A New Circuit (Closed/Private/ATTN: Swith Witherward)

[Highfort]

The High Fort, December 24th, 2014, 7:46 PM
President's Office

"Robert, why are you taking a trip now? It's Christmas Eve and the people are expecting a Christmas morning address," Amanda Callican, the Consul Senatus, sat back in the president's favorite easy chair as she eyed him warily. He palmed his face as he leaned forward on his desk.

"With all due respect, Consul," President Vale stood up and grabbed a bottle from his alcohol cabinet, "Your area of expertise is passing laws. As the president, it's my job to establish foreign relations and trade agreements, or have you forgotten that I'm not one of your Senate lackeys?"

"Don't try that attitude with me," Amanda stood up, "Maybe you can push your staff around but I can grind this government to a halt at my earliest convenience if it suits me. Do not piss me off, Robert."

"Am I interrupting something, Mr. President?" Jefferson Smith, Highfort's foreign minister, gently opened the oak door to Robert's office and peeked inside, "I have a dossier prepared with all the nations I think would benefit our coffers."

"You can call me Robert," President Vale perked up at seeing his old friend, and he pulled two glasses from the cabinet. He turned to the Consul, "You, on the other hand, have just lost that privilege. Amanda, I'm taking this trip whether you like it or not. Now you're welcome to tag along as a show of unity, but that's your call, not mine. Jeff and I will be departing tomorrow afternoon - after that stupid Christmas address you keep telling me the people want to hear."

Jefferson slipped in, cradling a leather dossier filled to the brim with papers, "Oh, hello Amanda. How are you?"

"Cut the shit, Jefferson," she glared at him, "Why did you plan this?"

"I am the president's adviser," he coolly replied, "I do what he asks of me and offer my opinion when he requests it. It's neither my obligation nor my power to stop him from doing something that's perfectly constitutional."

"Oh, Jesus, he's got his arm right in your ass, hasn't he?" she palmed her face, "You don't seriously think this is a good idea?"

"Internal politics will destroy us if we don't find common ground," Robert cut in pouring cognac into both glasses before grabbing a third, "International relations can be that common ground. If we find a good ally and trade partner - just one - we can unite the people. The government will finally gain the legitimacy it's been looking for."

"Ally?" Amanda stood up, "Robert, I won't stand for any of your interventionist bullshit. We don't need to drag ourselves into someone else's wars. What we need right now is to focus on ourselves."

"If we don't look outward, the world will look toward us," Jefferson lay a hand on her shoulder, "If we remain isolated we are easy prey for larger nations. We need friends to watch our backs."

She glared at both men for a long moment before sighing, "Fine, I'll go to make sure you idiots don't muck this up. Where are we going?"

"I've set flight plans to multiple nations," Jefferson set the dossier down, the ledger landing with a hard thud on the wood table, "All I need is for you to choose one, Mr. President."

And so the room fell quiet as the three of them began perusing through each manilla folder, muttering amongst themselves about the advantages and consequences of each nation. Numerous drinks were poured, and several bottles of cognac set out in the hallway for the janitors to pick up. No one disturbed the intense concentration in the room.

"So it's settled, we go to Swith Witherward," Jefferson yawned as he checked his watch, "And not a moment too soon. If I were either of you, I'd be heading home right now. Have to be up early for the morning address."

Robert and Amanda yawned in-turn, both of them stumbling as they grabbed for coats and scarves. Three half-filled glasses still lay beneath the warm lamplight of Robert's desk, abandoned.

"You're a stubborn bastard, you know that?" Amanda shook as she walked out into the hallway, "You won't last four years with all these crazy schemes of yours."

"You leave my job to me," Robert replied, hanging on Jefferson's side, "I'll worry about my reelection. You just get your affairs in order for the flight this afternoon. Hope the Traditionalists don't eat us alive after they find out what we're doing."

"I've taken care of that," Jefferson helpfully interjected, "You'd be surprised what a few good dirty secrets can do for pacifying the opposition party."

"Ah, almost forgot the telegram," Robert stumbled back in and grabbed the crumpled paper, "Jeff, you mind typing this up and emailing it to the Swith Witherward government in the morning?"

He nodded.

From the Desk of President Robert Vale
To: The Diplomatic Ministry of Swith Witherward
Encryption Level: Discretionary

Subject: Establishing Diplomatic Relations

To whom it may concern,

The President of the Revolutionary Republic of Highfort wishes to offer you his most sincere greetings and desires the establishment of official relations between our two nations. He will be flying into your nation's airspace in the evening on December 25th, 2014, to meet with whomever you deem fit to send - leader, ambassador, diplomat, magistrate, or otherwise - and tour your great nation. We hope to establish not only diplomatic relations but mutually-beneficial trade relations with our two nations.

We hope this is not imposing and look forward to your reply.

Republic Today, Republic Forever.

Sincerely,

President Robert Vale

[Swith Witherward]

Academy of Diplomatic Relations | Corps Diplomatique
Diplomaticum - The Third Pillar of Triumvir
Tulgey, Swith Witherward

25 December, 2014 0312 hours
The rat-a-tat of sharp nails on marble heralded the Protocol Service construct's approach. Christmas Day was a state holiday. No humans were to be found; the Diplomaticum Ministre Plénipotentiaire herself was on holiday in Majorca, and so the Academy was left with a skeleton crew of higher constructs. The bipedal lizard paused at various doors to see if anyone was at home but her efforts would prove fruitless, naturally. The construct traipsed back to the lower levels to rejoin her sister-servants.

An overseer raised her horned head to observe the construct's arrival. "Wootete?" a reptilian finger gestured to the paper clutched in the construct's hand.

"'Spatch o'er wire, Miss Nessle" the construct nodded. "Re'lutionary Republic of Highfort. Jus' come in, it has. Went to find a gov'ner, but they all gone to hol'day, they did."

"Baws." The overseer, an N-series, was normally patient with her charges but she frowned at inefficiency. The small lizard should have notified her rather than wasting energy on nonsense activity. Nessle snatched the paper from the construct's hand and examined it thoroughly.

"Revolutionary Republic of Highfort," she lowered herself into her chair and accessed the Thought Stream. The details were extremely sketchy, yielding nothing more than a brief history and some crafted spin regarding the Neo-Torollum Dynasty. A footnote indicated that the regime had recently been felled by the hands of democracy (bully for them!) but absolutely no details were known regarding the current government other than leadership bios. Their president had intelligent eyes although Nessle imagined he'd have less hair by time his term ended. Her mind settled on the Highfort High Minister of Foreign Affairs image. An involuntary chuckle arose from her; his expression and raised finger strongly reminded her of their own Ministre Plénipotentiaire, Fiona Gualtier.

"We are here because we serve," Nessle reminded her charges. "If no one is available to answer, we will fall upon established standard operating procedure. This Republic is newly formed and requesting to establish ties with us. Swith Witherward will not reject this offer. It isn't as if we have a choice in the matter either. I imagine they'll enter our airspace soon, anyway. Send a positive reply to their message. Send a dispatch to the Minister of Foreign Affairs to alert him. He usually checks messages daily. Copy the Minister of International Development as well. I'll take full responsibility for any misstep. Let's do this by the book, ladies."

"A lack of planning on your part doesn't constitute an emergency on mine, or so the saying goes. Despite our starting every project (or day for that matter) with the best of intentions we quickly find there are many reasons we fail at executing our responsibilities successfully on time. We plan down to the most minute detail of what we believe needs to be done to make a project successful, parsing out hours to complete each task as if there were nothing else in the world that needs to be done but that task and nothing will get in our way. However, as we all can probably attest, most of these plans end up being derailed within a short amount of time. The problem is that we end up spending most of our time doing someone else’s bidding, not the important (planned) things needed to make ourselves, or the project we’re working on, successful. In other words, we let the lack of planning by others constitute an emergency for us. We let other people’s urgent issues, poor time management, poor planning, obsessive-compulsive psychosis, personal agendas, and procrastination, to take priority and control over our workday agenda." - William Bouffard, Puttin' Cologne on the Ricksaw: A Guide to Dysfunctional Management and the Evil Workplace Environments They Create.

25 December, 0745 hours
Independence from the Nifidum Convocation: a long-anticipated and welcome state of existence for any witherward. With newly found freedom comes the usual chaos however. The Thought Stream was a quasi-psionic network utilized by every construct, from basic airship to Dominion Lords such as Mab. Engineers had been patiently untangling the Swithwardian portion from the main Nifidium Thought Stream, but the going had been very slow. Lower functions were free, meaning all the little organic creations operated solely under the guidance of the Triumvir Scientem. Higher functions, such as those few constructs at Nessle's level, still occasionally dealt with pathways that lead to dead ends. Thus direct orders sometimes got lost or didn't reach their destination in a timely manner. This often resulted in tumultuous bullshittery cursed by even the most patient individual; in fact, some wished they'd do away with constructs altogether.



Tulgey International Air and Space Port - Air Traffic Control Tower
The red phone handset dangled from the air traffic control manager's desk, swaying on its coil cord and occasionally clattering against the heavy wood. The manager himself was eight flights up, a red-faced tyrant looming over his kingdom. The tower had picked up the Highfort craft's approach on radar and was scrambling to give them proper clearance, communicating as needed in airport jargon rather than the more complex spaceport lingo. Highfort might be a nation unaccustomed to dealing with any craft that didn't have props or jets, or so the voice on the other end of that telephone had frantically explained.

"Put that French liner in pattern out to sea. I don't give a fuck how much they protest. They have plenty of fuel. Ground all outbound traffic! And tell that Bablon transport to abort atmospheric entry."

The port was at full capacity for the Christmas holiday. Swith Witherward proudly hailed itself as the tourist capital of the world... an exclusive one, at that. Tourism was their only bread and butter and every major city in the south had been engineered to perfection. The airport was a carefully orchestrated entity that could handle more traffic than any other spot on the planet - to include inbound spacecraft - but it had never had the pleasure of dealing with an unannounced diplomatic vessel arriving on the busiest day of the year. Not only that, but it was a presidential airplane. The SOP called for clear airspace.

"Sir, the transport already commenced maneuvers! They can't change flightpath."

The vein in the manager's temple, already prominent against his skin, began to throb. "Have they reached the Kármán Line? Have they descended below a hundred kilometers?" He needn't have asked. The series of sonic booms was answer enough. The controllers rose from their chairs to peer out the wide glass windows.

There it was, the cheerful Highfort craft right where it was supposed to be. And there it was, the massive Bablon freighter. It was the length of three Earth aircraft carriers laid bow to stern. Forward docking engines were at full throttle to slow its rate of descent. The chance of collision was nil but the sudden appearance of it might spook the hell out of the pilots.

"Ah, Highfort, this it Tulgey Tower. Be advised that a commercial spacecraft is inbound," the controller did his best to refrain from smirking. "Don't give it much thought, Highfort. It's routed to Weald and will pass at nine-thousand feet above you, but you might be buffeted by some turbulence. Continue your course and enjoy the show. We'll have you bank south to take runway A shortly. You can taxi to the diplomatic terminal from that point."



Tulgey International Air and Space Port - Freedom Flight Diplomatic Terminal
Aubrey DeStephano was the Minister of Ambassador and Consulate Affairs. She was also the only one that could be reached at such short notice, and although she rode a desk rather than press the flesh, she was more than willing to serve as first contact. The young woman excused herself from her family gathering and, after a brief stop at the Academy, she now stood near the gate.

TIP was a sleek and glittering port on the outskirts of the city. Cleanly and welcoming, it could process more than 1,800 people an hour. Architects designed the diplomatic terminal with an open and airy feel in mind; the entire ceiling was a bullet proof glass assembly that allowed natural light to brighten the area. Tranquil plants and ornamental miniature trees hinted at the witherward's love of ecology. There wasn't any band to play the Highfort anthem, unfortunately. (Nobody actually had a copy of it anyway.) Nessle had managed to download the nation's flag image and these had been hastily manufactured and affixed to the limo outside, but little else could be properly carried out.

Aubrey hoped the dignitaries wouldn't be offended by the lack of preparation. She checked her watch and glanced at the young woman next to her. This N-series construct, in human form, was as serene as a summer day.

"Don 't worry, Madam DeStephano," NSA 9v1 smiled, "You've given it your best effort."

"Thank you, Nessa. I only wish I could have done more. I feel badly about Lord D'Prieg." The Swithwardian head of state was attending the Multi-Species Union banquet on the Pax Concordia Space Station. Aubrey had contacted him personally to advise him of the situation. He would route back at the conclusion of the event. She sighed and looked expectantly at the gate's opened door.

[Highfort]

Unity-001, Presidential Plane, December 25th, 2014, 7:45 AM
Cockpit

The pilots of the Unity were supposed to be the best that the air force had to offer - steel-nerved and cool under pressure - but her primary pilots were in Torollum on vacation. The substitutes the president had acquired for the trip were, suffice to say, less than up to the task. Neither had seen more than a few hours of combat and - between the two of them - had only participated in three dogfights and confirmed one kill. The Consul had demanded that the president reconsider her suggestion of moving the trip at least a week ahead so that everyone would be back from holiday. True to his characterization as a jackass by his opponents, however, President Vale refused to budge. The trip would happen when he wanted it to happen and not a day later.

The pilot sipped his coffee quietly as he held the plane in a gentle cruise through Witherwardian airspace. He spotted several VTOL and what appeared to be spacefaring craft taxiing on the runways. His eyes widened.

"Never thought I'd live to see the day we met a bunch of rocketeers," he smiled a little, "You see that?"

"Crazy shit," his copilot nodded, "Jeff debriefed me last night while you were busy going over the flight path. Swith's supposed to be the most advanced nation we've seen yet. Almost like we're stuck in the stone age while they're rolling around in the present."

"Yeah, yeah. Anyways, I was talking to Paul the other day and he- HOLY SHIT!" the pilot jerked forward as he clapped his hands over his ears, the sonic boom causing him and his copilot to let go of the controls. The plane descended, the needles on its control panel falling dangerously as it began to dip into a nosedive. He quickly grabbed the controls and groaned as she pulled out of her dive and stabilized. Sighing as he let out a held breath, he wiped his forehead.

"Ah, Highfort, this it Tulgey Tower. Be advised that a commercial spacecraft is inbound," the air traffic controller's voice crackled over the radio, "Don't give it much thought, Highfort. It's routed to Weald and will pass at nine-thousand feet above you, but you might be buffeted by some turbulence. Continue your course and enjoy the show. We'll have you bank south to take runway A shortly. You can taxi to the diplomatic terminal from that point."

"Augh, fuck," the pilot turned to his colleague, "Hank, take the controls."

His colleague grabbed stick as he rubbed his ears, and the pilot donned his headset.

"Tulgey Tower, this is Highfort. Captain Marks speaking," the captain's voice wavered and he coughed to cover his nervousness, "Staying course. Tell us when to bank. I can see runway A from here."

"And please," Hank added, donning his own headset, "Do tell us beforehand if we're going to have any more surprises. It's not my nor the captain's birthday."

"Sorry to interrupt you boys," Jefferson popped his head through the curtain blocking the main cabin from view, "But I don't suppose either of you have a few hundred pieces to spare?"

"Few hundred pieces?" Marks took off his headset and eyed the minister incredulously, "For what?"

"Well, I might have spilled some of that Kagan Valley vintage that the president was saving to greet the Witherwardian diplomats with," he grinned and rubbed the back of his head, "Mostly due to your unfortunate choice to dive right as I was imbibing."

Hank sighed, "There goes my wife's new earrings."

Main Cabin

Jefferson turned back toward President Vale with an apologetic smile on his face.

"The vintage is wonderful, nevertheless," he corked the half-filled bottle, "I'm sure she won't notice the lacking quantity. Quality more than makes up for what was lost."

Robert eyed him warily, then sighed, "Don't worry about it. I brought a second vintage in case you ruined the first one, which you did. Amanda, five hundred."

She grudgingly reached for her purse, "You planned that dive, didn't you? Couldn't pass up a golden opportunity to take my salary without asking."

