Questers
28-01-2008, 01:04
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise. - Rudyard Kipling
H.M Geographical Office,
Jesselton
Questers
Thomas Waterfoot's eyes darted across the LCD monitor as he moved the mouse from side to side, entranced by the images and numbers that played across the screen like so many hundreds of ants crossing a desert. That's what trying to find data from geographic satellites was like, after all - and that's what Thomas's job was, because of course the Geographical Office was simply a front for Military Intelligence. He had been told to look for non-claimed land, which meant finding every place were there was no signs of advanced civilisation and tapping their GPS coordinates into a Foreign Office database of claimed land. It was a boring job, and propping his head up with his hand on his chin and his elbow on the desk, Thomas loaded sugar into a cup of tea while he waited for the latest images to load. Stirring with one hand while he looked about the screen, Thomas’s eyes met with a small island that had no lights emanating from it like many others did. A catch, perhaps? He hadn’t had one in over a week, and that was already claimed anyway, just not inhabited. Zooming in slightly closer, the island appeared to be totally empty. Excitedly, Thomas tapped in the GPS coordinate range into a new program and waited impatiently.
No match found.
Within two hours, the King and his body of advisors would be discussing a course of action. First Thomas would contact his supervisor, who would forward the coordinates to double check, then give them and all relevant data to an analyst who would quickly compile a report that would be printed and given to His Majesty and his Cabinet as they assembled to discuss this newly found land. The new island was almost too good to be true; temperate in weather, about the size of Jamaica, and most importantly with a deep water port. The only problem was that it lay just four hundred miles off the northern coast of Juumanistra. How could it not already be claimed? Perhaps other nations too had assumed that other nations had claimed it before them? What a great accident to be taken advantage of… yes, the island would be claimed in the name of the Crown and standard procedure would go with this. The cartographers immediately set up on adding Waterfoot Island to the Imperial maps.
Waterfoot Island
Two days later
“About bloody time.” The Major cursed, looking down through the clouds from the cockpit of the slowly descending Warspite C.3. Waving seas, for as long as the eye could see, apart from a speck in the distance that represented their final location dominated the view. Not that it had changed in the past 36 hours, he thought. Two refuelings, almost thirty five thousand kilometers worth of air travel was something the Major thought he would never see again after training. Being cooped up in a Warspite’s crew compartments and cockpit for such a length of time was extremely, extremely boring, with the exception of an… interesting phonecall from his wife. “Oi, dickhead. Wake up.” He punched the co-pilot in the arm, forcing him to stir from his slumber for the eighth time on this trip. Power-napping was an effective way to pass long journeys, and they had both alternated, spending a couple hours alone in an aircraft. “We’re there.”
The co-pilot sat up, moving his seat from the reclining bed position, and rubbed sleep from his eyes while looking out from the cockpit. “Are we bollocks. You can’t even see the bloody island.”
“Yes, well, we’re nearly there. Besides, we have to prepare. Go tell everyone else to prepare for dropping of cargo.”
The co-pilot sighed and got up, walking from the cockpit into the lounge of the aircraft where he found three people playing cards and another sleeping. “Hey faggots. Skip wants you to prepare for launch.” With much whining and complaining, they woke up their comrade and set to work, and by the time the Warspite was running over the island at three thousand feet with its squadron in tow, the doors were open and cargo was ready to be dispensed. With three thousand paratroopers in neat rows dropping from the skies and heavy equipment behind them in the early morning, the inhabitants of the island wondered what fate had befallen them.
Having hit the ground thirty minutes ago, Lieutenant Daniel Hill and his platoon had already formed up and, having the orders to seize the nearest piece of high ground were surprised to find that a windmill was already occupying it. With his forty two men spread out along the bottom of the small hillock, the appropriately named Hill ordered the advance. Perhaps this mission would not be as boring as it was supposed to be he thought, as he moved up behind his men, ever cautious. It was then that Hill, his eyes scanning back and forth spotted the plainly clothed man standing tall at the entrance of the warehouse, and immediately he had forty one rifles pointing straight at him.
“Tell first team to move up with us.” Hill signaled to his aide as he sprinted up to where first team had hit the dirt, their rifles poised ready. Almost entire silence filled the hill, with the exception of birds singing and footsteps pounding the floor, until it was clear the man was unarmed. Hill fixed his beret and approached the individual who was clearly both mystified but quite unphased. “I’m Leftenant Hill, His Majesty’s Parachute Corps.” Finding it appropriate, as the first to encounter indigenous inhabitants, Hill announced his intentions. “In the name of the Crown, I hereby claim this land as Waterfoot Island, a colonial province of the Questarian Empire.”
The man seemingly totally ignored Hill, preferring to introduce himself. “I am Matthias Johnson, we are an Amish community here numbering just five-score. You can feel free to use our services until you have moved on.”
Hill mentally facepalmed. This was going to be a very long day indeed.
Meanwhile, all over the island, Questarian groups were meeting with these Amish outsiders who had built themselves a community on this deserted island, presumably under Juumanistran protection, as they were apparently citizens of that country. Despite this, the Amish were watched but generally left to go about their own devices as the Foreign and Imperial Office made it known that the island was Questarian territory. The construction of a small settlement on the opposite part of the island around the deep water port, and a small airfield that was being expanded to take tankers and cargo aircraft showed the Questarians were there for the long run, if the three thousand paratroopers and engineers didn’t already.
