. He'd not show it, but he'd be pissed."

"And people here love politics." – grinned Marusia suddenly – "there's so many things to vote on, there's city councils, county managers, school boards, sheriffs, judges, governors, it's like a never-ending show. And unlike actual sports, everyone follows it."

"That, and gossip." – Michael nods. –"We're worse then a tabloid, like that. Father says it's one of the drawbacks of an individualist culture."

"Huh?" – Marusia stares at her brother.

"Yeah. He says, when societies believe that all important things are achieved by special, talented individuals, rather then community effort, one of the big drawbacks is celebrity cults. That's why you see pictures of the Queen or the President or whoever in barber shops and that's why people care so much about the CEO of Allanean Arms and whom he's fuck- I mean, having an affair with. People will follow CEO's lives, even start fan clubs, like they do with movie stars – and I suspect that we have more movie-star fandom then Scolopendra has."

"Yeah. And speaking of fucking – Allaneans swear far more."

"Oh, damnit it all!" – Michael now swear out loudly – "Marusia, you silly girl, you distracted me from the big, big point!"

"What big point?"

"Look, Officer. There's one really big thing you need to do to fit in here. It's one and a very important thing – you do need to have a hobby. Apart from shooting I mean – unless you're really heavy on that and shoot like a crate of ammo a week. Our previous Secretary of State did scale modeling for example. You need a craze. An obsession. Doesn't matter what it is. Ship-spotting I already mentioned – but you could do wargaming, or bibliophilia, or helldamnitallthrice, start collecting Easter eggs. Of course, it's best if you choose your existing hobby – I'm sure you've got one."

"Anything else you need to know, Officer? Anything you need done in the next few days before we start meeting the really important people?"

* * *
"Sure they do." – grins Marusia – "Our neighbor is in both, so we know."

Both of the Monninghams laugh.

"Racing works. As for shooting, it's surprising how many people don't realize that us Diplomatic Officers go around always armed, though an ice needler is intentionally designed for concealability. Hopefully going to an older school of thought will make up for that." Opening up one of his suitcases, he rummages around until he plants a standard issue Scolopendran ten-millimeter powergun pistol--unloaded, of course--on the table, placed carefully so the business end doesn't point towards anyone. Subtlety is not exactly one of its strong suits, and the iridium-lined barrel is well over three centimeters in internal diameter. It's simply that the resulting beam is about ten millimeters across. Blocky and bulky as it is, it's a respectable weapon. "I doubt I can get away with carrying anything any heavier, but as this tends to blow holes the size of dinner plates in concrete, I guess it will have to do.

"Unfortunately, 'obsessions' aren't exactly my thing, although I do have a hobby of modern anthropology--or, as other people put it, 'collecting kitsch.' Ads, interesting cartons, signs, the sort of stuff people take for granted when it's everywhere, find quaint in five years, and find fascinating in twenty. Back home I've got scads of stuff from yedecemi of various consumer cultures. The Segments aren't quite so good for that, what with the emphasis on building to last and all, but they've got their own. Not making fun of what other people do in their spare time is something of a parallel between us, you know. Doesn't mean people aren't occasionally rude, but the basic rule is everyone's free to do what they want with their free time.

"Gossip's another one of my weak suits, though my friends at IntRelate say I just never shut up." Another self-effacing smile behind the tusks. "At least it's not a hard skill to learn, or anything like that. Saying that a place has more movie-stardom and cults of personality than the Segments is like saying a place has more greenery than Antarctica. Our culture by and large just doesn't work that way--people is people, after all."

He chuckles at the cursing remark. "Hell, I'm sure that's all well and good for you. If I feel the need to blaspheme it's good to know I'm weapons-free. Normally tho' I find the vocabulary a bit limiting."

The day after

The guest bedroom is large and, as Allanean teenagers are wont to say, shiny. The place locks from within – of course, Johnson is given the key. It has a truly enormous bed, and the bedstand is bedecked with different plugs for a computer – and if Johnson didn't bring one, Michael has been instructed to give him his father's 'home PC', or if that doesn't satisfy, his own gaming machine. The stand also has different religious books for the guests – five different books, in fact. All in all, the guest room has a rather 'hotelish' feel to it, which might even make Johnson a bit uncomfortable.

The amenities – bathroom and such – are, of course, attached to the room. A privacy-obsessed guest will never make it obvious that he went to the bathroom – since the outer door of his room will never be open until he comes down to breakfast.

Which, one would expect, is what Johnson eventually does.

Michael has cooked breakfast – if one can call pushing a few buttons cooking.

"Good morning, Mr. Johnson. I'm sorry if you don't find the breakfast as… pleasant as yesterday's food. Next time I'll make Marusia cook."

"Hey!" – the girl pretends to look offended – "I still need to write the Bible Studies essay! I have five more pages…"

"Bah, you don't need to make it that long. It's a goddamn monograph as it is."

After the breakfast is done with, Michael gets up and begins speaking.

"Mr. Johnson, my father has spoken to people who know people – you know how it works. You will be meeting the Secretary of State in two weeks for a job interview. The kind of job interview where it is basically certain you will get the job. I don't know exactly the name of the office you will be given, but basically you will have lots and lots of power over the Department."

"But regardless of this, you need to have a prepared plan for what you will do in office. Now, I understand you already have some plan – but my father – and, I note, my sister" – Marusia blushes and leaves the room – "said there's a person you must meet before you meet the Secretary of State. The guy's name is Kairi Hideyoshi."

He paused.

"He… let's just say he's very useful for you to meet. He knows… everything. But he's… bit… touchy about some things."

"And he won't come to meet us. We must go to meet him. You may find it a bit… uncomfortable, Mr. Johnson. You understand, Kairi isn't very… sociable."

Johnson takes his time getting up, taking advantage of being outside the chain of command for now. The little office that's the opposite number of Maverick's on Titan will survive another day without him, as it essentially must--he's not scheduled to relieve the Diplomatic Officer there for a few more days. Such a delay isn't common, but from what he'd read nothing in particular is really 'common' about this mission. So the regs say that he should at least do 'marginal' (given his age and species bracket, say fifty push-ups, fifty sit-ups, and a mile run) physical training a day. So what. He's not technically on the clock. To quote Dutton's translation of Solzhenitsyn, 'Fuck 'em.'

When he does make his way downstairs, though, it doesn't look like he's slept a wink. Meaning that he looks bright, chipper, and probably a good deal cleaner than he really has to be. His bruises--the extremely non-regulation knickname of International Relations Section black-and-blues--are better pressed than they were when he left the shuttle, which is only understandable given that he's not been sitting in them for a few hours. Apparently his strict adherence to hygiene and uniform regulations has something more to do with a fastidious, perhaps marginally vain, character rather than any sense of obligation to the state. One is almost lead to wonder how he keeps those smallish tusks of his so brilliantly clean.

"Eh, no big. Not every repast can be a feast for kings. 'Sides, were I to have too many meals like yesterday's I'd almost have to turn myself in for bein' bribed. Almost." He winks at the joke, sits down, and grabs the nearest bread-like object and a napkin. Quite fastidious--wouldn't do to get crumbs all over himself. "Plan? No, not really. All I know is your old man has some sort of tricksy plan and it's my choice whether to go with it or not--"

The words 'job interview' bring him up a little short, though he covers it with a momentary glance away with a smirk. "So not only an interview, but a rigged one, eh? Drawin' a paycheck from even a friendly nation could arguably be seen as a conflict of interest... but hey, no one said I even have to see the money, much less spend it. Whole lot of starving orphans in the world, after all... of course, we may be differing here on the meaning of the word 'job.' No worries, I'm no mercenary. If I were, I sure as hell wouldn't have stayed in the Federal Service this long."

The warning just leaves him chuckling some more. "Kid, you've seen your dad. 'Being uncomfortable' is part of a diplomat's job description, as is 'dealing with the unsociable.' That last just means I'm in the right place." Honest, winning smile. "Just let me know flat out what he's touchy over and I'll be sure not to poke that nerve unless it becomes absolutely necessary for the greater cosmopolitical interest of the Federated Segments of Scolopendra."

The boy smiles: "Plan? Dad's plan is basically "install a real expert in charge, and when that's done the expert is going to figure it all out." Yeah, I know. It's not really the world's big plan, but I guess Dad's gotten all too focused on how to put the expert – that being you – in charge and forgot about giving you detailed instructions. Or maybe he actually wanted you to improvise. I don't know."

"At any rate… by not-social I don't mean 'rude', and I don't mean that he has a thing for plastic models of spacedy ships or paints his ears dazzling orange. Kairi is… much, much more asocial then that. By asocial I mean that he literally does not want – or cannot, whatever – be part of society. In Questers they call this a hikikomori and try to give them treatment." – for some reason, Michael seems to be very upset about it. He pauses.

"Look, I'm sorry. I don't have anything against people locking themselves in rooms, it's just… Kairi is… a bit scary. I can't really explain why. I've nothing against hikikomori or anybody else and I had a friend who was one. But Kairi… I can't really explain this. Just imagine someone who is… a bit over my age, but smarter then most adults, and is scary. Serious creepy too, like Doctor Nothing*. This kind of creepy. But he's smart. You need to see him if you want to get real info."

Suddenly, Marusia bursts into the room.

"Michael! Will you stop talking about Kairi like that? He's not like that, okay? He is okay! Stop trying to scare Officer Johnson to death, fine? He's got enough problems as it is! And you know what? No, you cannot drive the car to Kairi's! Because… because it's Dad's car, and I'll drive! Got it?!"

Michael blinks at his sister. "We discussed this yesterday…"

"Shut – the –hell –up!" – Marusia is not herself, one would say. Her face is red, her fists are clenched, and her nostrils flare as if she was not a tiny Jewish girl but something much scarier.

"Officer Johnson, don't listen to him. He's just an overgrown bigot, that's what he is. We're going to Kairi's as soon as you're ready."



OOC notes:

*Doctor Nothing is a character in an Allanean slasher flick, obviously I don't expect Johnson to understand this. :D

Mark smirks again, waving one hand not so much dismissively as defusingly. "So noted. We've got enough contact with sufficiently Eastern societies to know about hikkomori; best way to deal with someone who's decided to cloister himself away is to take as little of his time as possible. He's made his choice in life and that doesn't bother me a bit. After all, it's my job to be social; I sorta doubt he's under similar obligations.

"And hey now, 'bigot' is pretty strong. I haven't met a one yet who can positively adore everyone and everything for who and what they are, no matter what, just because well meaning Aunt Nellies want them to. Your brother," he says gently to Marusia, "has stated a value judgment, yes, but he has remembered to keep it in the scope of himself. Y'know, how he feels, and he realizes it to be a bit on the irrational side. That's how people get past their inherent centrisms and discomforts, as far as I know. As it is, on other trips I've met proper bigots and your brother doesn't really meet my qualifications for one." Going on vacation to Menelmacar probably wasn't the best idea in the world to begin with anyway.

The orc shrugs gently. What'chya gonna do. "That being said, I'm sure we'll get along just fine. If we're all ready, we may as well hit the road."

Some time later

Even if you never come out of your basement, there is some comfort – for at least some people – to be surrounded, physically, by those like you. And when real estate prices are really low, it's really easy to accommodate for such desires – even if you're a dejected online roleplayer with no life but some text-based free-form game, or a programmer, or – as the case may be – a genius political analyst for Liberty Times.

Ergo Blizzard County.

Rumour has it has the county had been founded because some gaming companies bought homes for their most dedicated fans as a form of PR-motivated charity – to fend off accusations that their games were making players into asocial addicts, or something like that. Whatever the case, this is the kind of person that inhabits it – Internet addicts, hikikomori like Kairi, or whoever else just feels the bluish glow of their computer screen is better hten the glow of the sun.

The Monningham car arrives here swiftly – the city is cut by immense strategic highways, and these have no speed limits.

" Michael, who in the seven hells drives like that?" – now it is Marusia that begins to swear as Michael floors the gas pedal of his father's car, and the furlong (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Furlong)-per-hour meter begins to bleep threateningly – 500, 1,000, 1,500…

The wheels screech as the vehicle swerves into a city lane, dropping speed.

"I know what I'm doing…" – a large delivery truck bolts right past them.

"You know, I now understand why in the Segments they have drivers licenses! They don't let people like that drive, right, Officer Johnson?"

Michael doesn't react. He pushes a tiny button on the instrument panel and the vehicle skids to a halt.

"Mr. Officer, we have arrived."