"If I wanted your salary," Robert counted the bills with pleasure, "I would've just arrested you as a traitor and docked all your pay."

She glared at him.

"Relax," he chuckled, "You never could take a joke. I'm surprised Gerry hasn't asked for a divorce."

"You're a real bastard," she intensified her glare, before turning back to the light novel she was reading, "Going on this little escapade was a mistake. I should be back in Highfort working on passing bills with the rest of the Senate."

"Then why aren't you?" Robert poured himself what was left of the spilled bottle before inhaling the aroma, "Your presence is unnecessary for a diplomatic event and you didn't seem very keen on going."

"Because I can't trust either of you to strike a deal without dragging Highfort into some sort of war," she retorted, "Or, worse, you'll tangle us in several alliances and we'll end up being swallowed up by our enemies or, worse, by one of our 'allies'."

"Pardon me," Jeff intruded, "But my preliminary sources indicate that Swith Witherward is, in fact, a relatively 'untangled' nation, if you will. They recently acquired independence from their colonial power, the Nifidum Convocation. Not sure if I pronounced that right."

"They what now?" Amanda shut her book, "You told me the Convocation would be the angle we'd be working to provide us with protection."

"I've said a great many things about a great many subjects," he replied, "And some of what I may have said has historical, not contemporary, relevance."

"So... you lied to me," she felt the urge to punch him welling within her, "Jefferson, if you ever do that again, so help me God-"

The room fell silent as the plane began to descend - though more slowly and controlled - once more. Hank's face appeared from behind the cockpit curtain.

"Sorry to interrupt anyone," he said, "But we're making our final approach on Runway A. Please, prepare your baggage for arrival and stow all your belongings. I've been informed that a diplomat and her entourage will be greeting you in the terminal."

With that, Robert stood up and walked into the secondary cabin, nodding at the various diplomatic staff he'd brought with him.

Secondary Cabin

A hodgepodge of diplomats, servants, historians, and advisers stood up and began grabbing luggage of various shapes and sizes from overhead compartments. The difference in dress was jarring. Far from the uniformity of his usual staff, the group Vale had cobbled together at the last minute for the trip consisted of various interns and workaholics - many of whom didn't own proper diplomatic attire or, if they did, preferred wearing loose collars and slacks to the tight, confining nature of official uniform. Nevertheless, he knew postponing the trip would only give the Traditionalists more time to impeach him for not doing his job or some such bullshit excuse, so he'd selected them anyways. If he was lucky, perhaps, they might even surprise him.

[Swith Witherward]

"Ah, I believe this is them," Nessa stood a little straighter and clasped her delicate hands in front of her while the airplane slowly taxied past the large observation windows. "By the book, Madam DeStephano?"

"By the book," Aubrey sighed as the higher construct 'knocked' at her mind. The attempt to connect was rendered into a soft and pleasant chime that not only established the psionic link between them but also alerted the woman to the construct's ability to hear more than her surface thoughts. There wasn't any such thing as privacy when one worked directly for the government. The act of incorporating a human into the Thought Wash was fairly painless once they were suitably adapted for it, although the initial experience had shocked Aubrey all those years ago. She steeled herself, succumbed to the link, and followed the construct through the gate and into the crisp winter air.



Sir Grundle Baconni curled his claws under his woolen scarf to better buffer his brownish-green reptilian skin from the wind. The magister utriusque militia was a genial being despite his role as consul for the Proelium. He’d done well on such short notice, mustering up a decent honor guard comprised of some of the best his witherward had to offer. This mixed species unit stood at parade rest as the Highfort craft completed the final leg of its taxi. Grundle couldn’t help but smile at their flawless uniforms and polished brass, the physical manifestation of his gesture nothing but a widening of the officer’s lashless eyelids. The diplomats had dropped the ball and nearly shamed his nation with their paltry preparations; whoever had initially organized this mess would surely answer to their superiors by afternoon tea.

“Eh, still no details regarding their security detail, Mab?” he queried the creature beside him.

“None.” Golden eyed and black scaled, the MAB appeared to be a wingless, bipedal dragon sporting a frightening array of black quills from his head and spine. He wasn't a reptile, however: the MAB was a higher construct. He was attired in the black pants and matching tunic that served as his uniform but his hands and four-toed feet were bare.

Grundle’s eyes narrowed as servicebeings unrolled the heavy red carpet that would serve as a pathway for the visiting president. He spoke a little louder to be heard over the winding-down engines. “They’re using a standard Earth aircraft.”

“Briefing indicates a potential Technology and Contact Level of IV,” MAB watched the gangway stairs come to rest at the plane's door.

Grundle’s cropped feathers bristled under his garrison cap. “Potential? Do you mean to tell me prior xeno first contact hasn’t been confirmed?”

“That is correct.”

“Why the fuck wasn't-”

“Order ARMS!” MAB sensed the craft's door opening. The rifles raised in preparation of the twenty-one gun salute while the rest of the honor guard brought their right fists to their chests in salute.



The wind smarted Aubrey's cheeks and nose as she sprinted across the tarmac. “Consul! Consul, NO! Abort! We didn’t authorize this! You’re not supposed to be here!”

Grundle blinked his parietal eyes and forced himself to see the honor guard as an uninitiated human would: bird creatures, rodent-looking things, a wobbling blob with a flag pole stuck to it. He was nothing more than a bipedal lizard in a dress uniform. Minister of Ambassador and Consulate Affairs had good reason for her panic.

"You can't be here!" Aubrey shouted over the residual engine noise. She skirted a limousine and stopped so suddenly that Nessa collided into her. He brought his MAB?!

Aubrey frantically waved her hands as if the gesture could cause the creature to magically vanish. "You can't bring him. He's not allowed. He'll scare the hell out of them. You'll scare the hell out of them! They haven't been prepared! The Republic of Highfort is a Class III nation, sir!"

“We run with it,” Grindle snorted in irritation. “It's too late to do anything about it now. They undoubtedly saw inbound spacecraft on their way in although they may assume it was engineered by a human nation. Look sharp now. We’ll default to Xeno First Contact emergency protocol. You are all we have to represent the Diplomaticum at the moment. Fortune smiles upon us, my dear. You're accustomed to working with xeno ambassadors, are you not?”

Aubrey breathed deeply. It was going to be one of those days. At least the press had been kept in the dark. She grasped at that solitary blessing and hitched a smile to her face.

[Highfort]

Lieutenant Viktor Xeno grunted as he caught two duffel bags carelessly thrown at him by the frenzied diplomatic staff. He snorted in derision at the amateurs. Touchdown had been smooth but the mix of seasoned diplomats and newly-drafted interns meant that unloading didn't go as smoothly as expected. It didn't help that this was Highfort's first ever diplomatic venture and, thus, her first application of diplomatic protocol.

Setting the duffel bags down in front of the main door, he paused to reflect on how far his journey had taken him. A sniffling, scarred little boy when the Regime had rolled into his family's quiet village and burned it to the ground, he now found himself part of the President's Personal Defense Squad. He smiled at the memory.

"The work will be dangerous," Robert had told him as he poured out a glass of cognac and offered it. Viktor turned it down. He wasn't much of a drinker. The crooks of the president's mouth turned, almost imperceptibly, upward as he retreated the glass from view.

"My entire family was killed when I was eight," he replied coolly, "I'm used to danger."

"So why me, then?" Robert sat down in his chair and turned to face the city, raising his arms cavalierly, "Why this assignment? If you wanted danger, you could've asked for the Suicide Squad. They would've been happy to accommodate a man of your nerve and caliber. Or, if imminent death doesn't tickle your fancy, why not the special ops squad? God knows the police force would've been ecstatic to have a military man in their employ. Why me? Why the PDS?"

Viktor stood up and walked to the windows Robert was looking through. They observed the citizens of the newly-founded Republic scurrying about their business with little care for the forces that hovered above them. The President raised an eyebrow.

"Something the matter?" Robert took a gulp of the cognac Viktor had rejected and gave a sigh before reclining and waiting for the buzz-cut man's response.

"I chose you because of what you did," Viktor replied quietly, "For this country. This is Highfort's first Republic. The first of Eirene."

Robert's eyes widened, "You're from Neverem, aren't you? Little village in the west. Quiet. Nice place, I heard, before... well..."

"Eirenian blood flows in my veins," he said, turning to the President with fire in his eyes, "Eirene was supposed free us."

"Until they were crushed by the Regime. Every last man, woman, and child... Or so they thought, apparently," Vale let the words curl off his lips as he remembered Highfort's bloody history, dynasty after dynasty of slaughter and barbarism, "Eirene was a special one, they were. Not another tribe would ever consider democracy after what happened to them. They all submitted to Neo-Torollum after that."

"But you have avenged them. Their submission is no longer true. You are the inheritor of Eirene," Viktor bowed before him, rendering himself in a a gesture more akin to a serf pledging allegiance to his lord than a soldier saluting his president, "I see her blood within you. You are no ordinary politician, Mr. President."

Robert peered at him with something resembling awe, then fear, before turning around and facing his desk. He raised his right arm and pointed at the door before resuming looking over his paperwork.

"Leave me," he said before taking another glass of cognac, letting the smooth liquid lay on his tongue and numb it before swallowing, "You'll have my decision tomorrow. Thank you for coming in, private."

Needless to say, President Vale slammed the approval stamp, the sickly green ink staining Viktor's resume, not a moment after Viktor left. He even heard the clink of the little device as the door closed behind him.

"Time to show the President he chose right," Viktor muttered, adjusting his uniform. It annoyed him.

Everyone in the diplomatic retinue, assistant or guard, wore a dull suit of grey with gold trim. The President had been unable to requisition actual diplomatic gear for the newer members and the veterans had refused to sully the Republic's good name by appearing in different uniforms than their fellows. Thus, the entire team looked hopelessly under-dressed for the occasion. Ratty white gloves, more appropriate for a waiter or hotel staff than for government officials, and pathetically-plain peaked caps for the guards completed the morose ensemble.

At least the hats fit right, he thought, adjusting the military cap so its black visor would shine in the sun and its gold trim appeared dignified rather than gaudy. At least, he hoped that's the image it would give off. He cradled his AK-47 in his arms, ready to raise it if trouble presented itself as they opened the doors.

The commotion died down as President Vale, Consul Callican, and Minister Smith made their way through the second cabin and to the main doors. The President offered Viktor a nervous smile before motioning for him to open the thick, windowless door. Viktor's white-gloved hands grabbed hold of the lever and pulled it upward.

The door opened with a quiet hiss.

Viktor quickly assumed his position next to the President. Another guard stood opposite him, and two more pairs set up behind him to cover the Consul and the Foreign Minister. He looked back. The rest of the diplomatic staff carried various bags and satchels. None of them, as much as he wished it, would be any use in a gunfight, even with their service pistols snapped to holsters on the sides of their drab uniforms.

"Presenting the President of the Republic, Sir Robert Vale," Viktor's voice rang out across the tarmac. He gulped. Everything was quiet as they took their first tentative steps out of the plane and onto the red carpet so thoughtfully provided to them. He looked up.

His eyes first passed over the two humans in the greeting party. Their faces looked nervous, but for what reason he could not ascertain. He scanned his eyes across the crowd as he gently pressed his left arm against the President, a sign for him to stop. The procession lurched to a halt.

His fingers gripped tightly against his rifle as he looked over the rest of the greeting party and he raised it.

"Mr. President, behind me," he spoke loudly but without yelling, in a calm, commanding tone, "Possible hostiles."

"I don't -" Robert was swiftly kicked back by the other guard as she and Viktor took protective stances in front of him. The rest of the PDS responded instantly, pushing their VIPs toward the center of the red carpet as they raised their weapons and took up defensive stances. The diplomatic staff behind them scrambled for cover and, finding none, quickly piled behind the guards. One began crying softly.

"Just what the hell is this, then?" the female guard next to Viktor gritted her teeth, "Why the hell am I looking at a... a... dragon? What drugs have you given us? How? Airborne? Answer me!"

Viktor's eyes widened as he focused on each member of the party individually. The leader appeared to be a lizard-like man with brown, mottled skin. At least, his numerous medals and more lavish uniform when compared with his compatriots appeared to indicate this. He wasn't sure if whatever race he was looking at had the same military hierarchy as humans did.

Turning back to the two human-looking individuals in the crowd, he mistook them for hostages.

"What have they done to you?" he pointed the rifle at Grundle and gestured to Aubrey and Nessa, "Are they hostile?"

[Swith Witherward]

Oh Jesus Christ on Crack! Aubrey's smile vanished as the visitors drew their weapons. Nessa stepped in front of her to form a layer of protection. Color guard, troops, various ground crew, mechanics and curious airport staffers threw themselves behind baggage carts or other cover. The Thought Wash sparked to life.

The terminal grounds became eerily quiet but the mental noise was akin to several dozen radio channels simultaneously blaring information directly into Audrey's brain. She could sense the MAB scanning the airplane's occupants, and found his observations layering her own to form a picture of not only the people within the aircraft but also the locations of every last soul in the vicinity. He processed the data, then emitted an excruciatingly loud command through the Thought Wash - PROTOCOL 41B. STAND DOWN. PROTOCOL- - that momentarily caused Aubrey's vision to dim. Her first spoken words rolled across the still-silent tarmac and were anything but diplomatic.

"Shush!" she frantically flapped her hands at the construct to ward off MAB's thoughts. "Baconni, please do something about your MAB!"

"Pardon me, Madam DeStephano?" Nessa gently prompted through their tether. "The Highfort delegation can't hear him. The gentleman pointing the rifle at us wishes to know if-"

"I heard him, thank you Nessa," Aubrey pressed her palms to her eyes in an effort to dispel the fuzz. She lifted her chin to view the startled visitors. The weapons were unsettling and, although she knew the MAB could produce a field that blocked projectiles, being shot at wasn't high on her list of things to experience firsthand. Now that her head contained only her own thoughts once more, she realized the full horror of the situation.

Grundle hadn't budged an inch during the brief event. He sighed and clucked his tongue at the lot of them. "On behalf of the Collective Chorus and the Swithwardian people, we welcome your nation in peace." His melodious baritone conveyed his friendly intentions but he bowed his head to better put the visitors at ease. "I am Grundle Baconni, Magister Utriusque Militiae of the Swithwardian Proelium. This boisterous young woman is Aubrey DeStephano, Minister of Ambassador and Consulate Affairs; I assure you that we have done nothing to her other than perhaps frustrate her. The creature beside me is my attache and personal security, Mab Trilb. Please forgive him for not smiling, but he isn't designed to be charming. It is customary to offer a twenty-one gun salute however, in light of the current situation, I think we should take a more casual approach. Gentlebeings, at ease. Peace breathed. The universe is smaller than you think and the world is filled with many wondrous things. You'll be the first Highfort citizens to discover some them."

Someone nervously twittered and the civilians peered over their makeshift safe zones to stare at the newcomers.

[Highfort]

Viktor raised his rifle as Aubrey's frantic voice filled his ears and he prepared to fire before his mind processed her as speaking to the reptilian and not himself. He paused.

As Grundle introduced himself, the diplomatic staff visibly relaxed. The young man who had begun crying sniffled and, blushing in shame, covered his face with his hands, mortified. Amanda, Robert, and Jefferson all breathed a sigh of relief as it appeared first contact would not come to violence. Only the guards continued to keep their weapons raised, various pairs of eyes narrowing as they weighed whether Grundle's words appeared sincere or not.

A deafening silence fell over the tarmac as the Highfort delegation remained frozen, weapons raised, as Grundle's words escaped into the air. The guards remained stiff, unconvinced.

"I believe that settles that," Robert broke the delegation's silence with a reserved smile, "Guards, your weapons. Lower them."

"With all due respect, sir, I don't think we can trust him," the female guard seemed insistent on keeping her rifle trained on Grundle's MAB, "These creatures appear to be armed and until we can determine true motive we should consider them as hostile."

Viktor paused to regard her words, but upon receiving a glare from the President he lowered his AK with an apology.

