Rosdivan
22-03-2009, 10:07
The clattering of the rails soothed him as the train wound its way through the skyline of Mercia. There was something oddly calming about their regular clank, similar to that of falling rain. After a long flight from the capital and his home town of Serenity he could certainly use it. Sea landings and takeoffs were not the world's most pleasant, to put it lightly.
Darkness as the train passed through a building. One of the smaller ones in Mercia, considered the epitome of Rosdivani urban crowding, it stood a mere six hundred feet high. An express line, the train did not stop here, a residential dwelling mainly occupied by college students.
There was talk of linking all the major islands with a new magnetic levitation railway, but he didn't believe it would ever come to pass. Building several thousand miles of maglev track, much of it underwater, would be preposterously expensive and between the general inactivity of Parliament and lobbying by airline and ferry companies it was hard to see it ever coming to fruition. Still, the nation was running out of seafront, that was undeniable.
Daylight again as the train exited and with it a grand view of the crowded harbor, filled with seaplanes and ships. Rosdivan was an archipelago, maritime commerce was its very lifeblood. More than a mere metaphor, that fact hid a dark truth. The nation was highly dependent on food imports. Loss of the seas would mean death by famine for much of the country, even with all of the vertical farms.
He kicked at the briefcase laying by his feet, attached to him by a handcuff. Such stupid security measures. He could have fit all of the encrypted information on a single jump drive, attached it to his key ring, and no one would have been the wiser. But no, they decided that they had to have paper copies and have him carry this briefcase and to look like an obvious carrier of classified information "in order to protect state secrets." He figured that his commanding officer simply got his jolies off at the idea of spy work.
"DAMIAN HOTEL, ALL OUT FOR DAMIAN HOTEL!" spoke the public address system as the train began screeching to a halt. Picking up the accursed briefcase, he shuffled out along with a few dozen others who were bound to the same destination or, for whatever strange reason, had decided to make a connection at the hotel.
There was a reception desk, but he didn't bother with it. Somehow, Devalt Industries, who were sponsoring the conference as a consortium with several other companies, had actually managed to find someone with the competence to arrange for the key cards to be sent out to the participants ahead of time. Stepping into an empty express elevator, he swiped the card and began the quick travel up to the top of the two hundred story hotel. Express though it was, it still took a minute and a half to travel to the top.
*annoying chime*
The doors opened, admitting him to the conference room. The top two stories formed the conference room with a glass floor and ceiling admitting truly impressive views of the harbor and skyline. Inside were several corporation representatives and, in true Devalt fashion, a vodka fountain. Several large screen televisions and computers were set up for displays, modeling, and all of the assorted fun that typically led to drunken engineer death matches.
Strolling over to one of the lounge chairs, still carrying the damned briefcase, Lieutenant Colonel Mark Spencer, Commonwealth Army Long Range Attack, awaited the arrival of the other dignitaries at the conference.
Darkness as the train passed through a building. One of the smaller ones in Mercia, considered the epitome of Rosdivani urban crowding, it stood a mere six hundred feet high. An express line, the train did not stop here, a residential dwelling mainly occupied by college students.
There was talk of linking all the major islands with a new magnetic levitation railway, but he didn't believe it would ever come to pass. Building several thousand miles of maglev track, much of it underwater, would be preposterously expensive and between the general inactivity of Parliament and lobbying by airline and ferry companies it was hard to see it ever coming to fruition. Still, the nation was running out of seafront, that was undeniable.
Daylight again as the train exited and with it a grand view of the crowded harbor, filled with seaplanes and ships. Rosdivan was an archipelago, maritime commerce was its very lifeblood. More than a mere metaphor, that fact hid a dark truth. The nation was highly dependent on food imports. Loss of the seas would mean death by famine for much of the country, even with all of the vertical farms.
He kicked at the briefcase laying by his feet, attached to him by a handcuff. Such stupid security measures. He could have fit all of the encrypted information on a single jump drive, attached it to his key ring, and no one would have been the wiser. But no, they decided that they had to have paper copies and have him carry this briefcase and to look like an obvious carrier of classified information "in order to protect state secrets." He figured that his commanding officer simply got his jolies off at the idea of spy work.
"DAMIAN HOTEL, ALL OUT FOR DAMIAN HOTEL!" spoke the public address system as the train began screeching to a halt. Picking up the accursed briefcase, he shuffled out along with a few dozen others who were bound to the same destination or, for whatever strange reason, had decided to make a connection at the hotel.
There was a reception desk, but he didn't bother with it. Somehow, Devalt Industries, who were sponsoring the conference as a consortium with several other companies, had actually managed to find someone with the competence to arrange for the key cards to be sent out to the participants ahead of time. Stepping into an empty express elevator, he swiped the card and began the quick travel up to the top of the two hundred story hotel. Express though it was, it still took a minute and a half to travel to the top.
*annoying chime*
The doors opened, admitting him to the conference room. The top two stories formed the conference room with a glass floor and ceiling admitting truly impressive views of the harbor and skyline. Inside were several corporation representatives and, in true Devalt fashion, a vodka fountain. Several large screen televisions and computers were set up for displays, modeling, and all of the assorted fun that typically led to drunken engineer death matches.
Strolling over to one of the lounge chairs, still carrying the damned briefcase, Lieutenant Colonel Mark Spencer, Commonwealth Army Long Range Attack, awaited the arrival of the other dignitaries at the conference.