The front lawn of Kairi's house looks like it hasn't been mowed for ages . The automated lawnmower itself lies in the corner of the lawn, abandoned and long-dead. Two large signs are left on the lawn, stating in faded red:

CAREFUL: LANDMINES

Michael is the first to grin and dart across the lawn. "There are no landmines, Offier Johnson, come along! It's just a joke!"

* * *

The meaning of truly advanced anti-aging technology is that everybody can choose their age – you can be forever in 'the prime of your growth', remain at a respectable graying fifty, or – like many Allaneans prefer – remain forever sixteen.

Which is what Kairi is like.

He actually fits the Allanean standard of male beauty rather well –there's the glasses, the pale – not just 'white', but 'unhealthy pale' skin, and the long, almost elven-shaped, fingers. On the other hand, the red hair is matted and bunched-up over his eyes – it's obvious he's neglected it even more then the lawn.

As far as clothing goes, he wears a black shirt with a faded Jaded Sisters* logo, and a pair of pants that look as if they've been washed about five times too often, and of course black bunny slippers.

Kairi's room is, one would say, in order – or at least, bears the marks of a recent and rapid attempts to clean it up.

There's a computer of course, and a single chair occupied by Kairi.

Books line the walls, the floor, and take up space under and on Kairi's bed – though some space has been cleaned up.

"Here. Here. There's some space – " – he says as he nervously brushes stuff down to the floor."

"Here, you can sit here." – he motions his guests to the bed , and then reaches to the fridge under his computer for several nondescript green cans – "Here, iced tea. Or would you like coffee?"

After that, he looks at Mark.

"So, greetings. You must be the man Mr. Monningham and Miss Cameron think can fix the Foreign Service. How can I help?"



OOC:

*random metal band.

"Well, I guess driver's licenses would be more common outsystem where there's more roads and less public infrastructure"--Mark resists inertia just enough to not go bouncing across the cabin, seat belt securely fastened although he occasionally carefully shifts his uniform under it to prevent creasing--"but pilot's licenses are prob'ly about the same... and yes, safety is key for both." He looks out the window at the driver of another vehicle that Michael essentially shoved out of the lane during his emergency maneuver. The driver, understandably angry, flicks Johnson off. The orc, smiling serenely, returns the favor. With the mutual exchange of pleasantries the driver speeds off, Michael changes lanes one more time, then does the skidding-to-a-halt maneuver. For a moment, Johnson wonders where the road block is.

"Hm. Anyway, people tend to follow the rules when they're not only enforced by laws of physics but SAM launchers too." He steps out, notes the land mine sign, notes Michael's willful ignorance of it, shrugs, and simply accepts this in as much time as it takes to smooth out his uniform and concomitantly smooth out his mind into a happy diplomatic facade of good breeding. Mark does, however, keep solely to Michael's beeline, just to be on the safe side, and lets the kid do the scouting. Either he'll blow up or he won't, and either way, Johnson didn't have a thing to do with it.

* - * - *

Kairi is, actually, a bit creepy in Johnson's mind, but not for the seemingly obvious reasons, nor is it personal in the least. Damn. Feel like I'm in a bad Star Trek episode... which was it... oh hell, never been good with titles. "Bonk, bonk, on the 'ead." Heh. Though I think they all died upon reaching puberty, not getting stuck in it. In a world... well... country... well... world, whatever, who cares, fuck 'em, of people visually identifiable as underage, one has wonder what exactly it does to concepts like 'age of consent.' That so many people elect to look that way indicates it as a nominative social trend--rather obvious, that--and that they choose to look sixteen rather than, say, twenty or thirty or whatever is also highly indicative of the culture as a whole.

As a Diplomatic Officer, it's not his place to judge. But hey, fuck 'em, he's only human and so he does it anyway. Without malice, certainly, but he assigns value and finds it far too Greek--to offer a very bad pun--for his tastes. At least the guy tried to clean up, which was a nice gesture. He's read descriptions of hikkomori in fiction and, well, it's an unexpected courtesy when compared to his preconcieved notions. That he's being accepted politely, with more shyness than hostility, is also a welcome difference between his expectations and reality.

Of course, the state of the room contrasts quite a bit with the image of the officer, but he doesn't seem to mind it much. He does pick the cleanest bit of the bed to sit on, though--of course the stain won't transfer, it's old and looks multiply laundered, and it's clean, he knows that, but still--and carefully tries not to scuff his shiny boots on anything on the floor. "Iced tea's fine, thank you."

And then on to introductions. He makes no attempt to offer a hand for shaking or otherwise intrude into Kairi's personal space, instead opting to bow his upper body slightly from his sitting posture. "I guess so." He sounds much more certain and assertive than his words suggest. "Nice to have my talents rated so highly, though I can't figure why. I'm Diplomatic Officer Mark Johnson, and it's a pleasure to meet you." He smirks a bit at the question. "To be perfectly honest, I don't really know. I haven't really been briefed on the 'how' except in that I'm somehow supposed to, ahm, take over your foreign service--preferably from behind the scenes, of course--and make them not stupid no more. Pater familias of present company excluded, of course." He smiles disarmingly at the two Monninghams flanking him. "Now, how I'm supposed exactly to do that I've got not the slightest, but I've been told that you're the guy to seek out. So... here I am, seeking."

Mild shrug. "Got any ideas?"

Kairi shrugs. "I believe that what we have here is the beginnings of a team. Officer Johnson, I believe that you have a somewhat greater expertise in the fields of global diplomacy then the majority of the actual diplomats in the Department of State – with people like the honorable Mr. Monningham being the exception, of course." – he glances at Marusia.

"I also am aware of the details of Mr. Monningham's plan – and, I note the Secretary of State has already approved this plan. It is an excellent plan, inasmuch as it is daring. It is also a horrible plan – pardon me, Miss Monningham – inasmuch as it absolutely lacks detail."

Michael does not appear to be pleased – after all, he just went completely unnoticed. Marusia, in the meanwhile, rests her elbow on the pile of books lying on the edge of the bed, and her cheek on her palm – and simply stares at Kairi.

"The plan is essentially this – you will be appointed Undersecretary for Special Affairs, or some other meaningless something, at the Department of State. You will be endowed with nearly unlimited power within the Department, and, with my aid, will smack Allanean Diplomacy up it's silly little head with a giant Rolled-Up-Newspaper Of Smacking."

"Of course, I understand you have no idea how to do it, and are supposed to improvise. Which has been Mr. Monningham's point all along –he is a fan of improvisation. I, however, am not. Improvisation in affairs of state is a dangerous thing."

"Nevertheless, here is what you have – you have me as an expert in Allanean politics, and the younger Mr. Monningham here as your guide to Allanean society's day-to-day workings – where to eat, whom to brawl with, which bars to visit. Important and often underrated stuff."

Michael shifts color. It appears steam will come out of his ears any minute now.

"At any rate: you know what diplomats should be like – I can tell you what Allanean diplomats are and maybe we can work something from there."

"Allanean politics, Officer Johnson, is a strange subspecies of politics where compromise is not valued – indeed, seen as a form of corruption. Politicians are valued not for what they can achieve, but on what they can prevent the other party from achieving – for endless fear of slippery slopes that will supposedly erode Allanean freedom and prosperity, and in fact the Allanena Way itself."

"You can already see how this erodes the foreign diplomatic effort. But there's worse."

"Ever since the One-Day War, Allanean self-image suffers from a collective inferiority complex of sorts. The Allaneans are proud people – and as such they perennially feel that, since their pride was once put into question, they must forever prove the world wrong by being tough, unbending, and so forth. On the other hand, when they confront someone they cannot deny is their equal in social development and their superior in technology and firepower – like the C'tan, for instance – they resort to pure and simple brown-nosing."

"Now add to this the fact that the foreign policy is reviewed by the Senate – a collection of professional politicians, selected by appointment, literally the very embodiment of conservatism – in the dictionary sense of 'preserving the old', rather then the political sense – the fact that dueling is legal and frequently practiced – and the fact that Allanea's only cadre of potential quality diplomats has mostly departed for the business world – and you will see why we have a hard job ahead of us. Also why I would like the, mmm, female members of this expedition to do something, well, safer."

Marusia blinks, but has no time to say anything.

"My elder brother was killed in one of Allanea's wars. Officially, he's a hero – Liberty Cross, Second Class. My grandfather was killed in the One-Day War – because the generals couldn't call a deal, and were too proud to just explain why they didn't like the deals that were offered to them, and maybe get a deal that'd work – before the Subsentients invaded and what they actually feared happened."

"Officer, I may have been sitting in this room for decades – but it doesn't mean I don't care what happens outside. I understand fully that Allanea has a huge military and will continue to wage wars across the globe – but if we have to produce graveyards full of heroes as our major national industry, maybe, if we actually listened to people in the world, maybe at least the next time we make such a sacrifice, it'll at least be meaningful."

"So… can you improvise something, Officer? Can you teach these people to listen?"

The Scolopendran listens patiently, perhaps noticeably trying to not take any note whatsoever of the rather obvious pink cartoon hearts bubbling out of Marusia's ears and riding back on reflected photons towards Kairi. For someone as naturally and professionally observant as he, that he seems to take no notice of something so blatant probably stands out a bit. As said previously, it's a bit creepy for him. The Segments may be (stereotypically) filled with Muslim nudists and other examples of brain-breaking social evolution, but even they have their limits. At any rate, Kairi's monologue does answer a lot of questions and bring sense to a lot of madness previously observed. Okay, so it was still a sort of schizoid sense, but all madness properly is people acting rationally under irrational rules of conduct.

"Well, sir,"--the first time so far he's used the honorific--"being extemporaneous is a good part of my job, although it's good to hear we've got a somewhat more... structured framework to build on. Dead heroes are a real shaky base to build an economy on, and hell, my own personal feelings on the whole thing sorta preempt me from doing anything other than accepting." He looks firmly at the far-too-young man, making and holding eye contact. "I joined the service because avoiding wars are usually the best way to win 'em, save for those very rare fights which for whatever stupid and sad reasons have to be fought. Luckily for me and mine, our big foes decided to take themselves out of the equation, essentially, and so we haven't had many squabbles for me to prevent. Meanwhile, it sounds like you've more than your fair share. I figure if I help out on this and it works, then I'll have done my part to make the Universe a better place, even in a small way. Hell, even if it doesn't work, it sounds like it's worth a much-needed shot."

"Don't call me 'sir', please, Officer. Name's Kairi. " – the boy tries to shift out of the line of sight – "I think we can work something out, anyway. By the way – I guess Miss Monnigham already told you – there are no landmines on my front lawn. There are limits to how much even I value my privacy. Besides, this is Blizzard County – people here rarely get out of their own homes, much less into those of their neighbors."

"But at any rate, you have six days to work out a plan. We need to figure this out – how do we pitch sanity to the Allanean diplomat?"

"I'll be your walking and talking reference library. And if my own skills are not enough… well, I think Michael knows my actual library as well as I do. Michael?"

Michael grinds his teeth almost audibly.

"Yes, Kairi?."

"You left the car parked outside. This is Blizzard county, but still.."

Michael pales and darts out.

"Anyway, where were we? Yes, my actual library and working out a plan. You're in charge of the team now, Mark. Tell me what you need to know to make your plan work."

The orc nods and returns to his normal folksy not-really-needing-eye-contact style. His point was made; that's all. "Righto, Kairi. I now have an idea of the general state of things and what needs to be done, but that's still not enough to make a proper plan, y'know. What's the current standard operating procedure in your foreign service? How do they address and relate to others, not as a matter of culture or opinion, but as a matter of doctrine? Who in particular is actively keeping back attempts at reform, and how? Are there even any trends or attempts towards reform? On a less exciting front, what manuals of protocol need to be rewritten?

"One of the best ways to teach is by example. While we'll probably end up needin' that newspaper of yours, the stick isn't nearly as good without the carrot. Talking softly and carrying a big stick may force people to listen in the short term, but people don't like being pushed around and they eventually push back. What I need to do is not just show that maintaining the status quo to be a waste of time, but that there's profit to be had in being diplomatic every once in a while." He smirks. "And that diplomacy has nothing to do with brown-nosing. Really, good diplomacy's just the opposite. It's a good deal about image: act like a worm, get treated like a worm, act like a bully, get treated like a bully."

Frowning a bit, he scratches the back of his neck. "Well, sounds like I have my work cut out for me. One question, though, not related to things of national importance and all... what's the deal with the car and parking it outside?"