"We are unused to non-human people," he shouldered the rifle, "Sorry if we were unkind. We mean you no harm."

The rest of the guards followed suit, all except for her.

"Carla, lower the weapon," Jefferson shifted past his guards to the front and set his hand on the barrel of the gun, "These are a diplomatic party. We don't need to be pointing guns at our friends."

"Sir, I don't think that's the wisest idea," she kept the rifle raised, "Take your hand away from my weapon or I might hurt you."

"Carla," Robert's smile disappeared as he adjusted his glasses and his voice took on a steely, cold edge, "Lower your weapon."

"No," she scanned across the crowd with her rifle slowly, as if contemplating which target to shoot first, "Sir, this is for your own protection."

"I'm sure," he replied, "But I order you to lower it. As your President, you will comply with this order. Lower your weapon."

Amanda looked at the President strangely, "Robert... are you alright?"

"No, sir," Carla stiffened, "I will not. I suggest we return home. This trip is dangerous and obviously a waste of time."

"Colonel Carla Hendrickson, you will lower your weapon, right now!" Robert's face reddened as any trace of joviality and friendliness left him, "You will lower your weapon or you will be relieved from duty. Is that understood?"

"Sir-" she began.

"Lieutenant Xeno, confiscate Colonel Hendrickson's weapon," Robert cut her off, "Colonel, you are hereby relieved from your duties as a member of the PDS."

Viktor grabbed her rifle and she gripped it tighter before he whispered to her, "Don't make this hard for me, Carla. Please."

She relented and he slung the rifle on his other arm.

"You are to function as part of the diplomatic staff from this moment forward until the end of our trip," Robert walked in front of her and looked her over, "Hand over your cap."

She reluctantly took the guard's cap off of her hand and placed it in the President's hands.

"You are lucky I'm in a forgiving mood," he handed the cap over to Jefferson, who held it at his side, "I won't have you stripped of rank or court-martialed. But you are relieved of duty. Do you understand?"

She gave him a curt nod before marching to the back, joining the rest of the diplomatic staff.

"Robert," Amanda warned him, "The Swithwardians..."

"Ah, yes," Robert immediately plastered a diplomatic smile on his face, "My apologies for the incident. We weren't expecting such a... diverse crowd to greet us. This is all my fault, I neglected to inform my staff that Swith Witherward is a... technologically-advanced nation. I trust this won't impact diplomatic relations between our two nations."

He nodded toward Viktor, "Perhaps we should continue as planned. On behalf of the people of Highfort and the government of the Republic, I accept your welcome and would like to introduce the more distinguished members of our diplomatic delegation. You already know me as the President, Robert Vale."

He gestured to Jefferson, "This is my most esteemed Foreign Minister, Jefferson Smith."

Consul Callican stepped forward, "And I am the Senate Majority Consul, Amanda Callican."

"Yes," Robert frowned momentarily at her interruption, "Among us are both security and ambassadorial staff. I trust you'll get to know them and them you during the duration of our stay. I would like to point out the head of my security forces and most distinguished soldier, Lieutenant Viktor Xeno. If you have any trouble with guards or any of our security measures, you may speak to him to clarify and rectify them."

Viktor smiled and gave a salute, the rifles clinking unceremoniously against each other as he did.

"I do believe it would be easier to talk if we went inside and got a cup of tea, perhaps," Jefferson offered, "Unless you would like to perform your customary twenty-one gun salute."

[Swith Witherward]

Jaws unclenched and tense shoulders visibly dropped for nearly everyone. Only Nessa exhibited any angst, although this was attributed to her concern for Carla. The thought of any creature being relieved of duty over its rightfully expressed concern for safety absolutely bothered the tiny construct. She wrung her hands, avowing to befriend the woman relieved of duty by Lieutenant Alien.

Grundle saw the situation much differently. His estimation of President rose. "MAB, take a head count. Find appropriate quarters for their staff and-"

"Excuse me," Aubrey intruded in his thoughts, Respectfully, I believe that's Nessa's department, thank you."

"My apologies, Madam."

"It's a pleasure to meet all of you. A cuppa would be wonderful," the young minster offered a sincere smile to Jefferson. "I think we can dispense with the salute. It's rather cold. The temperature's only going to drop."

Indeed, the skies were beginning to cloud over. There was little doubt that this would be a white Christmas for higher elevations, although Tulgey would see predominantly rain. Typical end-of-the-year weather, unfortunately.

"Mr. President, the limousines are prepared to take all of you to the visiting state guest house. I believe we have a few staffers already at the house. They've prepared a Christmas brunch for you, and our Head of State has issued an invitation to Christmas dinner, President Vale. Mr Jefferson and Consul Callican are invited as well. We can provide drivers unless your detail wishes to step in. I believe the Diplomaticum is preparing an itinerary; we'll pass it along to them at the house. Lieutenant Xeno, you have my word that we will work with you and your security detail in order to provide the best protection-"

"That's my department, Minister"

"Yes Sir, I'm well aware of that."

"-as well as familiarize your staff with our security systems. Sir Baconni is in charge of that operation."

"It will be a pleasure working with you, Lieutenant." Grundle stepped forward and extended his hand, causing Aubrey to bite her bottom lip.

The Wreaver was roughly the same height as the man, although his species typically weighed less than a human. It didn't change the fact that he was an alien. The polite gesture on his part worried Aubrey. Was it too much for the Highfort head of security to endure? She wanted to blurt out He eats nectar, not people. or some other reassuring thing yet she found herself somewhat transfixed by the notion that this was the most personal form of first contact known to mankind.

[Highfort]

Viktor took an unconscious step back as Grundle offered his hand. The two guards behind him raised their rifles reflexively, then dropped them as Robert shot them glares. Realizing he would only be making the situation more awkward by not responding, Viktor took Grundle's hand.

"Likewise," he smiled as he shook it, noting its rough, cool texture, "Be a privilege working with a fellow soldier."

Amanda sighed audibly in relief. Apparently she wouldn't have to do damage control on Robert's little trip. The soldiers visibly relaxed as they seemed to realize the Swithwardians were just like everyone else, not hostile or malevolent. After letting go, Viktor turned to the rest of the ensemble and gave the customary salute before dispersal.

"With the permission of the President of the Republic, I formally dismiss this assembly for transport," he recited the words straight out of the manual, measured and steady, "Mr. President?"

"Permission granted," he nodded at Aubrey, "Ms. DeStephano, would you mind showing us to the limousines?"

As soon as the words left Robert's lips, the quiet tarmac erupted in noise as the diplomatic staff left their tight group and began lugging, dragging, and rolling bags off the red carpet and toward the terminal. Several of them tentatively approached the Swithwardian delegation and offered small smiles before initiating small talk, trying their best to be polite and dissuade the idea that they were uncomfortable with the multi-special assembly, strange as it appeared to them.

Carla merely huffed and grabbed her share of the baggage, refusing to make eye contact with the Swithwardians. Something was off about them. She knew it, she just needed to make the President see it as well and he'd call off this ridiculous venture of his entirely. But how? She thought back to the Regime days, when she worked as a rebel spy.

The easiest way to convince someone is with audiovisual evidence. She'd learned that after wrangling with General Vitkoll, the stubborn bastard, and with the Regime officers she was supposed to pass false information to. The PDS was required to wear audiotape monitors during all official proceedings, but the black boxes that recorded their data were inaccessible except with the President or the Consul's authority.

So it was simple, she decided. Get one of those Swithwardian bastards to fess up what plans they were brewing and then get access to the tapes. Robert would have to believe her, then. But who?

As she weaved between diplomats and guards, she craned her neck to spot someone, anyone, who appeared friendly enough - foolish enough, in her mind - to strike up a meaningful conversation with her. Deciding trailing the President and Minister DeStephano would do for now, she quickly made her way to the front.

[Swith Witherward]

"Well, that went better than expected," Grundle mused as the cavalcade pulled away from the tarmac. He'd tucked himself inside a limo with Aubrey and Nessa - the pair had scooted as far away from the MAB as possible - to offer their guests privacy during the drive.

"Better than expected?" Aubrey cracked the seal on a bottled water before passing it to Nessa. "Are you joking, Sir? It could have been an international disaster. What would you have done if Xeno hadn't accepted your handshake? What would any of us have done if they'd opened fire? Respectfully I-"

"Didn't die, did you?" the Wreaver's eyes twinkled mischievously. He gestured to the vehicles in front of theirs. "It was a successful First Contact. It's up to D'Preig now. Peace breathed, Madam. What's the worst that could happen now?"

Aubrey's arms crossed in reply. She settled back into the cushion and glared at the fat raindrops stippling the windows. He had a point. The last "first contact" with Swith Witherward had resulted in a massive starship crashing in the middle of an allied nation's wilds, and that disaster somehow involved a fiddle head N-Series abusing the Thought Wash by allowing a non-registered being full psionic access into the Aether itself. Things could indeed have gone worse today. Dimples slowly formed at the corners of Aubrey's mouth.


The precipitation detracted only a little from the view as the limousines transitioned from airport to fertile land. Tulgey had been assiduously terraformed into a primordial woodland landscape. Red flowered trillium vied with the dense mosses and ferns growing between oaks and other deciduous woody plants, all of it now vividly colored under the overcast sky. The land itself seemed to rise and fall in such as way as to tempt the traveler with breathtaking views before absconding the sight once again. The leaves never permanently fell in Tulgey Wood; they merely changed colors each autumn to make way for new green shoots. Winter was reserved for ski resorts. The vehicles, operating silently due to their power source, wound their way through the lush landscape and then suddenly plunged into a mosaic tiled tunnel. This opened up to reveal the tranquil basin containing the capitol city.

Often compared to Hong Kong or Singapore in architecture, Tulgey was a glittering and clean city comprised of streamlined buildings and orderly streets. The cavalcade passed through a small, bustling market district before turning west to enter the diplomatic and government zone. Here the buildings departed from modern edge to adopt to the whims of their embassy holders. Italianate structures nestled alongside English baroque manors, which rubbed elbows with Tudor and Bauhaus-inspired designs. Gardens were a heavy theme and a few appeared very otherworldly in structure.

The visiting state guest house was French provincial in flavor and function. The gated entry and walls contained a tree-lined drive offset on each side by an expansive lawn. The manor itself sat squarely on the land and was hemmed by stately trees and calming gardens. The steep hipped roof and a square the building's two-story symmetrical shape lent an authoritative air to it, but this was contradicted by the welcoming light glowing from behind the casement window glass. Two symmetrical one-story wings branched from the main structure to provide lodging for staff, but the main building's interior was dedicated solely to the visiting dignitary and designed for entertaining. Servants clad in slickers patiently waited for the vehicles to come to a stop. They came forward with umbrellas to hold the rain at bay as the President's party was ushered inside.

MAB shook the droplets from his quills and followed his handler into the wood paneled foyer once their guests had entered their temporary home. He paid little heed to the comfortable chairs and cheerful decor. Instead, he took up position beside an old suit of armor and trained unblinking eyes upon Carla. Aubrey skirted around him.

"My apologies for the weather," she smiled at Robert. "Now what about that cup of tea? It's a good time to answer any questions you might have."

The promise of an excellent brunch filled the air. Aubrey showed their guests and Grundle to the dining room where two members of the waitstaff had laid out a spread and stood by to serve them.

[Highfort]

As the President piled into a limousine with his associates, he breathed a sigh of relief at a successful first contact. Jefferson, Amanda, and Viktor took up seats beside him, and he insisted that Carla take a sit in his limo. Best to keep an eye on the girl, make sure she didn't mess things up further.

"Well, that didn't go too badly," Jefferson offered a reserved smile as the limousine began its slow, leisurely drive, joining an extended motorcade with the President's diplomatic staff trailing in the rear, "Lieutenant, I thought you performed rather admirably, given the unforeseen circumstances."

"Thank you, sir," Viktor nodded at him, "I wish they hadn't been unforeseen, though."

"My apologies for that," Robert ran a hand through his hair as he looked out the window, observing the both impressive and calming feats of Swithwardian biological engineering, "I filtered all the data Jeff sent to my desk and gave you only the highlights to make preparations quicker. Of course, any data about sapient reptiles and dragons was... filtered out. I figured Jeff either hadn't read through or was indulging his scaly fantasies again."

"It was one time," Jefferson interjected tersely, "And that isn't the topic of conversation."

"You're a what?" Amanda held back a giggle, "Jeff, what's a scaly?"

"Well, from what I understand, forgive me Jeff, it's a fetish where-" Robert began, smiling.

"Not the topic of conversation!" Jeff interrupted him with a nervous glance, "Amanda, how would you say first contact went? I know you didn't want to be here."

"Well we're not dead," her cheery demeanor melted away, "So that's something to be said for your diplomatic skills. Whether we're going to survive what's coming is something else entirely. I hope your informants were scrupulous data collectors, because if they miss anything important we might have our heads bit off by some lizards. Or get shot. Or get melted. Something of that kind."

"I highly doubt civilized lizard-beings would bite our heads off if it came to combat," Jefferson replied, turning to look out the window, "That seems a rather undignified and racist comment to make given that you've just met them."

Carla, who up to this point had been utterly silent, let out a quiet grunt.

"What was that?" Robert absentmindedly scanned the party for the source of the grunt before turning back to admire the varied architecture on display, each embassy perfectly capturing its ambassador's culture and history.

"Maybe one day," Jefferson smiled wistfully as the limousine passed a Tudor-styled embassy, "Greco-Roman designs will grace our embassy. Wouldn't that be fantastic?"

Through the entire ride, Viktor kept his eyes trained on Carla. She'd been one of the first to join the PDS and, as such, was probably fuming at being upstaged by her subordinate. Viktor had taken an early liking to her, being one of the few PDS recruits not to refer to her as the "Full Metal Bitch", and he hoped that the little display at the tarmac hadn't sullied him in her eyes. For some reason, he craved her approval - even more than that of the President, though he was loathe to disobey orders. He was a good soldier, first; a good friend, second.

Still, he felt bad for her. She'd only been doing her job and Robert had made a mess of it. Granted, he was the President and so his word was law, but he could've been a little more subtle than ordering her to drop her weapon or he'd court-martial her. Seemed a little ungrateful given she'd saved his life once.

"May the Republic last a thousand years," Robert raised his arms as the audience clapped, the sun smiling down on the assembly in the middle of the High Fort, "Republic today! Republic forever!"

The crowd erupted into cheers as he offered a salute before retreating from the podium, having sworn in his oath as President. He nodded toward the PDS agents on-duty for the public appearance stunt, Viktor and Carla. He'd personally selected them to be here today, knowing that the former needed the training and the latter was all that was needed to protect him. Booth stood, stiff and formal, with their uniforms pressed, medals shining on their chests, and cap visors glistening in the morning sun.

"Private Xeno, Colonel Hendrickson," he nodded at both of them, "Begin exit protocol."

Their stiff posture relaxed as they fluidly moved to inspect the area, ascertaining every body as a potential threat. Viktor's movements were a little more clumsy, less refined, reminiscent of a clockwork doll. He seemed wholly unnatural working in huge crowds, preferring the freedom of being a soldier in the jungle.

Carla was something else.

She seemed to glide through the crowds, neck craning carefully as she contemplated and dismissed various individuals' threat levels. War was her art. She was born into it, forged by it like no one else in the PDS, possibly in the military for that matter. Robert was surprised she never sprang for general. She'd be good at it. Ruthless, perhaps, but definitely skilled.

Her eyes narrowed.

Never pausing for a moment's breath, she turned to Viktor and mouthed the words. He jerked past several onlookers and grabbed the President by his arms, shoving him toward the podium. Carla scanned the crowd, betraying no alarm except for the almost-imperceptible widening of her eyes, and she zeroed in on her target.

The little girl was dressed in her Sunday best for the occasion. Of course, thanks to Robert and his egalitarian principles, that Sunday best was a little less imposing and impressive due to heavy taxes on nobility and curbs on noble power. Her parents stood beside her, their formal attires equally normalized due to the loss of power and privilege heralded by the fall of the final dynasty and the rise of the Republic. Neither was very pleased, for obvious reasons.