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise. - Rudyard Kipling
H.M Geographical Office,
Jesselton
Questers
Thomas Waterfoot's eyes darted across the LCD monitor as he moved the mouse from side to side, entranced by the images and numbers that played across the screen like so many hundreds of ants crossing a desert. That's what trying to find data from geographic satellites was like, after all - and that's what Thomas's job was, because of course the Geographical Office was simply a front for Military Intelligence. He had been told to look for non-claimed land, which meant finding every place were there was no signs of advanced civilisation and tapping their GPS coordinates into a Foreign Office database of claimed land. It was a boring job, and propping his head up with his hand on his chin and his elbow on the desk, Thomas loaded sugar into a cup of tea while he waited for the latest images to load. Stirring with one hand while he looked about the screen, Thomas’s eyes met with a small island that had no lights emanating from it like many others did. A catch, perhaps? He hadn’t had one in over a week, and that was already claimed anyway, just not inhabited. Zooming in slightly closer, the island appeared to be totally empty. Excitedly, Thomas tapped in the GPS coordinate range into a new program and waited impatiently.
No match found.
Within two hours, the King and his body of advisors would be discussing a course of action. First Thomas would contact his supervisor, who would forward the coordinates to double check, then give them and all relevant data to an analyst who would quickly compile a report that would be printed and given to His Majesty and his Cabinet as they assembled to discuss this newly found land. The new island was almost too good to be true; temperate in weather, about the size of Jamaica, and most importantly with a deep water port. The only problem was that it lay just four hundred miles off the northern coast of Juumanistra. How could it not already be claimed? Perhaps other nations too had assumed that other nations had claimed it before them? What a great accident to be taken advantage of… yes, the island would be claimed in the name of the Crown and standard procedure would go with this. The cartographers immediately set up on adding Waterfoot Island to the Imperial maps.
Waterfoot Island
Two days later
“About bloody time.” The Major cursed, looking down through the clouds from the cockpit of the slowly descending Warspite C.3. Waving seas, for as long as the eye could see, apart from a speck in the distance that represented their final location dominated the view. Not that it had changed in the past 36 hours, he thought. Two refuelings, almost thirty five thousand kilometers worth of air travel was something the Major thought he would never see again after training. Being cooped up in a Warspite’s crew compartments and cockpit for such a length of time was extremely, extremely boring, with the exception of an… interesting phonecall from his wife. “Oi, dickhead. Wake up.” He punched the co-pilot in the arm, forcing him to stir from his slumber for the eighth time on this trip. Power-napping was an effective way to pass long journeys, and they had both alternated, spending a couple hours alone in an aircraft. “We’re there.”
The co-pilot sat up, moving his seat from the reclining bed position, and rubbed sleep from his eyes while looking out from the cockpit. “Are we bollocks. You can’t even see the bloody island.”
“Yes, well, we’re nearly there. Besides, we have to prepare. Go tell everyone else to prepare for dropping of cargo.”
The co-pilot sighed and got up, walking from the cockpit into the lounge of the aircraft where he found three people playing cards and another sleeping. “Hey faggots. Skip wants you to prepare for launch.” With much whining and complaining, they woke up their comrade and set to work, and by the time the Warspite was running over the island at three thousand feet with its squadron in tow, the doors were open and cargo was ready to be dispensed. With three thousand paratroopers in neat rows dropping from the skies and heavy equipment behind them in the early morning, the inhabitants of the island wondered what fate had befallen them.
Having hit the ground thirty minutes ago, Lieutenant Daniel Hill and his platoon had already formed up and, having the orders to seize the nearest piece of high ground were surprised to find that a windmill was already occupying it. With his forty two men spread out along the bottom of the small hillock, the appropriately named Hill ordered the advance. Perhaps this mission would not be as boring as it was supposed to be he thought, as he moved up behind his men, ever cautious. It was then that Hill, his eyes scanning back and forth spotted the plainly clothed man standing tall at the entrance of the warehouse, and immediately he had forty one rifles pointing straight at him.
“Tell first team to move up with us.” Hill signaled to his aide as he sprinted up to where first team had hit the dirt, their rifles poised ready. Almost entire silence filled the hill, with the exception of birds singing and footsteps pounding the floor, until it was clear the man was unarmed. Hill fixed his beret and approached the individual who was clearly both mystified but quite unphased. “I’m Leftenant Hill, His Majesty’s Parachute Corps.” Finding it appropriate, as the first to encounter indigenous inhabitants, Hill announced his intentions. “In the name of the Crown, I hereby claim this land as Waterfoot Island, a colonial province of the Questarian Empire.”
The man seemingly totally ignored Hill, preferring to introduce himself. “I am Matthias Johnson, we are an Amish community here numbering just five-score. You can feel free to use our services until you have moved on.”
Hill mentally facepalmed. This was going to be a very long day indeed.
Meanwhile, all over the island, Questarian groups were meeting with these Amish outsiders who had built themselves a community on this deserted island, presumably under Juumanistran protection, as they were apparently citizens of that country. Despite this, the Amish were watched but generally left to go about their own devices as the Foreign and Imperial Office made it known that the island was Questarian territory. The construction of a small settlement on the opposite part of the island around the deep water port, and a small airfield that was being expanded to take tankers and cargo aircraft showed the Questarians were there for the long run, if the three thousand paratroopers and engineers didn’t already.