"It's Liberty-City, Mark. You know, regular old violent crime is rather dangerous here. Break into a home, and chances are there's an angry mother, father, and bunch of kids making really big holes in your anatomy. On the other hand… there's not much real cops. So the best thing to do, if you're a crook and not smart enough to ran cons'n'scams is to steal stuff. And guess what's the most valuable thing you can find in Liberty-City that's left practically unguarded? It's easier to steal a car then pick a pocket, and unless you're one of them Rejistani programmers that hang out here, your car is likely more expensive then what Allaneans have in their pockets."

Marusia giggles. "And the insurance on Dad's car only applies if Dad or Mom are driving it. Dad never really… intended Mike to drive it."

Kairi smiles. "As for the Foreign Service… visualize people with zero respect for procedure and formalities, and with no fashion tastes to speak of. How do you get them to even borderline cooperate with the standards of sanity? The government's solution was to introduce a paramilitary structure. Uniforms, salutes, the works – and military-like titles – from Junior Clerk to Ambassador-General and Undersecretary. This works… kind of. It makes people observe the formalities – but they're meaningless. For most people in the Foreign Service, respect for foreigners is something they at best fake. Badly."

"There has been an attempt by Miss Sheshet to introduce reform – by two means, the introduction of uniforms externally, and second, by putting people in the Foreign Service who graduated in the Robert Edward Lee Military Academy – that thing which the Greater Prussians set up. Posh private school, teaches people to act all like… well, an idealized view of 19th-century European nobles. Kiss the fingers of ladies, bow nicely, wear suits, stuff like that. There' precious few of these – the school puts out a few dozen graduates a year in the entire country."

"Dad graduated there." – Marusia concurs. – "He's always on about that place."

"The manuals of protocol… I personally think they're fine. The problem is, however, that the people following the protocol and going through the motions lack… how should I put it? Think of it as saying "Good morning" to someone. If I said "Good morning" to you and despised you so much you could see it in my eyes and hear it in my voice – you think the fact that I went through the motions and spat the words out would make you feel better about it?"

"Now the thing is, we'll be facing off two forces. One, the fact that most people in the diplomatic service are… well, like that. Any change will have to come from above. And second, major reform will come under scrutiny – likely from the Senate, because they're the ones mostly concerned with foreign policy. But there's also a House
Committee of Foreign Relations, they might take a peek at us too. The point is, the legislature may feel we're being un-Allanean with the change. A lot of them feel that preserving the dominant attitudes, the spirit of the nation, and all that drab, is more important then success. Wait a second."

He taps something on the computer, and a face appears. It's a man that looks middle-aged and extremely stern.

"This here is Senator Friedrich Hesse, and he's the leader of the Senate Constitutionalist Party – they're some part of the coalition now, but he's not [the[/i] most important guy. He commands lots of respect though – integrity, justice, the Allanean Way."

"He's an appointee from Kalandia, and he's… well, mean. Hardline, anti-menelmacari git, thinks we should return to the old era of wearing spray-on latex to international meetings and throwing our feet on tables, and to hell with the world hating us – just so he can have his precious national honor and so forth. He can't get his way, of course – can't turn back the clock, but he'll try and stop us from improving stuff, too. Great example of what we face if it comes to legislature.

"So, politically, it's guys like Hesse. In the Department itself, we'll be stuck with the task of taking people to whom the environment of diplomacy is alien, persuading them to learn new ways, and persuading them to respect us."

"Should be a breeze."

Michael returns.

"I used your garage - I used the controls in the hall to open and close it. I hope you don't mind."

"Not a problem." - Kairi eyes the Son-and-Heir with some barely-concealed disappointment. - "Now where was I?"

"Oh, yes." – Kairi says. – "There's one more person which I must tell you about. It is Reynold Schweinberg, head of the Congressional Committee of Foreign Affairs. It has very little serious influence – Foreign Affairs are not an issue for Congress, it's the Senate that ratifies treaties, just like in some countries before the Break – but he has about fifteen to sixteen million endorsements, depending on the time of day."

"He has tried to garner his committee some press by advocating reform of the Foreign Service, but so far no dice. I do think, however, that, once you get the appointment, you should speak to him."

"Anything else, Officer Johnson?"

The 'Pendran ponders all this for a moment, then sighs. "Sounds like the system needs a good purging. Anyone with any sort of talent will have to be bumped up the line to vet replacements, and it will have to be staggered. Missions to high-value nations will need to get replaced first, and then continue down the line. That will increase resistance, of course, but it will also give it credibility as it won't be done instantly and on the sly. Call it a 'surprise review of the service' and can anyone who doesn't meet standards. We'll have to disguise the test to not really seem like a test, though, so we'll need assistance from other countries. Of course, if your diplomats are that bad, it won't be hard at all to acquire enough dirt on them to get them fired. Those that can be made to learn, well, we'll do our best on those. But some eggs will definitely need breaking." He frowns. He doesn't like the idea, but when the tumor's gotten too large, sometimes massive invasive surgery's the only option left.

"We also have to try and change the concept of national honor a bit. What's the point in thinking yourself honorable when absolutely no one else agrees? How's being an insufferable jerk 'honorable?' Stuff like that--that will require a bit of public-relations spin, I'm thinking, and will have to work hand-in-hand with the internal reeducation."

The orc smirks. "Yeah, reeducation. You see, failures of this sort fall into two categories: failures of knowledge, or failures of will. If we're lucky, a good deal of your diplomatic corps are just bumbling idiots. That can be fixed. Still, from what you said, a good deal are willfully being bad diplomats, and that's something of a harder nut. So we'll just move the latter into administrative roles where they have no interaction with the international scene and their jobs are simple, mundane, and have well-organized rules and regulations on how they need to be done. If they break those rules, well, their careers are over, no? Not only are their careers over but we can point to said rules and regulations in court and say 'you didn't do X, Y, and Z and so you're here.' All by the book and legal. Legal's the important thing.

"I like the school idea, but it's a bit... much. Your dad's so ultraprofessional to be a right stuffed bird. Sure, I'm certain certain pretentious societies require that sort of attention, and so we need more schools after that model. Still, for basic etiquette and customs and courtesies, boot camp equivalents should do fine. Yeah, it's a bit more indoctrinating than one would usually expect from a free country, but if your social norms are actually anti-politeness it's going to be a sort of necessity. That means more PR as we try to sell the idea of serving the country as a diplomat rather than as a meatshield. You'd probably know how to do that better than I would.

"So, any comments on these thoughts?"

Kairi nods. “I do agree with what you said. But for the PR part… I think I’ve got a few ideas. But… you know, I don’t like this…” – Kairi buries his face in his hands – “To really help you, I will have to come out of here. I don’t mean just jog to the store, I’ll have to, well, rejoin society. Come to work at the DoS every day, become an ordinary clerk – so I will be able to advise you on a real-time basis.”

“I’ll… try. If you can use your influence to guarantee I’ll get some form of separate office or room – some dingy old closet if nothing else, just so I may be alone in it – can you please do that when you pass your interview?”

Michael seems completely heartbroken by this, but he says not a word. Marusia, who is positively elated, struggles to keep quiet.

Johnson quirks an eyebrow, paying more attention to Kairi than anyone else. "I guess this means that you don't have telepresence technology or anything like that?" Okay, getting a hikkomori to rejoin society is generally a good thing, but obviously this one isn't doing too bad for himself and there's nothing wrong with hermits. "I mean, sure, done and done, but I'm sure I could finagle a little projector-drone from IntRelate if I asked really nicely."

Kairi shrugs. “Oh, I have my own 3D broadcast gear. It’s somewhere in this room, too.” – he looks around, guiltily. – “I’ll dig for it later. I just thought, you know, that, personal presence is going to be necessary…” he gets lost completely. “Anyway, I…” – he blushes.

Michael gives Kairi an if-looks-could-kill glance and rises. “That deals with that issue.”

Kairi nods. “Yes, that… that does deal with it. Well, I suppose you’ll call me when you need me.”

Miriam suddenly speaks out. "I will call you when I'm home." Her brother wants to say something, but thinks the better of it.

"Well, I trust ya to do what's best for yourself as well as the mission. While it'd probably be more helpful for ya to be up and out in the world, an adjutant made a nervous wreck about socialization ain't an adjutant at all." Mark smiles sympathetically, whilst avoiding eye contact. "'Sup to you."

Nothing much interesting happens in the following week – Johnson passes the job interview, of course.

Marusia procures – and adjusts, using some form of semi-controlled sewing device – an Allanean Foreign Service uniform. It is dark-blue, with the buttons, ranks, and some braiding, down in gold, and it comes with a hat that looks as if it came straight out of a western, except it’s also dark blue and has two crossed quills on it on the front.

Michael finds everything about parking near the Department of State, and then drives the ‘Pendran there – despire all of Marusia’s handwringing.

While the giant car weaves it’s way through traffic, Michael turns to Johnson, and asks:

“Tell me – do you also think Kairi is a bit… strange, now that you’ve met him? It really worries me, the way he…” - he dodges an incoming hovercar just in time – “the way he is so obviously after my baby sister.”

* * *

The Foreign Service is a paramilitary structure – everybody wears dark-blue uniforms, gives more-or-less snappy salutes, and keeps a semblance of order – if only because they’re supposed to be pretending it’s the army.

Even the ‘Pendrans new office is like that. There is a large, too-luxurious redwood table, a few chairs for guests, access for various electronics only Allaneans find useful – and the mandatory gold-brimmed Allanean flag and framed Constitution of Allanea. There is also a portrait of former President Sheshet in her Foreign Service uniform, and a large Statistical Athlas of Allanea, which someone had the stupidity to print on dead tree biomass and drop on the table – in which form it weighs about fifteen kilos.

There is also Reynold Schweinberg, waiting right outside the office. He is furious.

“Yes, I know you just arrived. I also know you’re supposed to be – in fact, if not on paper – the new guy in charge here, second only to the ess-oh-ess. So can you please tell me why everybody in the building is treating me like I’m a lump of seaweed? I demand to receive the answer to my simple inquiry – how does the Foreign Service prepare future diplomats? What structure has been created to select proper candidacies? And they are unable – or, God save us – unwilling to answer me! Mr. Johnson, I know you’re new here, but can you please shout at those people and make them understand that I am a goram Congressman and Committee head, and this is an important issue?”

Really, when one grows up in a society as transparent and comparatively corruption-free as the Segments, the general idea of the fix being in for any given system really is an alien concept. Mark Johnson, for all his folksy realism and earthiness, really has never seen a rigged job interview before. He's seen shoe-in job interviews before, but never a properly rigged one. He finds the whole thing sort of... wanting. Almost offensive to his meritocratic sensibilities, but not quite. Ah well, it's nothing too dirty, and it's that good old realistic way to achieve an idealistic goal. Gotta break some eggs, after all.

He looks as sharp in this uniform as the last one, even if he doesn't much like looking like some sort of antiquarian cavalry officer. One of the things he'd never admit to himself is that one of the minor reasons he joined IntRelate rather than enlisting in the Civilian Defense Corps was IntRelate has no goofy hats. None. It's about appeal, marketing, and to some extent, nice hair. Nice hair doesn't go with goofy hats, and so, no goofy hats are to be found. Which means no regulations concerning when to don or doff the goofy hat, how to salute with the goofy hat on, how that varies from goofy hat to goofy hat, what goofy hats are authorized for what uniform (okay, so that's not such a problem in the Military Services because the garrison cap is never used, the wheel cap always goes with Class As or Bs and the BDU cover obviously always goes with BDUs), and other such silliness. At least it's a good thing that Mark always carries a comb around with him; the problem is always ducking somewhere where he can check his palm mirror and put his pomaded hair back in order without anyone noticing his obvious fastidiousness. People tend not to like the impression that gives, and yet they like nice hair.

Go figure.

Anyway, first day on the job and he's getting yelled at. Mark grins jovially, and amuses himself with the double meaning behind the completely polite, quite happy-go-lucky smile as he stands up respectfully when the Senator enters the room. That this allows him to bring the height and breadth of his orc's stature into play is most certainly completely irrelevant. "Ah, Senator Schweinberg. I was plannin' to drop by and meet ya, but it seems you've got the initiative on me. I'm, uh,"

What the hell was his title again? He proffers his broad hand to distract from the pause.