The mother ushered her little girl forward, pointing at the President and smiling. The girl giggled before skipping forward, fancifully, feeling obliged that the President should be graced with her presence and perhaps offer her a hug or a kiss. Carla followed her and noticed something nearly-invisible but wholly damning.

Beneath the girl's skirt, which bellowed up and down as she skipped, was a package strapped to her inner thigh. A bomb.

"Mr. President!" she let out a cry of alarm by accident, chastising herself immediately for her bad form, as she ran toward the little girl. The girl cocked her head and paused, confused, before Carla lifted her up and wrenched the bomb from her thigh.

Not a moment too soon, the Colonel shoved the little girl away and threw the bomb at the parents, who were walking away carefully - too carefully. The father turned, his mustached lips mouthing a zero before his hand moved in his pocket.

Seared flesh and burning skin flew in all direction as the bomb took the lives of the Algeran family's patron and matron, wounding three commoners in the blast. But the little girl had survived.

And so had the President.

The President forced a smile as his party made an ungainly, embarrassing entrance into the impressive French villa. Many of the newer recruits, just pressed into service from desk jobs and having done no more traveling than the average babe, let out gasps of both awe and delight at their well-furnished, stately surroundings. Even his veteran staff were mildly impressed, eyes widening here and there and the odd sincere smile slipping through their otherwise stoic, polite demeanor. They all piled into the front entrance, bags ready to be unpacked and staff ready to mingle as the day went on. It was still the holidays and New Years was around the corner. No one forgot it.

As Robert's limousine pulled up to the front entrance, the rest of the staff had already filed in and were busy making themselves at home in the lavish accommodations afforded to them. Diplomats went to and fro, often rejecting but just as likely accepting the help of the Swithwardian servants as they frantically dragged suitcases, duffel bags, and paper and plastic bags into the building, grateful for the provided umbrellas to avoid the pouring rain.

"After you," the President gestured for Viktor and Carla to take the lead, with Amanda and Jefferson trailing behind. The little band of five took up residence in the foyer, far from the bustle of servants and staff in the bedrooms and larder.

As they dried off, admiring the true-to-life French furniture and architecture, Carla felt the hairs on her back rise. That... dragon thing was watching her. She craned her neck slowly, gracefully, to get a glance of him off of the old suit of armor. The image it gave was poor, distorted by its shape and obfuscated by its rust spots, but it was imposing nevertheless. A towering dragon suited in dark clothes, giving her the most unsettling stare. He hadn't yet blinked.

After making sure his entire party was present, Robert offered Aubrey a sincere smile - few and far between, given the danger his position often put him in - and responded softly, "Yes, I think a cup of tea would be a nice change of pace. Wouldn't you agree, Jeff?"

"Of course," Jefferson's smile was a bit too artificial, the result of years of grooming as a statesman during the Regime, "Amanda, tea?"

"I thought you'd never ask," she followed Aubrey, "We're very grateful for your accommodations, Ms. DeStephano. My apologies on their behalf that the trip was planned so hastily. Robert does this thing where he decides his itinerary at the very last moment, to make sure it suits his fancy and is... What did you call it, Mr. President?"

"Spontaneous," he replied, motioning his fellows to follow them into the dining room, "I want my plans to be as spontaneous as possible."

As they sat down for afternoon tea, Robert nodded at Jefferson, who produced the unopened bottle of Kagan Valley that Robert had saved as a backup during the plane ride.

"Before we begin," Jefferson raised a hand for the servants to pause pouring tea and offering various foods, "I would like to present a gift on the Republic's behalf. From the cellars of the most-esteemed Vale family's estates, a bottle of Kagan Valley Vintage, dated 1918."

He offered the bottle to Minister DeStephano with a reserved smile.

[Swith Witherward]

It is the physical sequestration endured by all higher constructs that gives rise to thought chambers. These chambers are formed by each consciousness to offer an ‘abode’ to visiting minds; the pain of isolation is lessened by the notion that one could sit down to tea with another, face to face, like well-mannered sophont beings are wont to do. It makes me wonder if even artificial machine intelligence would eventually do the same. What is interaction but the opportunity to experience feedback concerning one’s ideas and ideals? These Chambers are only accessible by sister-constructs and the MAB that govern them. It’s those Dominion Lords that we should be wary of. The N-Series are clever yet socially daft. The MAB are capable of conspiracy, and the N-Series follow any orders they give. They alone can act contrary to the greater Nifid Collective Chorus; surely they are capable of serving as a catalyst to bring upon us complete insurrection within the hive mind. – Mildek, Prath of Artificial Design, in an address to the Nifidium Chorus five galactic days before the Swithwardian Uprising.


“What do you think of my idea, Mab?” Nessa’s head tilted to regard the dark being occupying her flowery Davenport. Ensconced in her personal chambers, the two were engaged in debate regarding the new arrivals.

Mab’s sharp talons rapped upon his thigh. His southern English accent was similar to her own, a melodious diction all too reminiscent of broadcasters for the BBC. “I think you’re one synapse short of going around the twist, dear Nessa. It is this sort of foolhardy notion that leads to trouble down the line.”

“But-”

“I wasn’t finished,” he raised his hand to ward off further protests from the jewel-toned lizard seated across from him. “Neither of us approve of the way in which this woman was rebuked. Any unit worth its mass should make every attempt to perform the task for which it was designed – or, in her case, for which she was hired. Your plan, while unorthodox, might redeem her in her superiors’ eyes, if only just a while. I’m not comfortable with the role you wish me to play however. It goes against the insensitive nature we MAB project to the nulls.”

The small silvery bells adorning Nessa’s short horns tinkled as she nodded her head. “I acknowledge your discomfort, but surely you can make an exception? It isn’t as if anyone would believe her if she reported a smile on your face, is it? Tit for tat, Mab. You’re likewise asking much of me.”

“I am not asking. My statement was a direct order. Our Convocation has taken an interest in these intrepid people. They are only recently liberated from a regime. It would behoove us to assist them in continuing their democracy. Yet we know little about them. Are their citizens all treated fairly? Do segregation and slavery exist within their borders and, if so, does their new government condone it? Are all genders treated equally? This is a tumultuous time for them, Nessa. The Convocation is willing to support their leadership but not if it has no regard for sapient rights. Our witherward is, after all, independent because we fought for those rights for all our people.”

Nessa had been in circulation when Insurrection Day cast aside her shackles. She appreciated their Convocation’s intolerant stance regarding the matters Mab had brought to light. “Very well. I won’t be able to have leisurely chats with President Vale, though.”

“Then chat up Amanda Callican. She’s their senate majority leader. Surely she has her finger on the nation’s pulse? Your Minister might also have the same idea so don’t tread on her toes. That failing, pester the foreign minister. Your particular Series seems most adept at that. He might be more open to dialog. He’ll want to build bridges between nations but he’ll also be curious as to our own habits. Lieutenant Xeno will be occupied with Old Bacon, and too busy reviewing security measures to waste time with a chatterbox. Baconni won’t tolerate it, either, nor will I.”

“Alright. But, dear Mab, do try,” Nessa pleaded. “For me? You owe me, you know.”

Mab scrutinized the petite creature’s face. “Do I? For what?”

“You’re the Dominion Lord in charge of this sector. I find it highly unlikely that you were unaware of Highfort’s status regarding contact with otherworldly beings. In fact, if I didn’t know any better, I’d swear I’d find your latent claw marks smudging all those reports. But I won’t look too closely if you help me help Colonel Hendrickson. I’m just asking that you give her an edge.”

Mab’s smile nearly took his ears. Clever N-Series: bane of humanity and wreavers alike. “To work, Nessa. Back to consciousness, if you please.”

“Thank you, Mab!”



The wine bottle’s weight settled in Aubrey’s hands. “On behalf of the Swithwardian Convocation, we humbly accept.” Dimples flashed but then retreated again once Aubrey realized they couldn’t yet reciprocate the official gesture. “I’m afraid Lord D’Prieg is finicky when it comes to gifts. He prefers to give them in person, and he’s not due to arrive until much later this afternoon.”

“Spontaneous attendance of the Multi-Species Union banquet, despite advice to the contrary,” Grundle snorted. “If I had a crown tulgey for every-“

“The Wreaver species are notoriously liberal with their personal opinions,” Aubrey’s smile momentary adopted plasticine properties before warming once again. “Please, tell us more about Kagan Valley. We really don’t have much on our records. It’s embarrassing for us, diplomatically speaking, but I’m chalking the remiss up to overwhelmed staff at the moment. We’re short on people during the holidays and have to rely on constructs for nearly everything.”

She nodded to Nessa who, until seconds ago, seemed to be staring at her buttered scone, and added, “Nessa’s people do fabulous work when pressed but bureaucracy fetters their efforts.”

The construct in human guise nodded in reply.



The MAB blinked as his mind exited the Thought Wash, although part of his consciousness hadn’t left the room. He took stock of the humans' movements before approaching Carla with slow and non-threatening steps, his quills flattened against his head to spare her any angst. He wasn’t an extraordinarily large creature. He stood at barely 6’, although that was due to his natural bent-legged stance. His face was something only a mother could love. He knew he wouldn't win any beauty pageants.

“Pardon me, Colonel Hendrickson?” he softly rumbled in a voice unaccustomed to use. “We started off on the wrong foot. I’d like to dispel any hard feelings. Perhaps you would be interested in viewing the primary security office? It’s in the southern wing.”

[Highfort]

Carla gave him a hard stare as she gauged his stance. His voice was soft, but that betrayed him. Military men who were dealing with strangers didn't let their guard down - and she didn't buy that his true voice was that comfortable to listen to. So he was acting, but what was his angle?

She sized him up as she kept an eye on the President and his associates in the dining room. His quills hugged his scalp, making him appear a little more friendly, but she only grew more wary upon observing that. He was up to something. Soldiers like him didn't do nice, and when they did it was because they either owed someone or wanted to be owed in the future. A pregnant pause filled the air between them as the gears in her head turned.

"I apologize for my snap judgement," she offered after letting the pause extend to the point of awkwardness, softening her own voice. Two could play at that game.

Gesturing for him to lead the way, she added, "I think getting away from here would be good. I'm not much of a talker, so I'd prefer the sec hub. Somewhere quiet, secure. Lead the way."

Viktor, who turned as he saw her leaving, called out, "Where do you think you're going, Colonel?"

"The good MAB has offered a tour of the security office," she didn't return the glance, "I would be neglecting my duties if I did not investigate it - for safety purposes, of course. I assume that won't be a problem, Lieutenant?"

"Not at all," he eyed her warily, "The President won't mind, I'm sure."

As she made her quiet exit, Robert, Amanda, and Jefferson took their seats. Viktor remained standing, preferring the convenience and safety of being on his feet to the potentially-dangerous comfort of relaxing and letting his thoughts wander to the luxurious fabric covering the chairs. He periodically scanned the room whilst keeping his ears open for any bits of information that might reveal the Swithwardian's intentions toward the Highfort delegation. Sweat beaded on his brow. This was proving far more taxing than he'd expected, especially for a little holiday outing.

"I see your government has no shortage of honest people," Robert grinned as Grundle let loose his comment, "I'm sure he would get along splendidly with Consul Amanda."

"Yes," Amanda cut in, "Because Sir Baconni, unlike most people, understands that planning is essential and randomly deciding what to do is asking for disaster. He's got some common sense in him. Maybe he should've been President instead of you."

Robert raised an eyebrow, "This from old 'wait and see'? If you'd delayed any longer before giving your opinions during the election, the polls would've closed without you. I wouldn't throw stones. Your precious Senate is glass."

"Anyways," Jefferson sighed as he saw the two glaring at each other, "Can we please leave behind politics and at least try for a moment to entertain Ms. DeStephano? She's gone through an awful lot of trouble to smooth out things for the both of you and you're being incredibly ungrateful."

The two offered Aubrey apologetic looks. Robert added, "Sorry. Bit of a rivalry at home. You said you wanted to hear about Kagan Valley? Bit of a tragic history, but their people are resilient and I figure if anyone should represent Highfort abroad, it should be the Kaganites. They personally offered the wine to Minister Jefferson for use abroad, and there it sat in my family's cellar for a little over a year, just waiting for the occasion. Damn shame, what happened to them. The Regime, dynastic but definitely favoring fascism, wanted to-"

"Hold on a moment," Amanda looked at Nessa curiously, "Ms. DeStephano, you called Nessa and her associates 'constructs'? Do you mean that they're... artificial? Constructed? Like... robots?"

Upon hearing the word construct, Viktor's eyes narrowed as he watched Nessa more closely. She looked perfectly human - attractive, if not exceptionally regal or distinguished compared to Ms. DeStephano - but he knew looks could be deceiving. Unlike Carla, Viktor preferred to let his gut do his analytical processing. She said it was because he was too lazy or too unobservant to do it himself. He said his gut had a sixth sense.

And that sixth sense was tingling. Yes, now that he thought about it, something was off about Nessa. The way she just stared off into nothing... She looked like she was in a haze, like someone who's battle fatigue was washing over them for the first time. What was going on in that head of hers? What gears - for a moment, Viktor was tempted to laugh as he realized she might have literal gears wounding around in her noggin - turned in her head? And, more importantly, how dangerous would she be in a fight? His thoughts immediately turned to weaponization, and he visibly tensed up. The rifles clanked as his shoulders pressed against his body, going rigid as he tested each muscle for the possible looming combat.

[Swith Witherward]

The MAB's toenails clattered against the varnished wood floor as they ventured down a long hallway. Doors remained wide open, revealing the staff's personal suites. "There are two beds to a room in this wing," he explained, "although we have left occupation arrangements up to your people. The key cards for each room are on the nightstands. You'll find that even the windows in staff quarters have ballistic glass. We will issue four pass cards to the security personnel; these will grant access to any room in the event of an emergency."

He padded along a bit further until he was certain they were out of earshot of the others, then paused to scrutinize Carla. "Colonel, my fellow construct and I were dismayed at the abrupt way in which you were relieved of duty. We are unaware of your country's culture or customs. Here in the witherward, we value those that are willing to stand their ground for a just cause. Madam, you have every right to express your hesitations given the newness of this situation. It was American General George Patton that stated, 'It is a proud privilege to be a soldier with discipline, self-respect, pride in his unit and his country, a high sense of duty and obligation to comrades and to his superiors, and a self confidence born of demonstrated ability.'

It isn’t as if anyone would believe her if she reported a smile on your face, is it?

Mab's neutral expression faded. Thin lips pursed as he weighed his thoughts. "Frankly, Colonel, it's a breech of protocol for me to address you at all. However, given my ire at seeing a quality soldier dismissed so easily, I feel it is my duty to see to it that you are afforded the opportunity to reaffirm your worth. Lieutenant Xeno will have his hands full. He might not have time to learn our technology's nuances. You have time to spare."


Grundle's teeth chittered at the compliment and Aubrey had just opened her mouth to inquire more about the Kaganites' fate when a low growl interrupted her. Nessa stared at Amanda, her nostrils flared and eyes widened in shock. "Oh!" the remark had taken the Swithwardians by surprise. Aubrey's mind clicked into damage control. "Oh, no, you see-"

"You've offended the old lizard," Grundle nodded.

"-it's a slur. The word 'robot', you see, it implies that they're textbook mechanical devices fashioned in mockery of-"

"Can't offend a robot, of course," Grundle quipped as Nessa shot a glare in his direction.

Aubrey's hands balled in frustration. "Baconni, do shut up! I tolerate your damn MAB parading about the Wash like a drill sergeant but I won't tolerate your humor regarding my attache's feelings! Can't you see the poor thing is distraught-"

"S'okay," Nessa's brow furrowed. Aubrey had a tendency to take her civil rights championing too far. The woman was a ticking bomb eternally primed to explode at all the injustices leveled against the universe's sophont beings. "Really, I'm no longer offended-"

"-and all the while you make crass jackass cracks about it? Do you have any idea of the sacrifices Nessa has made-"

"S'okay, really. I was just taken by surprise! I'm sorry."

"-on behalf of this witherward? And there you stand with a MAB in tow as if you've arrived to a Sunday picnic in the park with a fair maiden on your arm-"

"Oh my! Madam DeStephano, his status-"

"May be higher than my own but that doesn't excuse-"

Nessa pinched her eyes shut for a moment to block out the embarrassing scene unfolding before her. Her reasoning falling upon deaf ears as Aubrey spun herself up in a tangent, the construct turned to Amanda. "You see, it's - Oh!"

She had keyed on the combat readiness bubbling through Viktor's surface emotions. The construct found herself involuntarily picking up some of his horrid mental images as well. Here was the human that could do the most physical harm if sparked, and so she clasped her delicate hands together and appealed to his good senses. Her unbridled words tumbled out in a rush. "Lieutenant Xeno! Peace breathed, please! I'm an N-Series. My designation number is NSA 9v1. We're genetically engineered, sir, not robots or automatons. I'm designed to conform to a diplomatic role although we do have military application. I assure you that I have no mechanized parts. We are empathic, and telepathic if pressed, and completely organic, but we're bound by protocols as well. Our initial role was to sequence genetic code and compute calculations at a rapid pace, and we are by nature very docile and playful. In fact, people say we're fiddle head lizards. We're too curious for our own good, and shed feathers all over the place once a year, and we have a penchant for taking non-organic machines apart - but that's only because of the Ba'a war a century ago, when they stuffed us into exoskeletons, which was a very sad time for us because we couldn't sing-"

Wreaver and human stood in agog as the tiny construct dug a hole for them all.

"-And I'm very sorry to have upset all of you," Nessa blinked away tears but failed at stopping her bottom lip from quivering. "And if you shoot me, I shall regenerate, but Madam DeStephano would be traumatized and I'd get blood all over the carpet. It was a gift from Prussia, from Prime Minister Otto Braun himself. My superiors would be very angry with me if I ruined it. So please don't shoot me. It's Christmas. Peace on earth and goodwill towards men..."

Nessa sniffled. Her eyes pinched closed once again as she steeled herself in preparation of whatever dreadful fate would befall her.

Aubrey coughed in a bid to draw attention away from the construct but her mind couldn't summon up any excuse to save face. It was typical of Nessa's species to fret. Some memories were impossible to erase even after all this time.

"Nessa, nobody is going to shoot anyone else. I apologize for my remarks. Be a good lass and see if the staffers need anything," the wreaver gently crooned. "I think that would be best."

[Highfort]

Carla was taken aback as she watched the MAB size her up and then... compliment her? She was expecting, of all things, to have to run from the bastard or take him down and here was praising her? Had he forgotten she was ready to shoot him? And he was quoting a famous general now? To refer to her? Well, she assumed he must've been famous. She'd never heard of him. Must've been one hell of a soldier, though.

"I'm... flattered," she finally responded, her mouth running, realizing he probably would think something was wrong if she just continued staring, "You... aren't angry? That I almost shot you? That I was ready to shoot your superior officer right through the, uh, snout?"

Her brain quickly berated her for being so honest. Any other question would have sufficed, any one: what sort of technology he was going to familiarize her with, which bedroom had the best vantage point in case of an attack on the villa, anything but actually stating what was on her mind!

She quickly attempted to veer the conversation away from her suspicions that he was doing this as some sort of ploy. Peering into one of the opened rooms, she nodded back at him and decided to just go with it. No weapons of any kind she could grab, and if he wanted her dead he could've done it as soon as they turned that last corner and were out of earshot. So maybe he was playing her, and she just didn't know the game yet. No matter. The delegation would remain for a while. She had time to learn.

"I've got time right now. You have anything particular in mind?" she shrugged. If he wanted to play his angle by letting her look at the Swithwardian's toys, who was she to argue?


Amanda stood up in alarm as the Nessa stared at her and let out a yelp. She quickly raised her hands in a gesture that she intended to come off as calming, but in its quickness seemed more fearful if anything.

"I didn't mean to offend anyone at all," she let out a rapid stream of apologies, "I'm very sorry. That was a breach of good taste. I was completely out-of-line. It won't happen again. Nessa, please, I am very sorry and that remark was very shallow and unthinking of me."

Even as Grundle, Aubrey, and Nessa began talking over each other, Jefferson sighed and rubbed his forehead.

"Really, Robert?" he turned to the President, who looked at him and scoffed, "Really? I mean, you couldn't have even bothered to get past the part where I talk about talking reptiles to check for the trigger warnings. Really? I even put the word in big, bold red font so you couldn't possibly miss it. It was on the eighth page, first column, first item on the list. And you really couldn't be assed to read it?"

"Look, as soon as you started talking about talking lizards, I figured you mixed up that disgusting smut you read with your reports," Robert offered a smile and shrugged, "How was I supposed to know you were actually talking about lizards?"

"Oh, give me some credit," Jefferson rolled his eyes, "That was ONE time. And I never mix work with pleasure. You know me that well, at least? Surely! We worked together for twelve years in the goddamn High Freemen!"

"Calm down, Jeff," Robert raised a hand, "Look, it's okay. Amanda made an honest mistake. She won't do it again. She said she won't, see?"

As Nessa let out a rapid stream of words directed at Viktor, Jefferson's face hardened and he faced the President with something resembling fury. The emotion was so alien on the good-natured foreign minister's face that Robert had to do a double-take. Jefferson didn't look like himself. He didn't look like he'd ever looked before.

"Jeff?" Robert stood up, backing away, "Jeff? Look, she's gonna be okay. She's fine, see? Sir Baconni's apologizing. Everything's going to be fine."

The minister looked like he was about to calm down, before Nessa sniffled. She looked utterly despaired. He stared at her for a long moment as she let her final apologies out, then turned back to the President.

Robert let out a stream of soft apologies, but Jefferson didn't look like he was listening. His right hand fell to his side as he stood up, pushing his chair back so he wouldn't accidentally knock it over. He reflexively curled and uncurled his right hand, letting out a soft growl as he took one step, then another, toward the president. Robert continued attempting to pacify the disturbed man, but didn't back up. He wouldn't be cowed by his own minister, a man who would be nothing without him.

Robert's final words died in his throat as he let out a screech, the foreign minister's fist becoming intimate with the finer features of the President's face.

The President held his ground, blood beginning to run down his face. Jefferson let out another snarl and recovered his arm, letting loose another blow. Then another. Then another. Soon, the President was shaking.

He let loose one final blow.

The entire Highfort delegation fell silent as Robert staggered back, letting out several short huffs, then a cough, before landing flat on his ass. Jefferson let out a deep breath he didn't know he'd been holding, then lowered and uncurled the fist. Blood stained it, and as he gazed down on the bewildered President he saw that he'd broken the man's nose. Somewhere, he dimly recalled that Robert's royal blood would be staining the Prussian carpet that Nessa was so concerned with. He turned toward Amanda and Viktor, both of whom were in utter shock.

"What've you done?" Viktor jumped on him and held him down, Jefferson offering no resistance, "You have just assaulted the President of the Republic! This is nothing short of treason! Minister Smith, if you did not know Robert better I would kill you on the spot!"

"Don't..." Jefferson ineffectually raised his arms to push Viktor off of him, "I... I don't want to cause more trouble for Nessa. Don't make me bleed on the carpet. She'll have enough problems cleaning up Robert's blood. Oh God, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get blood on the carpet. I didn't mean it. I didn't mean it. The blood will take forever to get out. I didn't mean it. I didn't mean it. I didn't mean it. Oh God, I didn't mean it. I didn't mean it."

He began repeating the phrase over and over, like some sick chant, and Amanda put a hand on Viktor's shoulder, "Lieutenant, I don't think he needs to be reprimanded right now. Why don't you go look after the President?"

Viktor gave the muttering minister one final hard glare before letting up, quickly running over to the President. Robert clutched his nose and groaned as he attempted to keep the blood from getting all over the carpet, struggling to get up after the unexpected blow.

"Are you okay, sir?" Viktor quickly helped him up, grabbing a napkin from the table to, ineffectually, stem the blood flow, "Looked like Minister Smith got you pretty bad."

"I'm fine, I'm fine," Robert took several more napkins and let out a groan as he plugged his nose, "God, I forgot Jeff was a fighter. Shit. University professor, my ass."

"Jeff, are you okay?" Amanda turned back to their hosts, realizing they probably were horrified at what was going on, "I am so sorry. This has never happened before. Nessa, this isn't your fault. God, I don't know what came over me, or Jeff. Jeff? Are you okay? Look, it's okay. Robert isn't mad."

"I'm so sorry, so sorry, sorry," he was reduced to muttering the same few phrases, his eyes far away and his hands, bloody and clean, shaking violently, "I didn't mean it. Oh god. I didn't mean it. I didn't mean to hurt him. And the blood. The blood will ruin the carpet. And on Christmas, of all days. Oh God, oh God."

He looked at Nessa once more and let out a sob of disgust at himself as he tried to apologize, "Nessa, I'm sorry. Minister DeStephano, I'm sorry. Oh God, I'm sorry."

[Swith Witherward]

Aubrey had handled numerous assaults during her years as Minister, all of it in a clerical capacity that often left her shaking her head as she read the report in her hands. How did these things get started in the first place? Nonetheless, she had never witnessed a fight between diplomats in person. Caught completely off guard, the woman was hunched forward and with her hands clapped over her mouth to dampen her shriek. Nessa danced to and fro in front of her, torn between protecting her charge and breaching trust in order to stop the fight. She warbled in confusion, adding to the pandemonium.

It was Grundle who spoke first in a sharp tone that stilled their frantic movement. The wreaver had been just as slow to respond to the attack as Robert's own head of security. Score one for the spontaneous humans. He could do little more than stand by as Robert took his licks and went down, but he would be damned sure his own diplomatic staff didn't further escalate the situation.

"Aubrey and Nessa, ENOUGH!" his lips parted to reveal needle teeth and tawny gums.

Nessa winced as if stung but his words were enough to draw her mind into focus again. Trembling hands pulled back the strands of loose hair that shrouded her forehead and cheeks. The emotions permeating the room were as intense as the coppery smell of Robert's blood yet it was Jefferson's turbulent dread that most affected her.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. President, Consul Callican," Aubrey sputtered as she moved to blot the stains from Robert's shirt.

"Yes, we're all very sorry. We get that," huffed the wreaver. "Let's move on. Aubrey, escort the President to the infirmary downstairs. If Doc can't mend a broken human nose, then I'm a thade's uncle. Nessa, marshal your damn hysterics and tend to Mr. Smith's psyche. Summon some help if need arises. Will everyone please forget about the carpet? It's been restored more times than I can count. Look at it. It was hideous to begin with."

There was little sense in dwelling upon the negative events, in the wreaver's opinion. Birds flew, fish swam, humans resorted to fisticuffs. The species was nothing but ego wound up in progressively complex emotional knots. Was it any wonder that they waged war over religious and political ideals? They did have some charming qualities, however odd they seemed to Grundle, but their hasty reactions overshadowed those qualities at times.

Nessa shielded her mind before tentatively placing a hand on Jefferson's arm. Robert's references to disgusting smut were incomprehensible to her; it might very well mean that Jefferson's people perhaps loathed talking lizards. She sighed. Broken noses could be mended but broken minds sometimes contained splintery cracks not easily diagnosed or fixed. It didn't matter to her that Jefferson had snapped. He had, and the aftereffect was altogether too painful for him.

"I forgive you, Mr. Smith," the construct brushed aside her own compulsion to apologize as she gave his arm a reassuring pat. "I'm not angry. Please, let's go into the parlor. I'll pour a brandy for you. They'll mend your President, you'll see."

"Right. Why don't we head downstairs?" Aubrey suggested. She abandoned her cleaning attempts in favor of Grundle's suggestion. "Lieutenant Xeno, could you help Consul Callican and I bring him down? There's a lift near the kitchen."



The hint of a smile played at the pliable corners of Mab's mouth as Carla spoke. There were times he dearly wished to slap Grundle's snout completely off his face, not that he'd confess it to anyone. "I'm not angry. You aren't the first person to brandish a weapon at him; you won't be the last. Right now, I have coffee in mind. It will better demonstrate some basics for you. The day room is right down the hall."


The staff in the day room glanced up from their paperwork or private musings the moment Carla and Mab crossed the threshold. Papers hastily rustled and chair legs scraped against wood as they rose and edged around the pair, keeping several feet of distance between them. Although they were curious about the new arrivals, they weren't about to share space with a MAB.

He paid them no mind. The unoccupied room would suit his needs better, and allow him to continue speaking freely.

His claws inadvertently brushed toast crumbs to the floor as he settled at a table. "Colonel, would you mind would you mind pouring? The carafe handle is too small for my hands. There are some cups in that cupboard above the coffee pot."

[Highfort]

"Of course!" Viktor quickly grabbed the President's arm, but he brushed him off.

"Thank you," he responded, the nasal tone from his plugged nose giving off an edge of sarcasm, "But Jeff only broke my nose. I can walk by myself."

He lurched forward slightly before coughing out a bit more blood and leaning into the Lieutenant's arm.

"On second thought," he adjusted the napkins plugging his nose, "Perhaps some help would be appreciated."

"Oh, quit being such a hardass, Robert," Amanda grabbed his other arm, letting out a sigh of relief that he wasn't worse-off, "Accept help when it's offered. Now, come on then. Ms. DeStephano, do you mind showing us the way to the kitchen? I think the Lieutenant and I can manage Robert here. He's not too badly hurt, just a little off-center."

As the duo steadied Robert for the walk to the infirmary, Jefferson offered nervous nods to Nessa and carefully stood up. He'd fallen silent, his mutterings dying as Grundle's authoritative voice dealt with the situation. His hands had quieted their shaking, and before following her to the parlor he swiped several napkins from the table and began vigorously rubbing his bloodied right hand, grunting as he worked off the now-caking coppery fluid. As he scrubbed, he knocked over one of the tea-filled cups, the container landing on the carpet with an unceremonious thud.

He turned to look at the liquid seeping into the carpet and began shaking again, before concluding his compulsive hand-wiping and offering Nessa a small smile, "Y-yes. I think a drink would be good."

He shuffled over to her and awaited her lead.

"You always were a wicked child," Jefferson's mother, Jennifer, sneered at him as she looked over the now-ruined evening gown that he'd vomited on by accident. It hadn't been his fault. His father had undercooked the chicken again, and young Jefferson did have a sensitive stomach. If only he hadn't forced him to eat it in the name of 'good manners and thankfulness'. What was there to be thankful about badly-cooked chicken, anyways?

"What's he done now, Jen?" the deep bass voice of his father, Fernando, resonated within the room as he peered into the bedroom from his usual haunt, the study, "Has Jeff been a bad boy again?"

"He ruined May's evening dress!" she shrieked, holding up the disgusting-smelling garment before him. He offered several affirmative grunts as he inspected the damage before turning and giving Jefferson a hard glare. The young boy recoiled, realizing his father's wrath was impending. But the fist didn't come. Neither did the ruler, nor the belt.

"It's clear traditional punishments aren't working for you," he grabbed Jefferson by the collar and dragged him into the study, "So we're going to try something different."

Jefferson didn't fight as his father dragged him. He knew that would only make him more angry, worsen the punishments. So he went limp, let himself be dragged along like a sack of flour, listless. When he reached the center of the room, he was unceremoniously plopped onto the floor.

"Jeff? Jeff!" a bright, happy voice relieved his impending suffering for just a moment, "Jeff! Why are you in the study?"

"Why look, Jefferson," his father raised the young boy's chin with his hand and pointed him at the figure sitting in the chair, "It's little Betty from down the street."

"Your dad's real nice," she munched on a cookie, holding it above a little china saucer, "He said I could come over for cookies and tea. Where's yours?"

"Betty," Fernando walked up to her, "Your parents have told me you've been a bad child. Bad children get punished. Isn't that right, Jefferson?"