"Undersecretary Mark Johnson, Special Affairs. Well, I hear you on the, ah, inadequacies of my staff, and I plan on working on that. A good portion of 'em, truth be told, really probably are sufferin' errors of will and 'unwilling' to give you answers. We're gonna find 'em out and give 'em the boot, 'cause we don't need that sort of attitude in the service. The rest, well, yeah, they're probably 'unable.' I'm sure you know the Service is in a sorry state and probably couldn't be trusted to throw a birthday party without accidentally offendin' the guests much less run a state function should it come down to it. We're gonna be going through those and training 'em once we get the materials down, but I haven't been here long enough to even get my chair warm much less put pen to paper, y'see.

"Yeah, accession of Service personnel. Well, what I'm thinkin', is that the local culture in general just doesn't grok too well with the outside world. It's a shame, but there it is. First step is to go recruitin' like the military does and find people with the right mindset: we've got all kinds, after all, and so there's inevitably gonna be a few good guys and gals with broader social skills who'd make good diplomats. Then, like the military, we drill 'em with a sort of boot camp to make sure they learn their manners. It won't be like a proper boot camp; no real breaking-down, but plenty of building-up. We'll train 'em in etiquette and generally talking to people like people, even if said people are a bunch o' boors."

This is actually quite similar to the system used in the Segments. Yes, they do drill to make the spill reflex turn inward instead of outward; spilling things on yourself is generally less offensive than spilling things on other people. Go figure.

"Naturally, there'll be plenty of rack-and-stacking. After the, ah, purge--may as well call a spade a spade--of the current 'unwillings,' we're gonna need as much fresh blood as we can get, so the best of the best will get extra training and shipped out. Preferably get them an apprenticeship under experienced Lee graduates if we can swing it, especially since we'll have to swap those grads to the most important foreign offices. Once they do their midshipman cruise, to steal a different service's shtick, we put 'em where they fit. The better they are, the more important the job we give 'em. Those that don't make the cut do paperwork jobs where they're not gonna insult anyone. Those that rock the boat and by doin' so break the regs... well, they're out. Discharged and they can go join the Army if they want.

"'Course, what we've got right now is too little qualified manpower to do too much, so we're going to have to phone in a lotta consulate jobs, I'm tellin' ya. Outsource what we can that ain't associated with anything confidential, and retract a bit diplomatically. Recall ambassadors what we don't need and are probably going to harm us anyway, and recall some of our best ambassadors to do the trainin' at boot. Those of the Service with foreign experience and whose records don't look like a monkey ridin' a pig will figure those best suited to be put into higher training, just like the Army. After a while, once the pump is primed, the system becomes self-regulatin', you know; give it a few years at most and then good boot grads can go back to boot, use their experience to pick the next crop, and the manpower crunch will resolve itself. Then we get more picky... but that's all for the future, of course.

"Anyway, boardin' schools have been doin' stuff like this for yonks now so I figure its chances of success are of a decently high order of magnitude." Mark smiles. "So while I don't got it all written down quite yet in properly dry and regulatory prose I figure I've got a good basis to start."

The Congressman smiles. “Oh, I apologize. You understand - I think we're on the same side. Right as far as I'm concerned, this place needs fixing, and a lot of fixing, and it needs it fast. But you see, way things work in the legislature, ritual needs observing. That is, it is not sufficient that I realize something is wrong – I must present the legislature with a shiny report. So, me and my, eh, colleagues, have been assembling the shiny report in question for the last few month, and, well... your new subordinates have been basically stonewalling us in everything that has bearing on what the current situation is.”

“As far as we know, most diplomats in the Service today have little formal training, some literally appointed due to whim. I have tons of anecdotal stories – like the guy they sent to negotiate the surrender of Antanjyl – big, semi-literate sort of fellow, unshaven really mean-looking. Spat tobacco all over the negotiations table, they say. But we have no statistics. What sort of education does the average Allanean diplomat have? What tests they pass, if anything? You'd think the foreign service would let me see documents about this. Good Lord, I tried. I've even filed a request with a court, and they've told me they've 'misplaced' their documentation.”


The man goes on like this, ranting about the different failures and abuses in the Foreign Service. It's clear that he doesn't really care if Johnson manages to catch every single word – he's just blowing off months and months of frustration – the anger of an a man who really hates bureaucracies and is tired of all the proverbial sillyness they're famous for.

“So anyway, Undersecretary... I think we're on the same side.”

~~~~

In the meanwhile, Kairi is back at home, dictating. What forms up is an informal reflection of what kinds of embassies Allanea has with what nations, and how those embassies differ from one another.

“First there are the Tier Delta embassies – for nations that don't really like us, and likely never will – like our embassy with Dyelli Beybi. Minimal staff, only really good for bothering with passports for the five or six people who go to these nations in a given year. Then there are Tier Gamma embassies – somewhere above Delta. Beta is for people who are our friends – Derscon, Questers, and so forth. Normally they try and toss some friendly guy there, but they don't bother with looking for Lee graduates for these – after all, Dersconi expect Allaneans to be, well, Allaneans, and they still like us.”

“But the serious stuff is the Tier Alpha embassies – people whom we like, but with whom we are not sure of persistent relations... that's okay, Marusinka, you can rest. We have all the time in the world.”

Marusia stretches. “I'm not really tired.” - she waves her palm nonchalantly.

“Oh really. Your palms hurt. I'm not going to keep you typing if your hands hurt.”

“Well, they do hurt. It not your fault. It's that essay I had to write tonight, for my General History tutor. He prepares me for the college exams since Dad is in the Segments and I am her.”

“You want to be an historian?” - Kairi asks - “But that's, like, really hard.”

“Kairi, you've been here too long.” - Marusia smiles - “You can't get a good job in business without at least a B.A. in the humanities, and a masters' degree in history will mean I'm free to do whatever I want. Of course...”

“Of course, you want to become a doctor of history, don't you?” - Kairi winks and chuckles conspiratorially.

“Hey! That's not funny!” - the girl blushes.

“No, it isn't.” - Kairi is now smiling widely - “It's cool though.”

I think he's getting the hang of this 'people' thing better then I expected. – ponders Marusia.

“So, how do people keep the different nations' politicos from getting offended that we sent a Tier Delta and not a Tier Gamma ambassador?”

“Well, there's not an official grading. It's just what the different types of embassies are called in internal report. Often, not even the ambassadors know their exact tier – though of course they can guess approximately.”

“Can you explain this Tier Alpha thing to me in normal terms, before we figure out what to write for Mark?”

“Sure. Way this works is like that. Imagine a country we like, but we're not quite certain of the relationship – the Dersconi are going to be our friends for the foreseeable future, but what about, say, the necrons? So we put embassies in these nations – in Menelmacar, in the Necrontyr Empire, in Knootoss, in the Segments – yes, I'm not trying to flatter you, your dad is among Allanea's best diplomats. It's not his fault that he barely does anything. It's not him that sets foreign policy, you know.”

“Point.”`

“Now, let's try and formulate something nice-sounding for Mark to work with, shall we?”


~~~

"Well, good to hear we're on the same side." Mark sits back down. "I'll get right on the shufflin'."

* - * - *

One report by his host family and a hikkomori later, he's got a pretty firm idea about what needs to be done.

Tier Beta stays exactly where they're at, for now. They will eventually be replaced, as there's no room for any sort of rot in the system. However, as things stand, they're less damaging where they are than they would be canned back home (that can happen later, after the new system works). Actually, Tier Beta gets voluntold for some information management: reports to them will be kept strictly by-the-book and on a need-to-know basis. They don't need to know the system is going to be reformed in such a way that they won't fit very well in it; all they'll get is grapevine rumor and as Tier Beta nations don't give a damn anyway they'll basically get to keep their terms until they're rotated out, commended for their service, and promptly fired. In a good way. With a pension... wait, no, it's unlikely the Allaneans do things like that. Ah well. With an honorable discharge, a few shiny tin Mickey Mouse medals, and a line to some corp job they'd be well suited for, like testing food additives.

Caution: side effects may include chills, runny nose, depression, and spontaneous cephalic combustion.

Tier Alpha, for the most part, needs to be recalled. Allanea as it is right now isn't going to profit in the least by dealing directly with 'maybe' nations, who greet the nice diplomat with a smile but look rather concernedly at the whole nation of crazies behind the diplomat's back. As long as Allanea is widely seen as a random assortment of fetishists, warmongers, war criminals, and libertarian wingnuts that drop trou and sing "Die Fahne hoch" for anyone in a uniform, they're not going to get much of anywhere with the 'credible' people they'd like to curry favor with. No, the rational Alpha diplomats are most useful back home making more rational Alpha diplomats, not trying to put icing on shit and trying to sell it as chocolate cake.

Hrm. Is Allanea so deregulated that someone could actually get away with that? Well, up until the point that someone decided to go vigilante on him and blow his head off with a rocket-propelled grenade launcher.

Tier Deltas are basically phone-in jobs. Those that are useful for training should be recalled to assist the Alphas. Those that aren't find themselves in the same boat as Betas. Tier Gammas actually serve some sort of diplomatic purpose and so those at the very least have to be filled by marginally qualified diplomats. Gamma losers will be the only ones immediately brought back to be paperpushers at home, and later canned if they're put-up-or-shut-up quotient doesn't happen to be up to the task of continuing to get a paycheck without being an asshole to foreigners. Several Alphas are reassigned to Gamma states as that's where they'll be the most use in helping the image and improving relations, as well as providing trial-by-fire locations for apprenticeships (Betas are useless for such things as the host nations don't care and they're by-and-large staffed by muffleys anyway).

Finally, selling the idea. Initial thoughts about asking military recruiters for help... well... rejected. The military produces "heroes," better known in the parlance of more rational sorts as "stone-dead motherfuckers," and people with death-wishes should not be diplomats. Now one thing Allaneans love to do is show how great their system is compared to all those blood-sucking foreigners. The trick is to get all the people who are:

1) honestly interested in open discourse with other nations (ha!).
2) looking to show off the superiority of the Allanean system.
3) prefer to avoid dying, and
4) prefer to avoid violence at all.

Officer Johnson isn't about to try this himself. He's a diplomat, not a salesman--and the two are different. No, that's what hiring the services of a very successful marketing firm is for.

Get 'em into boot, drill 'em, weed out the crazies, send out the acceptable ones for further training. Weed out the crazies in higher training, weed out the ones that just don't cut it, weed out the ones who can't be convinced that leading by quiet example is the best way to show off, send out the decent ones for apprenticeships. Weed out the ones who can't keep within the regulations, weed out the ones who piss off their hosts (and their hosts happen to be in the right, as accidents do happen), bring the successful ones back to help the Alphas train the next batch.

And finally... back to that marketing firm. Hook 'em while they're young, before they get to wearing fursuits inside gimp gear while hanging upside down from meathooks and being whipped by visually underage boys wielding foam pool noodles. Convince kids that rebelling against their chaotic parents by being dedicated citizens of the world is cool. Hey, learn a different language and not just how to curse people out. That'll really cheese off your square parents. Get a pen pal in a different country and open up a friendly dialogue. Compliment them on their system of governance or economics should you feel like it. Admit your own system may have faults. Your uncool parents will absolutely fucking flip into a bucket.

Who's going to pay for all of this, plus lobby all the senators to keep their mouths shut? Corporations, of course. Corporate sponsorship, in the mode of a reverse protection scheme. It's quite simple. Mostly people buy stuff from Allanean Arms because AA builds guns that kill people. They're well-tested guns. People outside the Betas don't tend to buy anything else as, well, Allanean products are about as appealing to them as the aforementioned 'chocolate cake.' Better relations with other nations mean broader markets in which to sell things and opportunities to break AA's stranglehold in various market sectors. Helping diplomacy by selling the concept and selling the culture means helping one's corp's own wallet in the end. It'd be really unfortunate if the foreign markets continued to stagnate, after all. It'd be really nice to sell to people who aren't mouthbreathing knuckledraggers, as "They love it in Auman, almost as much as they love helping to melt their own country!" isn't exactly the greatest sales pitch one could ask for.

Lady Whiteadder: "COLD is just GOD'S way of telling us to burn more Catholics!" When one's closer allies seem to agree with this statement, some guilt by association is inevitable.

Mark doesn't aim to change the entire culture. That would be decidedly unScolopendran. Sort of. A counterculture of vaguely rational people would be nice, though.