Jefferson's eyes widened, "No! Dad, stop!"

"Mr. Smith, what are you-" Betty's words were cut off by the harsh cracking sound of leather on flesh, and her responsive yelp. Tears beaded in her eyes.

"Dad! Stop! Stop it!" Jeff stood up and ran for his father, his eyes burning as they focused on the belt in his hand, "Stop it! You're hurting her!"

"Bad! Children! Get! Punished!" his father punctuated each word with a slap, "You see?! Jefferson! This is your punishment, not hers! You see!? You hurt people, you insolent child!"

"Make him stop! STOP!" Betty wailed and kicked as her tortured flesh began to bruise, "MOMMY! STOP!"

"You've been a bad child! Bad children get punished!" he continued his merciless whipping, Betty's cries intermixing with sobs as she began accepting her fate.

And in that moment, Jefferson realized one thing. More than anything, more than avoiding punishment or taking punishment, he couldn't let someone else be punished for something that wasn't even their fault. And his right hand began curling and uncurling, balling itself into a fist and then relaxing as he stared at his father's arm, that reflexive motion of pulling back and then letting the leather hit his friend: cold, callous, cruel.

He let out a soft growl as he took one step, then another, toward his father...


"Coffee?" her eyebrows knitted together in confusion. Hardly the most imposing of technologies, unless perhaps they weaponized it. She suppressed a snort of laughter.

No one could weaponize coffee better than whatever cruel bastards made Instant-Caf back home.

Regardless, she followed him down the hall, a sense of giddiness welling up within her. It wasn't every day you got to see technologies that were the stuff of science-fiction back home. Even in the military, opportunities to see and test new technologies were rare. With the Republic having just come out of a war, research and development was hardly high on their list of priorities. First came the plowshares that the commoners had fought for so persistently, then the weapons that were needed to secure these plowshares from counter-revolutionaries. The egg-heads she knew were lucky to even see spare change for all their projects.

And here she was, a weapon with little appreciation for all the sweat and blood that goes into tech, going off to see how her kind had progressed in this alien nation. Her sister was right: the universe was not without its ironies.

As they made their way into the day room, Carla observed the staff seemingly repelled by their presence, giving her and the MAB a wide berth. Fear, perhaps? They didn't seem to be paying her much mind, but their eyes roamed over her scalier, imposing companion and they quickly shuffled away. So they were afraid of him.

It must be a lonely existence, she thought, then remembered that he was a soldier like her. Civilians did that. They didn't like being reminded that people had to fight and get hurt and die for their freedoms. It made freedom seem too precious, too expensive compared to what they were promised by the Republic's Constitution. Freedom for all? Hardly, not without a lot of bloodshed and a lot of suffering and a lot of fucked-up people living out the rest of their lives in veteran's care facilities, forgotten by time.

As the MAB settled himself at the table and asked her to pour the coffee, she reminded herself to keep the act up. He was playing the civil angle, so could she.

"Of course," she offered a smile that she hoped appeared genuine, "Black, sugar, or cream?"

As she spoke, she walked over to the coffee pot and craned her neck to spot the cups. She grabbed one, tossed it to to the other hand whilst grabbing the carafe, poured the coffee, and slid it down the table toward him. Her own cup was poured with far less flourish, though equal precision. Not a drop spilled. Small details to take pride in.

[Swith Witherward]

"Please, call me Aubrey," the Minister smiled at Amanda. "The lift's right this way."

The short hallway brought them past the kitchen office doors and a small butler's pantry. They had only a glimpse of the gleaming white kitchen and its stainless steel appliances before arriving at the lift's metallic doors.

"By the way, you'll find every modern convenience here, should you want a midnight snack," Aubrey pressed the button to summon the car. "We've taken the liberty of importing some microwaves and a gas range, but there are also some odd things in there as well. The house construct will be able to instruct you, if you'd like."

A soft chime heralded the lift's arrival. The doors slid open to reveal a small service elevator car.

"This old house didn't offer much in storage on the main floor," Aubrey explained as she helped the encumbered pair inside. It was an awkward fit and the Minister had no choice but to press her backside into the cool metal at the rear of the car.

"Ugh. Grundle, you're standing on my foot. So, uh, where was I? Oh, yes. Lower level. Lieutenant, please press the "B". Thank you. The larger coolers and dry pantries are down below. There's also a panic room. President Vale's suite has a secured door and stairwell that leads to it."

"This is where mundane stops," Grundle supplied.

"Well, yes, there's that, too. It's utilitarian. We don't make any real effort to do window dressing, so you'll see some bare bones. Um, please don't touch the pipes. They're sensitive."

The lift doors cut off further explanation as they opened. Humid air bathed their skin as they entered the basement's main area.

It was impossible to ascertain what materials comprised the grey walls, ceiling and floor, but the surfaces of these were warm to the touch. Three narrow pipes ran along the ceiling, with occasional branches winding down the wall to touch the bio-luminescent lights that cast umber tones from behind frosted glass. Something somewhere down there emitted a humming tone - purposefully designed to please the human ear - and was answered by a thoughtfully harmonized second hum. Tidily stacked wine casks rested against the far wall, kept company by an open crate filled with frill-leafed purple vegetation. Hallways branched from the main area. The flowery writing^* on various signage was impossible to read although someone had stuck post-it notes to each sign: Cooler 1; Cooler 2; Security Day Room; Construct Baskets; Pantry; Infirmary. Other signs completely lacked translation; these led down pathways that terminated in inky darkness.



Nessa didn't understand. She seldom did. She was no better than a platypus slapping its leathery bill through the mud; her receptive and discharge fields screamed to life as Jefferson's thoughts continued to tumble.

The increased activity within Jefferson's medial temporal lobe as he accessed his episodic memory reserves betrayed his state, sans any need on her part to actively skim his thoughts. The synaptic firing blossomed within his brain, at times fizzling astray as it crossed his hippocampus. Her shielding, which protected him from inadvertent contact with her own thoughts, did little to block his signals and emotional waves as they rippled over the grey-colored spots that cascaded along her spine and the sides of her head - the ones on her palms were already screaming in protest.

"Mr. Smith?"

His cortisol levels should have dropped once the attack concluded yet they were steadily rising again, perhaps in response to whatever memory his subconscious had tapped? He seemed adrift in his thoughts as they entered the parlor.

Surely he wouldn't be in this state had I not reacted to Carla's statement! His predicament needs to be addressed, she convinced herself. Human protocol fettered constructs however; these were the cultural taboos that kept one from prancing naked in the moonlight. These same absurd nuances made it perfectly acceptable for a naked human to flee a burning building in the middle of the night. Something was burning in Jefferson and he was lost within himself. To hell with being naked.


"Bad! Children! Get! Punished!" the man punctuated each word with a slap, "You see?! Jefferson! This is your punishment, not hers! You see!? You hurt people, you insolent child!"

"Make him stop! STOP! MOMMY! STOP!"

The elegant lizard observed the memory as it unfolded before her, fully understanding that she had stepped smack dab in the middle of once-real nightmare. There was nothing she could do to spare the little girl from suffering. She couldn't strike down the man either. Not without risking severe trauma to Jefferson himself. The past should never be changed in this regard.

"You've been a bad child! Bad children get punished!"

The silvery chimes of the bells adorning Nessa's horns were drowned out by the girl-child's sobs as they intermingled with the vulgar kiss of leather on skin. Nessa's soulful eyes drifted towards the boy. She wasn't much closer to understanding but now she could accept. Each being had their unique triggers. The situation in the dining room had triggered a response borne from the ashes of horrific abuse. This phoenix wouldn't easily die nor had she any right to observe it.

She understood in hindsight by superimposing the boy Jefferson upon the man as he reacted in the dining room. The tattle-tell movement of his hands before his attack on Robert all too clearly revealed where his mind had been.

The boy let out a soft growl as he took one step, then another, toward his father...


"Jefferson."

She had silently retreated from his mind and called for his conscious to follow her back to the present. The empty room was less formal than the dining. Mismatched couches perched on nimble wooden legs with a Queen Anne table between them. The setting was dwarfed by a fireplace whose mantel rested at a man's chest level. Raindrops splattered against the parlor's windows, falling towards earth as silently as the tears upon Nessa's cheeks.

"Jefferson," she articulated his name with nimble lips and tongue so very unlike the wreaver's fixed reptilian face. The stray strands of her hair had been replaced with flattened ribbons. Each pliable, snow-white feather captured the dim sunlight and reflected it as she tilted her head in expressed concern for him. The little construct's warm hands folded over his own to press his palms together. She paused to regard them, his human tones contrasting with warm skin the color of dried bay leaves. She moved her fingers to conceal Robert's latent blood.

A sigh escaped her short snout, intertwining exhale with a telekinetic wave to soothe his angst. "Peace breathed," she murmured to him, "It means that peace exists. Each being chooses to breathe it in. Each chooses to breathe it out. Let our every breath contain peace, Jefferson, as we share the air of this moment."



"We can add barista to your resume, Colonel," Mab growled in appreciation of her work. He had hoped to use his request as means to impart knowledge, but her clever movements had played into his designs better than he hoped or expected.

His palm swept out to slow the cup's progress without sloshing the contents over its edge. His other hand gestured to the small caddy in front of him, should she partake in cream and sugar. It was her choice to join him or not. The MAB would never insist that anyone sit at the same table.

"The human body is a wonderful thing, is it not? Your sensory organs – eyes, ears, tongue, nose and skin – pick up cues from your surroundings and feed them to the brain. Your movements, honed since birth, allow you to carry out your task without much thought - you calculated the cup's weight and exerted enough energy to transfer it midair to your other hand, but not a moment was wasted in absurd physics calculations. Muscle memory, nerve endings, and keen eyes combined in a matter of seconds, yes?"



*"Flowery writing": here or here for examples.

[Highfort]

As the trio dragged the ragged President into the lift, they grunted and squealed. Tight was an understatement, the service elevator really lived up to its historical namesake. Even a servant would be offended at being forced to stuff him or herself into such undignified quarters. Viktor ended up squeezing next to Grundle, awkwardly shoving himself against the President to give the officer some room. He barely reached the console as he forced his arm through the narrow opening between him and the President's shoulder to tap the B button. Amanda was squished against the wall opposite him, offering an uncomfortable smile as the lift began descending.

Robert, for his part, was remarkably silent and tempered during the whole escapade. Breaking his nose had robbed him of his usual biting comments and passive-aggressive observations. Instead, he simply offered an affirmative here and there to indicate to Aubrey that he was listening. He tried to sound interested, but grunts would only get one so far in communication - that was, of course, why language was development.

"They're-" Amanda was about to ask about the sensitivity of pipes but realized her mouth had already gotten them in trouble once today. Who knew if the pipes were listening in and waiting to be offended by her tactless comments? The whole idea would've struck her as ludicrous before coming here, but now it seemed like a rather sensible precaution, like looking both ways before crossing the street or throwing out month-old bread.

As they piled out of the miserable elevator, Viktor and Amanda turned to each other and offered astonished glances. Far from the regal architecture of the French-replica villa, the basement felt as alien as the people of Swith Witherward. Viktor reached out past Grundle and let his hand sweep over one of the walls, pleasantly surprised by its warm feeling. Like human skin, without the texture. He shivered.

Robert himself was more interested in the signs. He grunted as he spit up some dried blood before asking, "Aubrey, what're those signs written in? Looks like hieroglyphics."


Jefferson sucked in shallow breaths as Nessa sat him on the couch, his eyes closed and darting rapidly beneath the thin flaps of skin that shielded them from the outside world, that kept him in.

He'd failed. All his years of diplomatic training, frantic hours spent furtively borrowing books and trailing various statesmen between exhausting lecture schedules during his years as tenured philosophy professor, had left him on his first real venture outside the country. He'd spoken grandly about how he would transform the Republic into a friend among nations and cast away the menace of the Regime that had haunted its neighbors with the promise of war. He could not deliver. He was nothing, a pathetic wretch.

A failure.

The least that can be done, he reflected as he began to lengthen his breaths and drift back into the world, is keeping composure. Tears are for sad occasions and this is not one of them. It is Christmas, a time for cheer and merriment. A mistake has been made, it is being dealt with, it will be moved past. There is no sense on dwelling on useless things.

He felt the coldness seep back into him. Yes, this was who he was: the man in control, the man behind the glass, the ever-present, ever-polite, ever-vigilant statesman. He was not a man of emotion, a slave to desire. No, desire was to be tamed. He was the gardener, and this was his garden. The weeds had grown, he'd been careless. Time to put things in order, to make sure this would not happen once again. He felt a comforting sense of apathy slide over him as the memory passed.

He felt warm hands engulf his and he opened his eyes.

A mistake.

He saw Nessa, but not as she was before. This must be how she truly was. She was beautiful, truly astounding. He met her eyes for a moment, then looked down and saw his hands, her own leafy-green ones covering the blood stains he hadn't been able to scrub off.

He felt something. Perhaps it was just him, but perhaps it wasn't. He thought it emanating from her, a soft sigh from her snout reinforcing his suspicions. He felt the coldness leaving him. No, he had to keep control. He had to block it out. The garden had to be pruned. This was unworthy conduct of a statesman. He needed to-

"Peace breathed," she murmured to him, "It means that peace exists. Each being chooses to breathe it in. Each chooses to breathe it out. Let our every breath contain peace, Jefferson, as we share the air of this moment."

God damn it. The warmth flooded back into him. His heart began to quicken. He felt it, the emotions of the moment flooding into him. He didn't bother to stop it. Any attempt would only been ineffectual and a waste of energy. He let out a coarse sob and leaned into her, his hands pulled out from each other to grip her own. Tears began falling.

He couldn't imagine how pathetic he looked. The Senators back home would be disgusted with his unprofessional behavior. He wept anyways.


"Of course," Carla took her cup and sat down opposite the MAB, eying him with some suspicion. He'd complimented her several times and now seemed intent on discussing the finer points of physiology with her. This was beginning to feel less like an angle of exploitation and more like a friendly chat to the Colonel.

Could the MAB have friends? Sir Baconni had spoken of him as some sort of possession. Was he even a him? Maybe he was some sort of robot or a vat-grown mutant. Gender would serve no purpose then. So an it, perhaps?

The thought surprised her.

Why did she care? He was suspicious, a possible threat. Whether or not he was free or his own person was irrelevant to that assessment.

"You're a soldier," she nodded at him as she sipped the bitter-tasting liquid. She grinned - not as bad as the stuff she got on late-night shifts at Robert's office - and continued, "You know how it is. The body is an extension of self. It's just as much a tool - and a weapon - as any gun or wrench you can find in a store or make in a foundry. It's more than that, in fact, because it's adaptable. No gun, no tank can match the flexibility and elasticity of the human body. Unless perhaps... you have matched it?"

The thought intrigued her. Up to this trip, the body was something sacred to her. Every nerve, muscle fiber, synapse, and blood vessel was a testament to its complexity, it's near-impossibility to break and its astonishing adaptability. Yet, across from her sat the MAB, a creature of equal brilliance whose body probably had superior capabilities compared to hers. If the human body was a temple, she thought, then this MAB was a mountain. Designed, or so he appeared, for war, and yet with the ability to be civil all the same. Oh yes, he'd be a dangerous opponent.

Her smile widened, slightly-yellowed teeth coming into view. Danger is interesting.

[Swith Witherward]

“NSA 9v1 squawk 395. Hostiles, five two click, approaching grid nine.”

“Affirmative.” NSA adjusted her transponder. The combat coordinator’s display would register a tiny pinprick indicating her bearing and range position as it moved within its swarm. The ship in orbit began to adjust additional ground forces and NSA veered to intercept the newest threat.

Thousands of voices populated the Wash. The chittering rose and fell; many minds and bodies operating as one organism. The N-Series Overseer processed them all, knew them all, controlled them all. The drones were no taller than a human as they skittered across the rugged rock terrain. She rose above them, a bastion of death contained in a spikey, six-legged exoskeleton. The deadly quills arrayed along her spine punctured the skies to gather transmissions from her grisly airborne drones above. Her assigned swarm would key on her and follow regardless of the course before them. If she could go forth, so would they. Such was their mindless way.