And so, the first stage of the program began to be implemented almost immediately. In the various Alpha-stage countries, Allanean embassies were temporarily shut down, and the Department sent out form notes to the nations involved, to the basic tune of: “We are horribly sorry, this is really not because we have anything against your country, but rather due to internal reforms in the Foreign Service. Some basic clerks will be retained on-site to handle stuff like import papers and visas. Again, our most sincere apologies.”

~~~

The tip of Marusia’s nose was a bit red, and her eyes looked as if she was crying a lot. “That’s an awesome plan, Mr. Johnson. Just a few corrections and stuff, though.”

“First of all, people do buy Allanean stuff abroad – just not in countries you’re familiar with. Not in Tarasovka, for instance, but in Leafanistan, Pan-Arab Barronia, places like that. That’s rather important, and here’s why.”

“Mister Johnson, I have a plan. A brilliant plan. Now I know I’m just a kid in your country, but down here I’m an adult woman, and I think you should listen to me or at least hear me out.”

She dropped a sheet of paper on the table. It read: DEMENTED EXAMINATION BOARD, LIBERTY CITY. “Heard of those people? Demented Schooling.”

“They provide what is called ‘education and schooling services’. In other words, they run schools, kindergartens, and sell home schooling packages, like the one my family used for me.” – Marusia grins – “Oh, and they do examinations – they’re also an independent, centralized examination board. By the way, that sheet is mine. I just finished high school, three years early at that*. I’m now my own woman, Mr. Johnson, fit to go to college and all.”

The grades are just what one would expect from Marusia: All A’s, some with little stars added to show how great she is.

“But where was I? Yes. The main bit about Dee-Ess, they’re international. Most of their students are not Allaneans – actually, they have more students abroad that there’s students to be taught in Allanea. Now think of this – they produce people trained in foreign languages, and it is their mission – or so they see it – to spread Allanean culture abroad.”

The girl pauses to sniffle again. “Pardon me, Mr. Johnson. Also about that languages thing – learning languages is very important in Allanea. It’s the only thing in which our people really did agree with the Sentient occupiers. But here’s my greater point: Demented Schooling prides itself on how easy it is for their graduates to find jobs in government and in big corporations – the Army, Allanean Arms, Cute Bunny Burger, the National Rifle Association, you name it. They even have these shiny career opportunity programs for graduates – they prep people in these programs even since they’ve hit fourteen. So I figure, if we talk to them, surely they’d cobble some Potential Diplomat Spotting and Preparation Program for us…”

And yet it appears that, for some reason, she finds the whole prospect downright tragic.

“Also, Kairi says…” – sniffle – “Kairi says…” – another sniffle, collapsing into convulsive sobs.

“Oh God. Oh God, why does my life suck so much, Mr. Johnson?”

* * *

It takes some time and some emails by Kairi, but eventually a woman of a most un-Allanean appearance appears in Mark’s office.

Visualize a lady of about forty – at least appearing that way – looking unbelievably stern, and wearing a long beige dress that looks as if it comes right out of the 19th century, while leaning on a lasgun that’s designed to look like a period-correct flintlock for the dress. Which, of course, is how the conversation starts.

“Good day. Would you mind if I put this rifle right here in the corner? It’s a bit uncomfy. I mostly carry it in public to make the right impression on the regular people**. Oh, and – mea culpa, how terribly rude of me – I forgot to introduce myself.”

“I am Baroness Amalia von Stossel. Me and my husband co-own Stossel Tea, Limited. My husband immigrated from Reichskamphen to Allanea to raise tea. World-famous tea. Even some members of the Menelmacari royal family drink Stossel Tea. But I am not here in my capacity as a representative of Stossel Tea solely. Rather, I am here in my function as the Chairwoman of the Board of Directors of the Liberty League.”

“You may have heard of the Old American organization that opposed Franklin Roosevelt? The Allanean Liberty League is inspired on that. You see, when Allanea was founded, some of the people had concerns that big business would “sell its soul to the ever-growing state” – pardon me the high-winded libertarian rhetoric – and so some people got together and created the Liberty League. It’s a group of industry leaders who are pledged to use their political influence and donations to protect the Allanean System – you know what I mean. It was thought at the time that it would become just another lobby – but in fact, it became a way for citizens to track companies’ political activity. It’s a bit complex, but the point is, the Liberty League ensures that the interest of companies like mine is to preserve the Allanean Way.”

“Which brings us to why I am here. I have received…vague information about what you’re doing. And I was authorized by the Board to tell you that we have a sizeable warchest and are willing to help implanting and promoting the plan, should you let us in on the details.”


OOC:

* In theory, Allanean high school can go on until you’re 19, three years after you’re legally an adult.
**Assume blue to be Quenya.

“That’s an awesome plan, Mr. Johnson. Just a few corrections and stuff, though.” <snip>
"I expect the page to be bleeding red ink after all the necessary edits," Mark says goodnaturedly, trying to find exactly where he can put his bloody silly hat. Eventually he discovers the file cabinet drawer in his desk is empty so he puts the problematic headgear in there and slams it shut. At her comment about her age and worth as a person he looks up with surprise--not up as much as may be expected, given just how tall he is, but still up--and quirks an almost elvishly fine eyebrow. "'From the mouth of babes,' an' all that. Just 'cause you're a kid doesn' mean you can't have good ideas."

He nods where appropriate and comments appropriately concerning her very good marks, complimenting her with a sincere smile even while he waits for her to get to the point. Which she eventually comes to down a meandering road. "Excellent. I'll get to contactin' them right away."

Then she collapses like a soap opera actor aiming for an Emmy. Or perhaps a Hammy. At first Mark sweeps the room for a first aid kit or something fearing she's hurt, then relaxes a bit at her utterance of woe. Goddamn teenagers. "Well, uhm... maybe it only seems like it sucks. Sometimes the big picture's sorta hard to see. If you talk about it, maybe I could offer another view or sumptin'... can I get you a glass of water?"

* - * - *

It takes some time and some emails by Kairi, but eventually a woman of a most un-Allanean appearance appears in Mark’s office. <snip>
Hell, Johnson saw enough people toting longarms in the Segments, although such wasn't exactly the fashion. No utility in carrying something like that, really, unless someone is trying to mug you from thirty meters away. Even Federal Police bluecrabs preferred snubnosed SMGs and the like... ah well. Not really a big deal. He motions for her to go right on ahead, complete with verbal confirmation: "Of course, go right on ahead."

And then she speaks in Quenya. He knows it's Quenya, or maybe super-fancy Swedish, but then again, he actually knows Swedish and this isn't it. See, Mark is something of a natural polyglot and so he never really cared to go for the voluntary cybernetic augments that about half of IntRelate has now: language translators nestled beside the inner ear, knowledgebase headware that allows for understanding the language at a translated level, voicejackers to speak languages without natural knowledge. The orc believes firmly in traduce, trattori and he's neither comfortable with nor can afford direct brain transcribes of the data. Sure, he could have an engram taken for a knowledgeware chip that would expand on his own gray matter, but he doesn't like the thought of having a copy of his brain patterns floating around somewhere.

Fact is, he doesn't know Quenya, and the reason he didn't bother learning it is because he really wouldn't go over well on a mission to the Eternal Noldorin Empire. The whole Arda thing had really limited his opportunites to go out and see the world, after all. That and all those damned fantasy novels. It's as if everyone expects me to scream primally, dab my hand in white paint, slap myself in the face, scream 'WAAAAAUUUUUUUGH' and start tearing people limb from limb. Cinnamon on toast, it's annoying to get those looks at a cocktail party...

Anyway, he stands, bows, accepts the hand. "Undersecretary Mark Johnson. Please, have a seat."

Then he gets treated to some professional background, a history lesson, and a touch of ideology. He gets the point rather quickly. The problem is that the active words in play happen to be in elfy la-la-laions rather than something he can actually comprehend. Still 'willing to help implant and promote the plan' is pretty clear. "Alright, then, the plan. The plan is basically this: to reform the diplomatic corps to not only make it more effective internationally, but to better sell Allanea (and its business ventures) to the world as whole. This'll require evolving the corps to better fit customer expectations, but the core competency of representing Allanea internationally will of course remain unchanged." He conveniently leaves out the part concerning starting a counterculture.

“Well..” – there’s of course a glass of water available somewhere – “It’s Kairi. I mean, he loves me. I know he does, he stares at me like he really is my age, I know the look, I’m not stupid. And… he’s being so goddamn responsible. I think… I think he thinks it would be bad for him to… eh, ‘be’ with me because...” – she stumbles – “because he’s not really my age. “ – she sniffles, her face reddening with anger – “You know how this pisses me off? As if I was a baby, damn it! I’m a damn adult! I’m not some stupid dumb slut he should be afraid to have too much influence on, I’m my own person, goddamnit all thrice to hell!”

She gulps some more water. – “I’m sorry for becoming so unhinged, Mister Johnson. It’s just… you know how some teachers refuse to have relationship with their own students? I think Kairi is like that about me. Oh god. I know that he feels the way I do, that’s the bad thing. He loves me, but he thinks I’m too much of a baby to…” – she gulps. – “I mean, if he didn’t love me, that’d be okay, that happens sometimes, I could take that, but this…”

* * * *

It was not – so far - a lot like a revolution. It was more like a puzzle beginning to crawl into place. Even the anti-Menelmacari Congressmen seemed to have shut up for a moment – although it may have possibly been because they expected the temporary withdrawal of ambassadors to become an official withdrawal, which was something they were rooting for for ages.

Allanean Arms donated a large sum of money towards the founding of a new Campus of International Relations at Concord University, and the elder Monningham was invited to teach there when it would built, and offered an honorary degree by the university. Professor Prik’week, the Chairman of the Board, was of course very offended by this – “I thought foreigners were there so we could use them for large-scale psychological experiments on them’, he said jokingly – but he decided that it was a good idea nevertheless.

It appeared that people with diplomatic training were not only needed for the State Department. They were also needed by major corporations that needed to market themselves – and the Allanean culture – better abroad.

The many previous attempts – Reichskamphian, Menelmacari, and even Sentient – to educate a ‘better, saner Allanean’ have not succeeded, but they left a small percentage of people who soaked the foreign cultures in well. They were the people like Maverick Monningham, the Baroness, or Marusia. Now, suddenly, their talents were much more in demand – and they began to slowly come out of the woodwork.

* * * *

Kairi in the meanwhile sat in a tiny office in the Department and worked. He compiled and sent to Johnson summaries about Allanea’s state abroad based on the media, and also gave rather good summaries – at least as he himself thought – about the opinions of different key people. (“The conservatives think that, the anarchists say this, the Association of Whiskey Spillers thinks…”)

And so came the Questarian-NATO war. Allanea had not wanted to fight in it, but it was attacked by Questarians. Mainland Allanea was far from the focus of the fighting, and the complex realities of it had little to do with Mark, except for him noticing more recruitment posters on the streets, propaganda videos on the online sharing sites, and so forth.

But in the middle of this was a scandal for Kairi to handle. Apparently, some Ardan diplomats were complaining about the behavior of the Allanean armed forces and that, it appeared, could strain the relations between Allanea and Scandavian states.

He began to dial…

“See, the Ardans are complaining about us having used chemical and bioweapons on some Commonwealth city. They don’t mind us firebombing the Azahan government twice and killing over a million people, but the bioweapons pushed them over the edge. They screamed at the President and at Alex, too, but I don’t think they’ve gotten it.”

“No, I can’t explain the nonsense of the war to you, Mr. Johnson. There’s hell of a lot of fronts, and Sasha is handling the job well… in terms of killing the enemy, advancing, and so forth. But their methods are sometimes… Not only has he been blowing civilian stuff up, but also he got the President’s authorization to make those really arrogant addresses insulting the people we were fighting, being seriously rude – you know his style when he was President himself? Like that. I think we should go and slap him upside the head about the Army completely ignoring the fact what they do reflects on us. I know we are separate branches of government, but first of all, this is Allanea, and second, they’re being seriously damaging to what we are supposed to be doing, even officially. And I think being slapped accross the head would do Sasha some good.“

Mark suppresses a groan, and rather adroitly, too. He's not in the IntRelate for nothing, after all. The groan not only has to do with the rather obnoxious Romantic-era star-crossed lovers' love which dare not speak its name, but because of the particular love which dare not speak its name in question. Kairi's creepy factor (and, being representative of a good chunk of Allanea, the squick factor of the entire country) increases by an order of magnitude even while Johnson's respect for his professionalism and good judgment go up a bit more than that... even if he is a creepy sort-of-pedo.

Damned local sexuality and its absurdly low age of consent. I sure as hell had no idea what I was talking about when I was sixteen. "Well," he says not so much as to buy time as to just let his folksy nature spool up, "the Ancient Greeks tended to think people weren't fully grown, mature adults until they were around thirty or so, so I've heard." It was a class on Aristotlean Ethics, he thinks the teacher probably knew what she was talking about. "Not that that has any bearin' on what they thought about sexuality, obviously, heh."

Now. How to say 'you're probably a bit too young to make an adult decision' without saying exactly that. "Now, there's a good reason teachers don't have relationships with their own students. It'd be a conflict of interest. You can't quite expect a teacher to grade her lover's tests to the same standard as everyone else's as it puts a lot of emotional strain on her, right? She's gotta live up to the standards, but doesn't want to do wrong by her lover. Right now, you're working for, or at least with, Kairi after a fashion and he's trying to be professional, not letting a relationship cloud the mission or anythin' like that. He's also giving you both time to think it through, knowing each other professionally, and prevent anyone from hopping into anything too hastily." Never mind you're the one running on a biological clock that social convention forced out of date several centuries ago in most civilized societies. "He's probably got more reservations about himself than you so let's give 'im the benefit of the doubt."

If there's any way a smartly-dressed orc who takes great pride in the skill and effort put into his daily ablutions and stands a few hairs more than two meters tall can look sweet and commiserating, almost motherly, Mark does it. At the very least, he tries his best. "We've got an important job, Marusia, and you've done excellently so far. I couldn'a gotten this far without you. I need you to keep your chin up so we can get the job done. Now if there's anythin' I can do to help, jus' ask, but I really do need you to keep as even a keel through all this as you can. All right?"

* - * - *

Good news requires the carrying on to... just... carry on.

* - * - *

Mark blinks, looks rather skewed, opens his desk drawer, pops two pills from an over-the-counter bottle sufficiently covered by his green mitt to prevent the label being anywhere near legible, puts the bottle back in the drawer and closes it swiftly. After a moment, he raises an eyebrow, even if Kairi can't see it. "They like toting around absurd floaty flamethrowers because for some reason purging a mountain valley with fire sounds like some sort of a good idea to them. Still, it doesn't matter who the messenger is if the message has value. I thought you guys got taught not to do those sorts of things anymore or something."

He sighs. "Whatever. Yes, this will set things back a good bit. I know the bioattack was a joint decision and, well, I can't take care of that on my own. Still, you're right--we should get the army in line with not actively damaging our own mission without direct orders from people above us. So, what should we do to knock some sense into 'im?"

Marusia nods – “You’re right of course, Mister Johnson. So, do you have anything for me to do next?”

* * *

Kairi can be heard chuckling on the other end.

“How old do you think I am, Mr. Johnson? I may have spent thirty years in seclusion, but I am much older then that. You see, I am really old. Bioenhancements being what they are, let us just say I predate the very Break that was the cause of Scolopendra – and Allanea, by the way – being founded. I’m what they call here a Founder – that is, I was one of the people that actually went to that coast with Sasha and created Allanea.”

“You see, I was born in Japan in the pre-Break era. I was… yes, I liked seclusion even then, and my family didn’t think that was okay, and they tried to fix that. And I… well, the point is, I met Sasha. He had a promise for us – a place that we wouldn’t just be legally allowed to do what we wanted, and nobody would try to fix us. He wanted me on his analyst team – about a few dozens of us, sitting in basements, looking at newspapers.”

“He carried it out, and then I lived in various basements and homes, did various things. Sometimes I came out of my room and did thing – that’s why I say I lived alone for thirty years, it’s actually more than that, but I came out thirty years ago. The last time I came out was to live as a fisherman in the Haven Straights… I’m stranger then you think. But the point is, I know Sasha in person. Oh, we were’nt close friends, but he still remembers the people who were with him when he went and got the big thing done.”

“Now, the thing is, when the people who are world-renowned for being… well, Arda, bitch at us about our tactics, it may be a problem with us, not them. That’s what I meant. And you need to see Sasha’s propaganda – they’re dropping those nasty leaflets over people’s cities, playing on all the bad rumors people in the Commonwealth believe about us – “yes, the big nasty Allaneans are coming and you better surrender right quick,”, this sort of stuff.”

“So yeah, I think we should just drop by and they’ll let you and me through to him, or maybe we should visit him at his mansion. You’ve seen his TV show, yes? That mansion.”

"Well, I'm havin' trouble with these demographics reports." Mark thumps one hand on the rather authoritative Demographic Report of the United States of Allanea, Volume Somenumber, Whateveryearitis. It's authoritative that nearly every 150-strong monkeysphere in the country is practically a demographic unto itself, with delineations more or less analogous to the extremely subtle variations between Amish Ordnungs which would cause offense if you accidentally accused a button-wearing Amish of being part of a non-button-wearing community. Whether piercers prefer electrum or silver. Broad-aspect furries versus herpataphiles versus lycanthropes versus people who like transformation and nothing but. Very detailed, this book is, and very comprehensive. "I figger it's a matter of lookin' at the animal kingdom by going by the subspecies level... hrm, not the most diplomatic thing I've ever said, but I'm sure you know me well enough that you won't take my analogy amiss." He smiles tuskily.

* - * - *

Okay, so Kairi is really, really, really crazy old thanks to medical technology.

That's fine, he can handle that.

Still, he thought that this 'Sasha' fellow (Russian diminutive? That's sorta odd) wasn't any more important than some sort of top-Army-brass goon. However, working off of context, 'Sasha' is not only a Founder but the Founder, which suggests one thing. This is not something Mark wants to think about too deeply, as they guy's been assassinated at least once, refuses to die, and generally holds the ill will of a good deal of the civilized world. "Okay, I tried bluffin' through and it didn't work. Tell me, who is this 'Sasha' guy?"

He already knows the answer. He just needs to hear it to believe it.

“So, do you want to 'occupy the little girl so she is distracted from her sorrows', eh?” - Marusia smiles a little - “Sometimes adu – I mean, older people – can be so shallow, you know? But nevermind, I'm not angry.” - she makes a warding motion, as if to ward off an apology - “I'm really not, it really is what I need. I just hope it's something useful.”

A pause.

“So, tell me, what is it you need to know? I think it'll be faster if we used the online version, too. I think Concord Uni has one up on their site, or something.”

She wipes her eyes clean and moves a chair up. “So what's the mission on this?”

~~~

For a second, Kairi giggles. “I am sorry. I thought it was obvious. Alexander Kazansky, of course, the Fieldmarshal. Bogeyman for most of the world, God-King for his silly fanboys, Sasha to those who have actually been there. Oh, he has faults, no doubt. But he has his own brand of awesomeness, too.”

Johnson makes a very sporting and perhaps even successful attempt to look puppy-dog hurt. "Tha's not it at all, and I'm hurt you'd even think it. Of course it's important, didn't I jus' say so?" He shakes his head and shrugs. "Ah well. Anyway, as suggested, it's a bit too detailed for my needs. I just need to know how well these ideas will mesh with Joe Everyman, or at leas' the closest thin' one gets to Joe Everyman aroun' this place."

* - * - *

Well, great. "Well, great. Okay, let's do this thing anyway, then."

Marusia looks at the book, as if she was evaluating it in a book store and wondering if it was worth it's prices. “Very well. So our idea is to use existing structures to train people for interaction with the outside world, and create a mini-culture of diplomats, so to speak. In effect, instead of having a thousand subcultures sprout per week, you want to start yet another one artificially. Very well, would you like it to be submitted in writing?”

~~

Kairi nods as he begins to type awkwardly with his free hand. “So, where do you want us to catch him? At home or at one of his offices? I think at home would be better – if we can catch him there with all the incessant violence in Haven. He found time to sing at the Tocrowkian charity concerts, though, so I think we could manage that, too. Either way, I'll take you there. The best way to get to both the Permanent Strategic Forts and the Island is to use the government's portal system. It's kind of like the one the elves have, but far less developed.”

And so a few days later a sleepy-eyed Marusia came back in Johnson's office and dropped off several pages of double-spaced writing on his desk. “Here. I looked at the various polls, demographic patterns, and the Demographic Report data, and this is what I cam up with. If you need more detail, I can show you my notes at any time, Mr. Johnson."




SUCCESS POTENTIAL OF THE JOHNSON PROGRAM IN LIGHT OF CURRENT ALLANEAN CULTURAL AND SOCIAL TRENDS

By: Marusia Monningham




Generally speaking, the Allaneans are considered to be ill-suited for diplomacy. To this contribute several factors – the general disregard for traditional dress codes within the majority of United States population, the patriotism – bordering on jingoism – of Allanea's population, and the general traditions of Allanean politics.[1] These traditions, while guaranteeing the longterm survival of the Allanean political and social system against internal pressure, do not good diplomats breed.

However, attempts have been made, throughout the history of Allanea, to reform Allanean culture, and to introduce a greater ability for interaction with other nations. The first such attempt was made by the Sentient Peoples' occupation government during the aftermath of the One-Day War, and has been later followed by attempts by the Greater Prussian Imperial Government, and private entities, most particularly the various Prostestant churches[2] and the Demented Schooling Corporation. The latest plan to improve the capacity of the Allanean people for diplomatic interaction is hereby referred to as the Johnson Program.[3]


What is the Johnson Program? As it stands, it is a plan, by Lieutenant Mark Johnson of the Scolopendran Foreign Service (currently of the United States Deparment of State) to create a cadre of competent diplomats for the employment of the Allanean Foreign Service, and to create a meaningful subculture of men capable of diplomacy that will support this cadre. This is planned to be achieved by creating courses in a variety of public and private schools that will explain the basics of international relations, teach foreign languages, and otherwise prepare Allaneans for interaction with interaction with foreigners. Graduates of the program will proceed to high-intensity training with the Department of State and will become diplomats and ambassadors in Allanea's missions throughout the world.

It is clear that not all graduates of such programs will be able to find employment with the DoS, however it is hoped that this effort would also create, as a consequence, a small subculture of people with the understanding of international diplomacy, or at least of the value thereof, which will tend to support responsible behavior by the government of the United States.

In this form, this plan would have been doomed to failure, as Allaneans, as mentioned above, do not take kindly to open attempts to modify their culture artificially. However, certain unforeseen factors, if used intelligently by the supporters of the Program, will make it's success not only possible, but even nearly guaranteed.

On one hand, a large proportion of the needed base skills are already taught in schools – specifically the language skills and a wide variety of foreign history classes are available in most respectable Allanean schools and homeschooling curricula. On the other, it would be untrue to say Allaneans are completely without respect for foreigners. For example, Menelmacar, Praetonia, Tarasovka, Derscon and Reichskhamphen are among nations which command the respect of Allaneans regardless of their current policy towards the United States.

Furthermore, as beginnings of the necessary social institutes, there exist a limited amount of schools, societies, and individuals who are, in a way, leftovers from previous campaigns of reform – for example, graduates of the Robert Edwards Lee Military Academy, students who have been brought up by Menelmacari tutors, and so forth. Further, as mentioned before, Allanean schooling, being humanitarian in nature, is especially suited for installation of the program.

Additionally speaking, there is a variety of communities which, due to their unique quirks, are more suited then others to becoming interested in foreign cultures. Of interest are various reenactors, roleplayers, model collectors (consider in this vein the former Secretary of State Victoria Sheshet[4]), and, again, tea afficionados, souvenir collectors as well as various sci-fi and fantasy fandoms.[5]

On the demand side, not only the government needs professional diplomats, but private corporations. Already now the Allanean Liberty League is cooperating with the Johnson program and sponsoring the creation of the necessary classes out of their own self-interest. This avenue of enlisting the aid of the private sector is potentially even more productive then using government channels, as it will not require legislative approval. As such, organisations like the LL will have to be secured at least in the auxiliary role.

As such, the task ahead of us is not like that of drawing a painting. It is more like assembling a giant picture puzzle, with the pieces already itching to be moved into place. As long as we do not act too rashly, all will fall into place.

As a final note, one must issue one's own PR recommendations. While it is not likely to be advisable for Mr. Johnson to openly advocate cultural engineering, it is perhaps best if he at least engages in some PR activities for his cause and perhaps tries to appear more Allanean (her Majesty the Queen had at one point attended a Stossel Tea Convention). Some form of sovenir collectors' convention, given Mr. Johnson's hobbies, would be the best.

One believes that following the above advice would become advantageous to the success of the Program. The key, again, is subtlety and, to follow the puzzle metaphor, letting the pieces crawl into the place where they already fit.