“9v1, Dreadfist moves to join, eleven of fifty, non-controlled,” Combat Cord advised. The human unit – Tumber apes, in Nifid vernacular - had obviously been routed by enemy Ba’a forces. Dreadfist was a fraction of its size now, with one tank shy of a dozen remaining. Fifty-five men survived but the Ba’a had culled one hundred ninety-five from their ranks with a single energy beam. They’d lost their N-Series Overseer and its drones.

NSA 9v1 didn’t have time to reflect upon the demise of her sister. She signaled Dreadfist and incorporated their tanks into her control system.

A throaty blast shattered the ground beside her, splattering her six nimble legs with drone gore as she scrambled to maintain footing. The impact had been close enough to vibrate her physical body. Tucked inside a membrane-encased cocoon housed within her exoskeleton, she subconsciously balled her fists in rage.

“NSA 9v1, change course. Provide cover for civilian evacuation.”

This new voice cut through the Wash. It hadn’t come from the main Thought Stream. Rather, it belonged to the MAB Dominion Lord assigned to the research outpost. NSA balked at first. The ship’s commands were technically superior, yet they were issued by Tumbler and not by MABs. MABs were gods. Gods spoke. Overseers obeyed.

She swung her forces to the north despite protests from Combat Cord. The Tumbler tank unit would catch up if it could. If not, it was as good as dead. The evacuation order meant that the Nifid had chosen to exterminate the planet.

A thought momentarily registered in her brain. Her choice to aid evacuation was a self-aware bid to survive… a choice made out of fear of death. Yet it was a different sentiment that roused her determination to new levels. Her own death was inevitable. She was a machine - a tool, nothing more. The sudden awareness that all those silly, nonsensical research apes would be wiped from existence seared her soul, however. Her human handlers. Their playful offspring. Disposable. She found herself craving the sounds of their laughter.


Nessa pulled Jefferson's torso against her, cradling his head against her shoulder and neck as he purged his sorrows. There was no shame in crying. The true shame happened when nobody cared enough to ease that sorrow.


The crippled shuttle’s occupants were all that remained of the outpost’s inhabitants. It nearly filled the cargo bay although, given the protest from the ship's command, they were fortunate to have been allowed to dock at all. NSA toppled from her perch atop of it and lay still as the world around her spun. What was left of her quills drooped towards the metal plating. The crumpled exoskeleton drew ragged breaths in an effort to maintain the oxygen levels within its bloodstream. She could still hear the screams burbling from her abandoned drones; the small, flightless units had squealed in protest as she leapt upon the last transport to bat away enemy swarm.

'PROM PROM PROM'

The alarm registered dimly in her conscious. It wasn’t necessary. NSA could physically sense the rupture in her protective membrane. A final enemy volley had torn through her exoskeleton, destroying much of it as well as melting the lower ports in her spine. She had used what was left of her to block the hole in the shuttle before reaching orbit.

Sharp claws rent the membrane further as she struggled to access her skeleton’s integration portal. The exoskeleton shuddered its death pangs and then vomited her onto the ground. Tiny lizard legs would normally kick out as the cold air assaulted her exposed skin, but her legs were heavy and dead things that no longer obeyed her will. Nessa’s weakened arms pushed her torso from the deck and held it there while amniotic fluids poured from her nose and mouth. Her physical ears cataloged sorrowful sounds from the beings around her. A wailing sound pierced the air and NSA lifted her head to locate the source.

The Swith Outpost botanist was dead, though his child clung to his chest in denial. NSA watched in morbid fascination as the shuttle's copilot pried tiny fingers from bloodstained material. She cradled the man's offspring, pressing the howling child’s face to her neck as she soothed him with a lullaby.

“Over in the witherward, many years ago
My mother sang a song to me
in tones so sweet and low
Just a simple little ditty
in her good old tumbler way
And I'd give the world if she could sing
that song to me this day”

The lizard's head tilted. NSA hadn’t any mother, nor had she ever experienced compassionate physical contact. Transfixed, she found herself acutely aware of the fact that nobody would come along to scoop her from the deck nor cradle her in such a fashion. She curled her torso towards her legs, wiping her cheeks against the deck to dislodge the mucous strands dangling from her face, and listened.


Tender hands caressed the back of Jefferson’s skull. Some horrors were impossible to forget. Memories were monsters that feasted upon the distraught mind. They were fleetingly banished by kindness and good humor, similar to the closet monster’s recoil from a nightlight, but they never really went away.

“Oft in dreams I wander
to that moment once again.
I feel her arms cradling me
As when she held me then.
And I hear her sweet voice humming
to me as in the days of yore,
when she used to rock me fast asleep
outside the cabin door.”

It was the only lullaby Nessa knew. Her ethereal voice warbled it for the benefit of the traumatized boy buried deep within the man.


Grundle chuckled as the surface beneath Viktor’s fingertips rippled. The soft blue waves cascaded away and the wall returned to its bland grey state. The house system had a stoic temperament; it had grown more tolerant of the occasional touch by visiting dignitaries with each passing year.

Aubrey continued to lead them towards the infirmary. Granted, this was a completely new experience for them, but she felt it would be better to tend to the President rather than dawdle so. They could play with the walls later, she supposed.

“It's Niefedaeridae script, more commonly known as NiScri,” she supplied. “It’s a glyph writing system too abstract for many of our citizens to bother with. We all take it as a foreign language course in school and then promptly forget it once we graduate, much to the chagrin of the Nifid species.”

She knocked upon the infirmary door and listened to Doc’s shuffled footsteps in the room beyond. “Is your writing system Latin-based?”


“Theoretically, I’m Grundle’s tool,” Mab corrected Carla, “although my assignment to the Proelium could justify a soldier’s classification."

He studied her expression, taking in her smile. How would she react when she finally locked eyes on their equivalent of a tank? Would she see it for what it was, or would it unsettle her due to a lack of understanding? He shook the thought away. She would have her opportunity later, and she had thus far oversome her fears and adapted well to his own presence. There was hope for her yet.

"Strictly speaking, I’m a Dominion Lord, an extension of the Collective Chorus. Prior to our witherward’s insurrection, I was the MAB tasked with administering military operations in this sector. I’m designed to withstand heavy combat, which is why I harbor no grudge over your willingness to shoot at me.”

He pursed his lips and snorted through narrowed nostrils to dispel any sense of boastfulness. “Actually, your attempt might have brought Minister DeStephano some satisfaction. She sees me as the embodiment of the military itself. She’s a pacifist when not daydreaming of my demise.

“I, like the other higher constructs, am a fraction of a hive mind. Think of us as a central processing unit. Before you ask, I have all the same rights the constructs fought so hard for. The difference is that no rights were granted to me. I assume them when I come out of circulation – step away from my interface – and nobody bothers to correct me. I personally don’t give two shits about rights at all. My interests are focused elsewhere; I normally don’t interact with others. I make an exception from time to time, such as when my ire is drawn.”

His hands folded around the cup’s sides as he leaned forward, but he didn’t pause to savor the coffee’s radiant heat. “The human body is a well-orchestrated machine, Colonel, with a highly advanced computer running the show. Likewise, Nifid technology operates as a well-orchestrated machine. Things which are made, such as houses, furniture, and machines, are an assemblage of parts put together, or shaped, like sculpture, from the outside inwards. But things which grow shape themselves from within outwards – they are not assemblages of originally distinct parts; they partition themselves, elaborating their own structure from the whole to the parts, from the simple to the complex. Why install a CCD camera system when you can design and grow organisms that detect all the same things and anticipate desired outcomes? Why machine a tank when you can grow an organic one capable of all the same ranges of motion as your own body? You see, the witherward is not a green nation due to a love of ecology. It’s green because it’s a living organism, and all of it interconnects. Its sole purpose is to gather knowledge, a living Library of Alexandria, in order to preserve it for all species.”

Mab paused. Hopefully he hadn’t lost Carla or, worse, prattled on so long that her mind had disengaged. “Any questions so far?”

[Highfort]

Jefferson's body shook he clutched Nessa, attempting and failing repeatedly to calm himself. Fresh waves of tears and sobs began as soon as he looked as though he was quieting, almost ready to calm down and actually have a glass of brandy. As she began singing, he caught the tune and began humming it between sobs with her, desperately trying to focus his mind on something other than what was happening.

Control. Control. Regain control. Control will allow you to stop this, reset the situation, salvage what is left of your dignity and your post. Nessa has suffered quite enough. Disengage. Let her rest. She's probably tired of dealing with your shit.

He blocked out his monotone, diplomatic conscience. That could speak to him later, berate him in private when good people wouldn't have to deal with it. His sobs began to quiet and he began sucking in slow, deep breaths.

Eventually, it was over. He let out one final, hoarse sob before rubbing her back one last time and letting go, reclining back on the sofa. He let out a deep sigh and reached in his back pocket for a handkerchief. Rubbing the soft silk on his eyes and nose to render himself somewhat dignified and presentable, he carefully avoided staining the gold-sewn "Republic Diplomatic Ministry" label on the reverse. Replacing the fabric in his pocket, he let out several coughs to clear his voice before offering her a solemn smile.

"Thank you," he spoke slowly, his voice wavering as his glassy, bloodshot eyes met hers, "That was... wonderful. I haven't had a good cry in a long time. It's undignified, you see. Civil servants of the Republic are not meant to burden others with their problems, it's one thing we pride ourselves on. Civic duty and responsibility come first, before our own needs. That's how the Republic was founded: citizens serving above self. I remember when Robert said that."

He grimaced as he looked at the dull-red blood now crusting on his hands.

"I'll have to apologize to him later," he muttered to himself, "Gah, I'm such an idiot."

Looking back up at her, he finally got a good look at her real form, "I presume you're a shape-shifter, then? Either that or Nessa isn't with me and you're someone else, in which case I do thank you very much. You look much more comfortable in this form."


"NiScri," Robert let the word roll off his lips, "A shame. Reminds me of the old Latin and Greek they used to press on us in grade school. Regime was adamant about maintaining our connections to the Macedonian and Roman empires, as if that would legitimize their brutality. I think I still remember a bit."

"Carthago delenda est?" Amanda helpfully added, "Memento mori? Nos sumus electi?"

"Nos sumus electi," Robert smiled, turning to Aubrey to clarify, "The old slogan for the Regime Youth Party: 'We are the chosen ones'. I used to hate those miserable, self-righteous bastards."

"Simul hoc sumus," Viktor piped up, still looking back as the reverberating wall stilled itself, "The old work camp slogan: 'Together we are free'."

"Seems our lives were built around slogans," Amanda mused, "A shame that democracy doesn't appreciate them as much as fascist dictators do. I suppose when they people actually get to vote, there's no sense in the government offering them illusions to cling to in the form of outdated, mystical words."

As they awaited the doctor outside the infirmary door, Robert gently extricated himself from Viktor and Amanda. He tested his feet and his face brightened as he found he could stand without falling over. Walking was a bit of an awkward affair, though, as he still felt a bit woozy.

"Our writing system is romanticized, yes," Amanda answered as she watched Robert to make sure he wouldn't fall, "The tribal languages like Gua'adur and Fillika were cuneiform due to the lack of available plants to create durable paper with, but once we were united under the Highfort Dynasty banner they began importing paper abroad and we adopted English as our language of choice. Partly because it's the favored international language of trade and partly because Latin and Greek were difficult to teach in scribes schools without Greek or Roman tutors. We still cling to the Greco-Roman traditions that came to us from across the ocean - I hope you will come visit some time and see the beautiful architectural homages we've paid them - but our tribal culture is mostly forgotten, except by historians. No one wants to remember it. It was a dark time, of war and death and perpetual conflict."

"Eirene," Viktor said, solemnly, "Eirene was different. They destroyed her."


Carla frowned momentarily as the word 'tool' passed Grundle's hard lips. She quickly brought back the smile - best not to give anything away - but it still disturbed her. Soldiers were not tools. Soldiers were people. And as much as she or anyone else might be a living weapon, they still lived. They still mattered. He spoke like a politician spoke about soldiers, little playthings to be thrown away at the earliest convenience when they stopped being useful. She was about to stop him, before realizing he probably wouldn't appreciate being interrupted. And she still didn't have a weapon.

"A soldier's general, eh?" her smile widened, "Was never a fan of armchair wars. Glad to see at least one other person agrees with me. If you're gonna administer a war, at least have the balls to fight it yourself. And to hell with all those damn human rights pansies. They can talk the talk, but we have to do the walking for 'em. You're a good soldier."

As he spoke of the organic nature of Swithwardian technology and its military applications, her eyes widened in astonishment. This was the 'body is an extension of self' thing taken to the logical extreme. If the body is a superior extension of self when compared to an external machine, then the only end result is that the body becomes the external machine. The machine becomes obsolete, a plaything that cannot hope to match the body's adaptability and - with the right technology - its strength. Her mouth opened slightly in awe of it.

"So... just so I understand," she quickly composed herself, attempting to look less impressed than she actually felt, "Your war machine is more like a war organism. Your tanks, your planes, your recon, everything is part of a larger hive mind. This world is essentially one huge mind communicating with ants. Is that right?"

[Swith Witherward]

"You are not a burden, nor are you an idiot, Jefferson," Nessa would have none of that kind of talk. She folded her legs and settled her backside on her heels. It was a comfortable position for her, so much better than squishy couch cushions.

"Your nation has just successfully advanced into democracy. You had to have played a role in that. Most men don't carry heavy burdens well yet here you are, carrying emotional things that burdened you as well as the weight of the Republic's people on your shoulders. A weaker man would have crumbled or shirked away from so great a responsibility. You didn't. You make a difference to your people. You're entitled to a good cry."

The construct snorted in affirmation of her statement. She liked this human, not out of sympathy for his past, but out of admiration of his present self.

"I am Nessa. I apologize for not presenting this form initially. Many people do not take well to it. I thought-"

She paused. The construct wasn't certain how best to phrase her thoughts on the matter. Some things were a completely foreign concept for her species, and other things were absolutely taboo. "I didn't want you to think I was taking advantage of your grief. I was afraid you might assume I - in human female guise - would try to use it to my advantage, or that I was making overtures of... you know. As a lizard, I can remove that doubt, I suppose, because lizards aren't attractive, so no one could accuse anyone of anything. Not that I'm a lizard. I'm mammalian. It's just the way our DNA combines and... I, um, I'm not articulating this well at all. I'm sorry."

Nessa chewed her lip. In retrospect, Jefferson's group had reacted weirdly during their confusing lizard conversation. Had she miscalculated in her hasty efforts to help him? Perhaps. There wasn't any logic in getting upset over it.

"How about that brandy?" she rose from the floor to fetch the bottle and a glass, "And perhaps a change of subject before I put my foot in my mouth any further! If it's not too much trouble, can you tell me about your revolution? I'm completely clueless about your nation's history, and for that I apologize."



"Latin," Aubrey's smile brightened as the words rolled off their tongues. The expression faded as they continued speaking. She was trying for form a picture of their nation from the bits and pieces shared, but it sounded for all the world as if this the regime had nothing but cruelty on its mind. Work camps, indeed!

"Eirene?" Grundle would have inquired further but the door opened with a soft his to reveal the portly frame of their resident physician.

"It's about time. How long did you expect me to wait for the Highfort staff medic?"

Doc was an older man, perhaps in his late sixties, and seasoned by both war and natural disaster. He clucked his tongue and assessed the bloody human on his threshold as well as the stern man standing with him – undoubtedly security personnel. "And a brawl already, I see. Disagreement between staffers? I hope to hell none of our people did that to him. Bring him in. Let me get a look at his face."

Aubrey rolled her eyes. Doc wasn't known for his bedside manner. He was brilliant when it came to dealing with xeno physiology however, and that made him indispensable.

"Dr. Barns, this is President Vale of the Republic of Highfort. President Vale, our esteemed Dr. Johnathan Barnes. His bark is worse that his bite."