Footnotes

[1] In his Allanean Political Life, p.445, Samuel Mirrington says: “Having derived their political tradition not merely from American and post-American libertarian and conservative thinkers, but from mythologized depiction thereof, the Allaneans believe, among other things, is that 'preventing bad laws from passing is more important then passing good ones. As such, politicians are not as much valued for what they are capable of achieving, but what they prevent the opponent from achieving.

[2] Approximately 20% of Allaneans self-identify as Christians, of those the majority are protestant. This dovetails nicely with the following major demographies: big game hunter, wargamer, survivalist, tea afficionado, Independent Separatism, and several dozen sci-fi fandoms, as well as several other overlapping groups. See alsoDemographic Report of the United States of Allanea On CD, 56th edition, and A Sociologial Study of Sci-Fi and Fantasy Fandoms in Allanea by Ogami Hotomoshi.

[3] The term is originally used by Kairi Hideyoshi, in his Tentative Report on the Johnson Program, DoS index 5677-566-b.

[4] Naraleth Arashan, “Victoria Sheshet: The Straight And Narrow Path”, p.34

[5]It is perhaps worthwile to quote Samuel Mirrington again: “Allanean political self-identification is rarely based on what they do for a living. More often then not, people will self-identify based on what they do for entertainment. As such, the Gamers and Roleplayers Association of Allanea is a far more powerful lobby then any Union of Allanean Widget-Makers could ever hope to be.” (p. 120 of Allanean Political Life

Bibliography

Demographic Report of the United States of Allanea On CD, 56th edition, Allanean News Network Publishing, Port-Allanea, Allanea

Arashan, Naraleth, Victoria Sheshet: The Straight And Narrow Path Tephet-Sheta, the C'tan Empire

Davis, Michael, The Informal Reality, Weirdness Publishing, Port-Allanea

Hideyoshi, Kairi, Tentative Report on the Johnson Program, DoS index 5677-566-b.

Hotomoshi, Ogami, A Sociologial Study of Sci-Fi and Fantasy Fandoms in Allanea Concord University Publishing, Liberty-City, Allanea

Morrington, Samuel, Allanean Political Life, Concord University Publishing, Liberty-City, Allanea

Apparently the good Officer--not Lieutenant, Diplomatic Officer, why can no one ever seem to get such a basic title right... ah well, and he flips the page--Johnson needs to get a hobby. Well, perhaps not so much get a hobby as to follow his current hobbies to the point of neurosis. Somehow I figger I'm going to get really tired of cultural ephemera by the time this all blows over. With a sigh, he pulls up a directory and starts searching for the nearest antique stores, curio shops, and swapmeets. Of course, there's probably a damned Allanean Kitsch Collector's Cabal Convention somewhere. For a theoretically chaotically libertarian capitalist nation, these people get scarily close to syndicalism.

Now if he has to live up to the stereotype of the slightly haggard yet obsessive-compulsive collector of knick-knacks who always seems disheveled despite taking great care on their appearance and whose fashion sense extends solely to shades of brown, he is not going to be amused. At all.

* - * - *

"You arrange it, I'll do it." Mark shrugs on his end of the phone. "Whatever'll work'll do. I mean, the PR angle on this war's practically shot anyway so there probably isn't the greatest rush."

And so, a week later, Michael would drive Johnson to a convention in ‘downtown’ Liberty-City. It was a long drive, and Michael did not make it pleasant. He spoke not a word throughout the entire two-hour drive, and he was even worse at controlling the giant vehicle then usual. Sometimes, Michael’s cellphone would ring, but he did not pick it up until the car stopped in front of a large, flat-looking building. On the entrance were written the words: Finagle Convention Hall.

The convention was just like any other collector convention in the universe – except, of course, for the fact, that some of the collectors obviously had other hobbies asides from kitch and wore ‘appropriate’ clothing – a re-nactor in a period Iraqstani uniform, a LARPer in a chainmail shirt, and even a fellow in a fake Space Marine armor suit could be seen.

Overall, however, the people were generally better dressed then most Allaneans. They wore comparatively conservative clothing – buttoned shirts, black shoes, pocket protectors – hell, two people even wore ties.

Interestingly enough, the convention had an Army recruiter desk, marked with the slogan: “Want street-name plaques? Get one from London! Join the Mechanized Infantry!” He looked very lonely, though, and nobody really spoke to him – except for Michael, who found the desk apparently very interesting.

It took a few minutes until someone recognized Johnson. Then he was stormed by a whole bunch of reporters – from CollectorsWeekly, kitschblog.all, and other such media.

“Excuse me, Mr. Johnson? Can you comment on Senator’s Hesse’s Menelmacari Exclusion Act?” – the Act was a measure to make the closing of the embassy in Menelmacar permanent. It had 3 co-sponsors and was about to safely die once it got out of committee – “What exactly is the mysterious Johnson Program? How does your hobby as a collector influence your professional views? What is the Department’s plan for post-war Haven? When did you become a collector?” – and so on and on.

* * *

Kairi takes Johnson to Kazansky-Island himself. He uses a tiny gravitic craft jointly made by FACS and Allanean engineers. He pilots it deftly through the rain over Liberty-City, and into the sea.

“You know, Marusia is very smart for her age.” – notes Kairi as the vehicle reaches speeds more appropriate for a Spitfire then a personal minigravship – “I’ve read her report for you, you’d think a… more experienced person wrote it. What do you make of it yourself, Mr. Johnson?”

The island is finally seen, first on the vehicle’s dashboard screens, then by the naked eye.

At first, it doesn’t seen like there’s much to it – most of the island looks empty, except for a historically-accurate replica of a pre-Break suburban home (red roof, pool, and everything) and a small hangar and boat shed on one end, and of course a running track that goes around the entire thing.

“That’s where he had his pool parties – you know, the ones he did when he had that lame television show of his?” – Kairi points at the pool. “He stopped the minute the show ended. Probably had some point with them. I don’t know what point though. Anyway, the island is kept lush and green by drones. There are no sapient servants – he used to have an armorer, but he fired her. The really cool stuff – a library, a huge gun collection, and so forth – are underground. Anyway, see that stripe of land that’s all so suspiciously fla? That’s a runway. Let me try and land.”

Kazansky is waiting by the runway. He looks tired – more so then he looks on television. His eyes are reddish for some reason, and he carries a small flask in his hand. His clothes are black, as usual – and way too light for this rain.

“Hello, baby Kairi!” – he says without any emotion, but “baby Kairi” looks positively impressed. “So, I see you decided to come out of your shelter and see me. Do I assume correctly you’ve ruined your life completely?” – he smiles sadly.

Kairi laughs. “No, no, it’ll take some time for me to ruin my life, given I don’t have one. So no. But I was helping this man here a favor. Let me…”

“No need for introductions. Mark Johnson, eh? I am pleased to meet you. I am no longer in charge, but I do keep track. Come in, why are we standing in this rain?”

The house looks bigger from the inside then it is from within – and, somehow, Kairi manages to somehow step into a side corridor, and leave Mark and Alex alone as they enter Kazansky’s room.

Visualize, if you can, a mixture between a boy’s room and high-ranking official’s office. There is a variety of strange features – a large flat screen on one of the walls, a laptop, an Allanean flag on a stand in the corner, and a woman’s photograph on one of the walls. While that is an official portrait, made in the manner people make portraits of Presidents and Kings, anybody whoever read an unauthorized biography of Kazansky knows he didn’t put a portrait of Miriel nos Feanor on his wall just because she was the President.

There’s a folding cot made as part of one of the walls – permanently unfolded and messy like hell. On the bed lie parts of Kazansky’s parade uniform, among a variety of torn clothes, a laptop, and what looks like a gun made to hunt dinosaurs leaning against it.

“Don’t sit there. Sit here.” – Kazansky pulls up one of those large leather chairs, and sits down behind what is a derangedly oversized desk, flooded with papers, books, and so on. Interestingly, there is also a neatly folded white scarf. ( http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=12408957&postcount=63) – the only neat thing in the room. There’s a half-empty bottle of vodka, for which Alex immediately reaches. “Want me to pour you some? I’m just in the mood to get fixed with a hundred grams. And by the by, I’d like to hear what brings you here. Is there a way you want me to help your… reforms I’ve been hearing about?”

Yup. Definitely not his scene, especially with the sudden presence of media-types breathing down his neck with no sense of personal space nor professional decorum. Ah well, if they're not going to make a line and ask politely, he'll just have to answer in such a way so his pronouns lack antecedents. They give him no other choice.

He just smiles, mostly standing over the press, and answers in his usual, folksy voice, quite unhurried and quite unconcerned if their chatter drowns him out. That's their problem, not his. He doesn't have to speak up over them. "He's got the right to put forward such legislation, it's more a state of mind than anything else, I guess a lot of stuff accumulates in this brain of mine and I gotta apply it somehow, we're looking to perhaps play the good guys for once instead of aiming for the spoils, and I've been collecting things since I was knee-high to a grasshopper."

He smiles serenely, a combat smile. He can take this, and can keep this up until the end of time.

* - * - *

Johnson sits where he's told, not doing much but to make sure the atrocious housekeeping doesn't somehow infect his attire. Not that any of it really strikes him as surprising; really, it's just pitiful after a fashion. "Sure, I'll take some," he says in response to Kazansky's offer, offering a quick "fisehatak" in salute before downing it.

"Down to business then. Concerning how you can help with my reforms..." He coughs daintily, then looks rather stern. Being an orc has its advantages. "First of all, you can keep your damn mouth shut. Here I am trying to give your nation some credibility and it doesn't help when you're running about being publically smug. Doesn't matter that you're putting down the enemy, no sir, you're being childish on the international stage and due to a long history of you personally being, in the public eye, the whole country of Allanea they ascribe your traits to it, however unfairly. That's been givin' me more trouble than mere words should, and it makes me grind my molars in a way my dentist don't appreciate.

"Then there's a matter of tactics. I ain't a soldier. I can't and won't tell you how to be one. But surely them Sakkrans taught ya something, right? It's sort of hard to spin the good-guy make-the-world-safe-for-democracy-and-liberalism angle when our field commanders go out and bomb the civvies what had the gall to be on the wrong side of the war. That sort of thing started gettin' frowned on after Dresden and Hiroshima, and all the history since has only rightfully reinforced that feeling. It's gettin' really annoying going out and sayin' 'we're not so bad' and then the ever-present cathode tube behind me spouts out some new news about how the glorious armies of Allanea have gone out and bombed an orphanage or some such out of spite.

"Now, we on the diplomatic side of things don't get in the way of your mission to hurt people and break things. We occasionally try to see that people don't get hurt and things don't get broken, but it's still for the interests of the country and all. We'd really, really appreciate it as a common courtesy if you could manage not to make us snake-toungued mealy-mouthed liars every time we try to broach the possibility that Allanea believes in nice, warm, fuzzy Humanist Enlightenment things like the value of life and the abhorrence of violence except as a last resort. You know, every time we try to look like the good guys."

Another drink. Kazansky gulps it down rapidly, with the gesture of a drunkard or even a complete and utter alcoholic – not enjoying its taste and smell, but rather simply seeking to get another dose of EtOH into the system. “I know. Trust me, I know. But of course…”

He curses in a foreign languages. ”Kuss-emmek, Johnson, I am not as I was once. I apologize to you for making your work harder. Our logic in all the bombings was not – at least this time around – violence for violence’s sake. In Azaha, the logic was to retaliate for Commonwealth attacks on civilians elsewhere, in London, it was part of a plan – we hoped there would be refugee flows that would disrupt logistics in the South and cause a Juumanistran invasion. Yes, we were wrong. The Questarians are racist, backwards fools, but they are brave. They react as Allaneans would under a bombing – they refuse to surrender, and fight harder.”

“I have given an order this morning to shift all aircraft, down to the last strategic bomber, to the mission of supporting the ground force actions against enemy military resources. Any bombings of the Questarian civilian population are completely pointless from a military standpoint.”

“But as to your statements, Mr. Johnson, you are probably right.” – the boy smiles sadly as he fills up and swallows another drink – “I believe it is necessary to moderate the actions of our forces… and I am not at my best at public speaking lately. The stuff I say… it may have used to make sense back when, when the Allanean public wanted to see me standing like a defiant rock – better yet, a defiant middle finger – against the foreigners. At the time, I did not always… relish at the stuff I had to say. I have already had… to make too many apologies. Mister Johnson… for a lot of people…” – he looks for a second at the portrait on the wall – “For a lot of people, my reputation will forever remain… incorrigible. But I am willing to help you in anything I can.”

“Further, I would like you to know that we are not all bad…” – he paused. – “Wait a second. Let me inform you of what is going on.” – he waves his hand, and an unseen holoprojector creates what appears as a strategic Haven map in the air above the table.”

This is a stupid little war, Mr. Johnson. Even should we accept the initial claims of the Questarians, most of their attacks – on us, on Kahanistan, on Carpanthium – serve no discernible military goal, not advancing them towards their idiotic cause.” – he pauses – “There are additional conflagrations of violence here, here, here, attacks on Kahanistani, Carpanthian, Questarian civilians, as well as on those belonging to several Questarian dependencies. Should the war last over a few days, the economies of all of Haven will be fucked – again pardon me. The Questarian one is already, and has been going down the drain even before the war. Should we win, we will still be dealing with a ruined Questers to our South, and multiple nations full of ruins all over the place – and it does not even make sense to me why they did it.”

“This is not madness, Mr. Johnson, this is Haven. This is the Haven Disease – no matter how many wars we win or lose, how much blood we shed, a while later, we are again at each other’s throats, knife and bayonet and rifle.”

“I believe, Mr. Johnson, that Allanea’s reputation is beyond correction – even you, I think, consider us nation of perverted creeps at best, barbarians at worst.” – Kazansky smir But I would like to ask you to help me and the Administration figure this one out so we at least don’t have to be fighting the next war tomorrow. We will need all the diplomatic moves we need to make sure it at least moves to next week – because knowing Haven, deterrence won’t work. It never does, in Haven.”

“As I said, Mr. Johnson, I am already implementing some measures – we moved our firepower to military targets alone, and I am doing all I can to ensure the best conditions for Questarian prisoners of war. But… if there’s anything else I can do now that can help you when I’m done doing my job, then you should tell me.”

The boy empties another glass, and another one. “So, Mr. Johnson, have you met Alexander Kazansky at last? You must be disappointed. I am… much less then I once was, I am sorry.”

Johnson shrugs. "The world's made of people and you ain't any different," he says in response to the concentrated self-loathing, "I wasn't expecting anything other than that. No worries, I hadn't figured you to be some sort of superhero nor a villain with a handlebar mustache; you've nothing to live up to here." Admittedly, you do take criticism better than expected... "Anyway, now that I've slapped you 'round a bit, time to build ya back up. Movin' back to solely military targets is great, and all ya gotta do on the public relations front is let others talk for ya. That's what public relations officers are for, assuming you've got 'em.

"As for postwar diplomatic strategies..." Mark peers at the map; he can't make heads nor tails of it. War's not his thing. "I don't know the details of everything, but there's a few general rules which seem to work most of the time. Now as I gather the Questarians are proud folk who won't take well to much of a humblin', they'll need to be worked with. Just imposin' order on 'em from the outside will rankle 'em, and push 'em into romanticism an' tryin' to get back to the good ol' days. If they've got any particularly adored leaders what are able to see reason, get them on-side and keep them there; be willin' to make concessions out of the desire to see things accomplished rather than just pushin' to impose the ol' imperial will on a new client state. Assumin' the Allanean economy is willing and able, infrastructure there won't just need repair and maintenance but also support. Dump the money into a new market, essentially, to let 'em know that someone out there cares, but advertise--not too boastfully, mind--who cares and who's paying for the roads and whatnot. People don't often like to be in debt, so make it a gift. Be nice, basically.

"Militarily... well, I figure Haven to be a bit misnamed and anyone without some sort of super military is asking to be pointlessly invaded, or at least that's the common view. Plus I hear the Questarians are awful proud of their military. Problem is turning their interest in empire from a military aggression into less painful sorts of things, like economic or technological imperialism... hey, let's be realistic here. Let 'em know that as long as they stay on-side they'll have continued economic, military, and political support..."

He leans back and sighs. "Still, that's a problem. The war was pretty much pointless, one of 'em late-seventeenth century Continental wars. In hindsight, really no more than a uniformed outin'. One question bothers me, though... there wasn't anything to touch this off? Population pressures, economics, military posturin', resources, anything?"

“As far as I am concerned, there are two issues here. First, a lot of what you may term “military posturing”. The Questarians – and Praetonians – have for ages promoted a view in which the Sovereign League – and later, the Questarian Commonwealth and the Praetonians’ Georgian League – were supposedly some form of natural opposite for Gholgoth. They leveled a variety of charges at Gholgoth: of being oppressive, of raising tariffs on their goods, and so forth.”

“Some of these were patently untrue – Gholgoth offered free trade at least once in living memory to Praetonia, for one. Some of those were hypocritical – Praetonia and Questers both support Doomingsland, people who set jews on fire in the streets for entertainment. And of course NATO has many outright libertarian members, like The Silver Sky and Allanea itself – both of those entered NATO out of disgust with these policies of provocation.”

“Really, I do not think it had any rational basis – just people wanting to show off their… sexual parts are the bigger parts. This was followed by tension, tension lead to military build-up, military build-up lead to suffering.” – smiles Kazansky.

Mark chuckles, holding up one hand in a faux command to halt. "Mister Kazansky, you're from Allanea, I'm from the Segments. I think we can both manage not only to say 'penis' but describe in detail the statistical average of said penises in our nation. Clearly the region's got a bad case of the ol' urinal-stare, which," he sighs and straightens out his face into something more serious, "makes our lives more difficult. People who will go to war over nothing go to war over everything, and deterrence... well, deterrence has always been a matter of my cock's bigger than yours, or my god has a bigger cock than your god, and that just tells the other guy to prove just how big his tackle is.

"See, diplomacy runs under the assumption you're not working with crotch-grabbing mouthbreathing knucklewalkers with nearly sociopathic deficiencies in empathy." His accent remains, but the folksy tone dissappears for that sentence. "So, let's take it as given that the next war's gonna happen, and it's gonna be stupid." He rubs his broad orcine chin. "May as well take it as a given that the Questarians are as itching for a fight to regain their manhood as everyone else." He rubs some more, furrowing his brows. "Hrm. That's a stumper...

"What was that quote from Dune? 'No one can see past a decision he himself can't understand?' Well, this is quite the Gordian Knot and I ain't Alex the Great, so planning this many moves ahead'll probably be counterproductive. Maybe, just maybe, we can get 'em to see reason. What this'll also take is getting the other people involved to see reason. See if instead of divvying up Questers into control zones and sinking its fleets, thus makin' a right pissed population, if they'd except openings into economic markets. It's exchanging colonialism for neocolonialism, but it's a lesser evil if it's managed right. The only way I know how to get a group of people who want war to be peaceful is to have some sort of deus ex machina divine intervention, but unfortunately I left my Organian Diner's Club card back in the Segments."

He sighs. "Sorry, but that's the best I can do right now."

“Thank you.” - says Kazansky. - “This is settled, then. Mister Johnson, thank you for coming here to sort this knot out – personally I think Allanean diplomacy is more like the Augean stables then like the Gordian knot – but to each his own mythological metaphors, right?”

“I don't think I can help you any more except by explaining that I've conferred with my counterparts on the Home Front, and I think we have worked out a mechanism of international coordination that will both give me a free hand to conduct military action, and make them feel certain they have the situation well in hand in terms of preventing me from doing anything silly – in other terms, make their egos feel really really huge and you and I both know how important that is. Don't you worry though - I don't plan to do anything silly, anyway.”

“Anyway, any further questions I would have to you would be directed more at Johnson the Scolopendran Official than Johnoson the Advisor, and I think I'll wait with these until you've done wearing the Stetson and switched to the ball cap, okay?” - Kazansky smiles cryptically.

Some time later

And, the Program began to fall neatly into place. Schools were established, courses opened, and diplomats began to be trained. Strangely, Johnson began to acquire popularity – even though foreign experts there to “fix” Allanea rarely did. He began to be invited on talk shows of various kinds – something that made Marusia completely helpless as she had not the slightest clue which ones he should accept and which ones he should refuse – and several colleges were sending out feelers for those one-time five-thousand-bucks lecture things – to which Kairi sternly responded: “Don't go anywhere until you've read a lecture at Concord. They're the really respectable ones”.

Speaking of Kairi, a really bad chemistry seemed to be building between Kairi and Michael. Marusia's brother sneered and cursed behind the analyst's back, the analyst seemed to find the boy too loud and boisterous – and perhaps more then a little intimidating. The two did their best to avoid each other – and just sometimes, when they thought nobody was looking, they would fix each other with an angry stare straight from the if-looks-could-kill-you'd-be-dead department.

Marusia didn't notice precisely what was going not, but she did feel something was not quite right – and looked more and more distressed every day.

"Well, far as I know the Stetson's a temporary thing and so that shouldn't be too long and all." Mark smiles tuskily, and it's vaguely unimaginable to think of him smiling any other way. "I'll be off, then. Good day, sir."

* - * - *

Some sort of notoriety the diplomatic officer expected, but not proper quiet fame. It certainly isn't what he's in the business for, but to make sure his little scheme continues to have legs he decides that it won't hurt to agree to some of these offers--starting with Concord, as advised, of course. He's not really trying to slip in a major national reeducation scheme on the down-low, and there's nothing really wrong with managing the expectations of a population that associates Mark Johnson the greenskin with something other than a surprisingly pretty face and good hair.

Meanwhile, the whole drama concerning the Kairi/Michael/Marusia angle does come as something of a concern, but despite being a diplomat one thing Mark knows he isn't is a counselor. The two things are very much different. He thinks he's got it down and it's rather transparent: Marusia and Kairi have this very creepy legal amor for each other and are pretty blatant about it, and Michael is being half overprotective of his little sister and half compensating against someone who's apparently something of a living legend and thus makes Michael feel somewhat small. What he can do is arrange his schedule as to aid in the whole mutual avoidance, but the problem there is Kairi is somewhat more useful in that vein and thus would start monopolizing time... so I'll just hafta ask the kid about what talk shows mean something 'round this place.

Mark finds himself wondering about the prevalence of things like relationship counselors in this country and, given how batty the whole place is, he concludes that not only should there be quite a few, they should probably be extremely skilled (albeit perhaps suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder or, less dramatically, some sort of generalized anxiety or panic disorder) and perhaps hideously wealthy. Well, that's what the Yellow Pages, or whatever the local equivalent, are for, and the Scolopendran lets his fingers do the walking. Delegation is the key to leadership; always delegate into more capable hands than your own whenever possible.

In some countries, of course, corporations compete for height. They build giant skyscrapers with tall antennae on top to add a few more meters to the official height of the building.

In Allanea it’s not quite so. In Allanea, companies and institutions expand in area instead of height. The Univesity of Concord campus is built on that principle – a veritable sea of green. Cast in different places on campus are different the buildings of different faculties – the giant, gleaming complex of the Department of History and Political Science, the Department of Literature, an oversized white ball, the Department of Classical Studies, an oversized and luxurious rip-off of Gothic architecture. The Departments of Physics, Biology, Chemistry, Engineering are also there- but it’s clear what the alumni donate to most, and it ain’t them.

It is towards the Department of History and Political Science that Johnson’s car makes its way. Marusia hops out first, running off towards her registration office – after all, would Monningham’s daughter register anywhere else?.

Kairi and Michael lead Johnson towards his lecture hall, where a pack of students await. Kairi looks warily at Michael, who looks quite grumpy, assuming his best ‘bodyguard look’ as Johnson is escorted to the lecture hall.

They walk past a small bronze monument of a kindly old gentleman ringing a bell - with two uniformed ROTP cadets standing in front of it, ancient rifles shouldered – and into the building of the Department. Their own hall is somewhere on the first floor – coded as 1056, which means Room 56, Floor 1. Eventually they find it.

It is rather small – intended for about 250 men – however, it is crammed. Men and women with cameras, cellphone cams, laptops, and even one ‘real’ reporter are crammed into the place, blocking all th entrances. Michael clears a path to the podium, swearing and threatening people with a dueling challenge.

Eventually they do get Johnson up on the podium.

[center]

“Relationship advisors? Why they do exist. They aren’t very respected though. Them – and psychologists, and auditors too – have the status of, say, witch-doctors. Few people really respect them, unless these people happen to be their thing.”

“But if you want, Theodore Nottingham is a big one – runs full-page ads in local newspapers, this sort of thing. Even has a talk show.”