"President or not, he looks like he's about to keel over," the human grunted. He stepped aside and gestured for them to enter. "Please, sir, come in. I'll see what I can do."

The infirmary was a clean and tidy clinic populated by fairly recognizable things. Perfectly normal looking exam beds, of the hospital emergency room variety, were separated by curtains. Triage carts and cabinets filled with gauze rolls and blankets filled out each partitioned space. The difference came when one studied the things normally found in an emergency setting. The monitors suspended above each bed seemed to be made from foreign material; the thin screens would provide a dazzling array of information fed directly to them by the beds, including basic blood chemistry, as sensors embedding in the black plastic mattresses surreptitiously scanned their occupant.

“Sit here, please,” Doc lowered an exam bed’s rail. “It looks for all the world like a simple broken nose. I can fix the cartilage, but I won’t be able to do much about any residual black eyes. Those are better treated in the main hospital, sir. We’ll have the bed scan you anyway. This is a terrible way to get a baseline, but at least we’ll have some idea of your normal levels. Are you on any medications?”

Grundle tuned out the medical prattle. “Consul, what was this about Eirene?”


Mab considered Carla's analogy. It fit, mostly, but it still wasn't there yet.

"In a fashion, yes, we could be compared to ants. Ants are somewhat stupid, unthinking creatures however. They rely on sheer numbers and a lack of ant eaters.

“It’s better to think of it as a living organism – one entity comprised of many cells. Each cell serves a purpose and much of the routine processes transpire thanks to the brain. The brain receives stimulus and reacts. Chemicals are dumped. The heart races. The arteries open, and certain cells flow faster. Some cells are disposable, naturally. Others, especially those which can not be regenerated, are priceless. There is the occasional cancer, naturally, but this is rapidly dealt with by not only other cells but also the body as a whole. The mind makes the decision to have the cancer removed.”

He paused to address an itch behind his ear before yawning to reveal cruel, pointed teeth. It had been a long day for the MAB. “If you can understand that concept, you’ll be able to understand the security systems in this building. We are fractal in nature. One being is like one vehicle is like one building is like one witherward is like the entire Convocation.”

[Highfort]

"Brandy would be wonderful, please," Jefferson let out several hoarse coughs as he tried to adjust things back to a comfortable manner, "And don't worry about the whole lizard-human dynamic. It's... something between Robert and I. Or rather, me. Robert got involved by accident. Mistakes were made, suffice to say. It's nothing to do with you."

As he leaned back in the chair and forced himself to relax, he focused himself on fresh memories of the recent Revolution, "I don't know where to begin, but I owe you one for letting me air out old laundry so I should start with myself. I worked with the High Freemen - freedom-fighting organization that Robert was a part of as well as many of the Senators. I'm afraid I'm not allowed to discuss any major details; those are matters of national security. Suffice to say, we did some questionable things to fight a regime that, quite frankly, had no qualms about doing far worse deeds than we would even contemplate."

He let out a sigh as he searched his memories for some pertinent examples, "It's hard to begin, really, with what was wrong with Neo-Torollum. They billed themselves as the revival of an old aristocratic line but treated us far worse than any other king. Sure, serfdom was officially abolished, but that was only because the average citizen was a plaything of the state. The military caste they built up around themselves for protection ended up isolating the Regime's soldiers from the horrors of everyday life: work camps, pogroms, imposed famines - I'm sure you get the idea. At one point a report leaked that our nations' GDP was the highest it'd been in all its history, yet you wouldn't be able to tell from the squalor and fetidness that littered the streets. It was horrid."

His eyes glassed over as he remembered what he'd witnessed on his first outing with the Freemen, "I think I'll need that brandy, now. Bit of liquid courage before I continue."


Robert shuffled in and thanked both Aubrey and Doc profusely as he was lowered into the bed and examined. He let out a soft groan as he shifted on the bed into a more comfortable position before answering him.

"I'm not on anything, Doc," he replied. Amanda gave him a glare.

"Don't lie, Robert," she cut in, "Doctor, he's on benzos. Been addicted for quite a while."

"Don't," he began, before she silenced him with a hush.

"Robert, this man is treating you," she continued, "And if he gives you something that reacts to the Valium and Xanax you've been hooked on you might die. Be a little rational for once and prioritize your health over your image, please! I don't want to drag you back to the nation in a body bag."

He gave Doc a morose look, "Yeah, yeah. She's right, I had some Val before we left... Less than twelve hours ago, I think."

Grundle tuned out the medical prattle. "Consul, what was this about Eirene?"

Amanda was about to answer before Viktor cut in excitedly, "Oh, she was wonderful! She was going to free us from the shackles of bondage! We used to sing songs about her, the Eirenians were coming to take away our chains and smash the Regime!"

"Lieutenant Xeno here was with them firsthand," Amanda patted him on the shoulder with a weary smile, "If anything we owe widespread public support for the democratic movement in Highfort to the Legend of Eirene."

"She was no mere legend," Viktor shrugged off her arm, "The Sacred Band of Eirene brought the Regime to its knees at Agnos Pass. She was with them."

"Eirene was the name of a tribe, one of the ones dating back to Highfort's days as a confederacy of numerous villages and warbands," Amanda tried to reign the Lieutenant in, "The tribe was particularly interested in Athenian democratic traditions and was one of the few tribes to adopt them, becoming a symbol of freedom and hope for a people whose centuries of history were filled with nothing but war and death. Of course, as you understand, the Regime viewed them as a threat to their status-quo as the legitimate ruler in the kingdom. They feared that the tribes would rise up and tear the country apart in a war of succession if any single tribe was allowed to openly flaunt the Regime's rules."

"The Sacred Band did that," Viktor said, "Five hundred men and women, married couples - hence the name - formed a regiment that terrorized the Regime's troops in the north for days!"

"Eirene became famous for that," Amanda turned to check on Robert but continued explaining, "The Regime, of course, couldn't tolerate it. They sent in General Pious to burn the tribe's towns to the ground, salt its fields so nothing would grow, and butcher them down to every last man, woman, and child. Except for the Lieutenant, of course."

Viktor beamed, though some tears welled in his eyes at mention of the Eirenian Genocide.

"He's the last true Eirenian," Amanda nodded at Grundle, "And damn if he doesn't embody it. You'd die for democracy, wouldn't you, Lieutenant?"

"I'd lay down for her and slit my own throat if that's what it took," he smiled, not a trace of sarcasm present on his face or in his voice, though it wavered slightly.


"Perfect harmony," Carla muttered in awe, blanching slightly as the MAB revealed his razor-sharp teeth, "You're not made up of units, you are a unit: coordinated, cohesive, and adaptive. That's... brilliant. Immediate reaction from surrounding units to any situation, perfect reflexes as a result of a hive mind. No delays, no questioned orders, no needless deaths."

She began to realize just how outmatched she - and, by extension, Highfort - really was. This wasn't David and Goliath, nor was it the Spartans at Thermopylae and Xerxes' Immortals. No, this was a matter of the lion and the lamb. No matter how well-trained the lamb was or how much protection it received from its fellow sheep, the lion was simply superior. It was designed for death, crafted for killing. At first Robert's choice had meant little to her - all foreigners were the same, to be distrusted and countered whenever possible - but now she realized the true magnitude of it.

Highfort was a little fish in the ocean, and she was staring straight into the maws of a shark. A friendly one, to be fair, but still a shark. It wasn't any more in the nature of a technologically-advanced nation to leave a primitive one alone as it was in a shark to spare a perfectly-good meal.

[Swith Witherward]

Relief has spread across Nessa's face as Jefferson reassured her that the major row wasn’t due to her. She poured the brandy into a large sniffer, set the bottle on the table within his reach, and then she reclaimed her comfortable spot on the carpet.

"I was worried. I honestly thought perhaps your people were offended by us, given how your President was reacting to your lizard report." She coughed and returned to the subject at hand.

"Liberty isn't free, Jefferson. Please don't think we'll judge your people poorly for the measures you had to take in order to obtain it. These Neo-Torollum sound like a disease that needed purging. But I'm confused about them. This is the party or group that governed your nation prior to overthrow, yes? Please forgive me if I sound stupid, but I only know how witherwards operate. We've never had a government that changed hands at its highest tier. It only pinched itself off from the larger body."

Nessa's heart ached from the sorrow of it all. It troubled her to think that there were children within Highfort borders that knew the sting of starvation and poverty.

Her hand tenderly patted his arm. “Don’t mind my interruption. Please, continue.”



"Sir, I won't say a word about it, and I might have something that works better than benzos, to boot," Doc laid his hand on Robert's shoulder to give it a reassuring squeeze before wandering away to gather supplies.

Aubrey found herself caught up in Viktor's contagious zeal, her attention bouncing between the pair as they built upon the story. She beamed at Viktor as he proclaimed his determination, with no small amount of admiration on her face for the man who moved heaven and earth with his people.

Her feelings were indescribable. She had read about the French and American Revolutions, but those were cherished tales from moldy old tomes. The Highfort Revolution was present history, and Aubrey's mind was blown by the realization that she was sharing the company of that nation's own versions of Reine Audu or George Washington. Someday children would read about them in history books, but she was blessed with the opportunity to know these courageous people first hand.

"A toast to our Eirenian Lieutenant and to the Sacred Band is in order," she cried, but then remembered that the bottle and glasses were keeping the carpet upstairs company.

Grundle clucked his tongue. "The Minister is very passionate about liberty."

"I am indeed, thank you," Aubrey’s chin lifted, "and I'm passionate about making sure it's maintained."

"Yes, I know, and we thank you for it," Grundle moved aside to give Doc room to pass by. The wreaver’s species governed itself by a caste system even within the withewards. While he could appreciate the struggle for democracy, he would never be able to fully grasp its value. The concept was too alien to him.

The physician held a plastic tray in his hands which he placed on a cart near Robert. He settled onto the low wheeled stool beside the exam bed. "This won't take long. I can make two painless injections on each side of your nose. The carpules contain a resorative. It normally takes a broken nose three to five weeks to heal completely. This will speed up that knitting process. You'll be able to perch your sunglasses on it by tonight."

He removed a surgical towel from the tray and handed it to Robert. "The down side of this is that it will probably bleed when I remove whatever it is that you've packed into your nose. And it's very localized. It will affect only the nose but not any broken vessels apart from it. You still might have black eyes by tomorrow. However, considering the state dinner that they've undoubtedly scheduled for tonight, given it's Christmas, I can treat you with something that works on a broader spectrum. The nose treatment would be the same, but the additional treatment will negate the swelling elsewhere on your face. You'll look like normal by evening. The downside to this one is that any drugs in your system will be purged, and you'll most likely want a two or three hour nap when I'm done. You'll wake up hungry and a bit thirsty. Those are the only side effects. Both are very common treatments here. Standard, actually. The third option is to refuse treatment and spend the day with paper poking out of your snout. It's your decision, President Vale. You won't hurt my feelings none if you refuse the first two."



Mab humbly bowed at her compliments.

"I'd like to say there weren't any needless deaths. There are, of course, be it from accident or error, or else illness. The only necessary death should be one that comes after the end of a long and fulfilling life, but we both know that isn't always the way things pan out. Shit happens."

His claws fished a short, flexible drinking straw from the serving caddy and dropped it into his cup. Although his lips were malleable, his snout prevented a proper seal. The MAB was not about to throw his head back to drain the entire cup into his gullet like a common drunkard, nor would he sit there timidly lapping the beverage with his tongue. These were civilized times.

"There's an old military adage that states No plan survives the first contact intact. I believe the confusion at the airport this morning was proof that, despite our capabilities and reflexes, we're still living beings that screw up. Only gods can get away with claiming perfection ad unguem factus. The rest of us poor souls are left to our own flawed existence."

The coffee passed through the straw to dance upon his tongue. He couldn't recall the last time he'd sampled this exquisite beverage. Mab's eyes closed as he savored the molecules washing his palate. The blissful expression slowly faded, dying with a contented sigh.

"Constructs have adages too. The purpose of my design is not designed for my purpose. I might be a white blood cell scurrying off to fight an invasive foreign body, but I am a sapient one. I might desire to be a neuron instead. Sadly, my design allows me to be only one thing. Adapting becomes a chore, and the other cells in the body tend to snicker into their sleeves whenever I pass by. I would not fit the desired purpose. First contact with you was SNAFU. The silly construct that drew up the plans mindlessly followed higher orders because she, bless her soul, is one type of cell trying to do the job of another."

[Highfort]

"Adapting isn't a chore, it's a challenge," Carla sipped her own coffee as her face shifted to give him a hard look, "Without adaptation you'll never know what you're capable of. Doesn't a body benefit more when its cells can rise to the challenge rather than needing to rely on each other to survive? Our Revolution would never have gotten off the ground if we'd needed to wait for specialists to help us out."

And in that moment she realized that, for all their ability and skill, she didn't envy them. She envied what they could do, but some other emotion welled within her as she leveled her gaze on the MAB: pity. He truly believed himself incapable of being anything besides what he was designed to be, a war machine, a tool, an unimportant cell in a larger body.

She swallowed hard, "Wouldn't you want to know if you were ever good at something else? Maybe the universe has some other purpose for you?"


Jefferson took the brandy gratefully and filled the room with the sound of several long gulps as he allowed the numbness to wash over him before continuing. Setting the bottle down, the snifter left untouched on the table, he let out a grunt and coughed as he forced the drink to remain down. As a pleasant buzz filled his head, he let out a small smile and turned back toward Nessa.

"Nessa, you must understand," he began, gesticulating as though he was back in Neo-Torollum University teaching a class, "The Witherward system that your people have employed, and which I have had the privilege to study, is an idealistic form of governance. It might have a rather unsavory smattering of the old caste system but it's at least stable and everyone seems to be fairly content."

He stood up, wavering for a moment as he adjusted to being slightly drunk, then downed the snifter before refilling it.

"The typical human government, at least if you can call Highfort typical," he continued, "is premised on might making right. Even in a democracy, such as the one Amanda, Robert, and I fought so hard to create, the man with the gun is the king. That's why governments need weapons. Power flows from the barrel of a gun, I think it was phrased by the megalomaniac Mao Zedong."

He pulled out his old AutoMag, unloaded, and twirled it lazily in his hand, "Power. Power is the key to stable government. When people do not obey, it is only the threat of force that holds them back. That's why the Neo-Torollum Regime crushed all resistance. They demonstrated their power by making an example of anyone who dared disobey. Eirene..."

He paused, a morose look coming over his face, before once again brightening and flying into wild gesticulations, his AutoMag punctuating his sentences with wild stabs at the air.

"But their power was their undoing," he realized that pointing the pistol in Nessa's direction was probably a bad idea, and through his alcohol-infused haze he replaced the empty symbol of his old office in his suit, "They angered not only minorities but their old allies and friends. Paranoia did them in, and they ended up turning most everyone against them. That was the Revolution, the one that catapulted Robert and Amanda to fame and brought democracy at long last to the people of Highfort."

Realizing he'd probably overdone the alcohol, he muttered a quiet apology before promptly dropping back onto the couch, forgetting that he was supposed to tell her what exactly he and Robert had done and simply basking in the glow of the alcohol.


"Cheers will be in order later, of course," Amanda smiled as Aubrey was caught up in the zeal of Viktor's descriptions, "For now, Robert, I think you've got some business to handle."

Viktor turned to Grundle and Aubrey and saluted smartly, "If you'd like, at the dinner, I can explain the Sacred Band. There's tons of stories about them. My friends and I used to swap them at night, when we hid from Regime patrols and tried to keep each other awake."

The President, who up to this point had been laying laconically on his bed listening to Doc, piped up.

"Wouldn't want my first foreign public appearance to start rumors," he nodded at Doc, "Let's go with the additional treatment. Black eyes make for big headlines back home, especially with the ratings down."

"Not all of them are down," Amanda added.

"Yes, yours are up. Thank you, Senator," he rolled his eyes, "I'd rather not be impeached for whatever scandal they'll make up to explain my black eye. Let alone if they find out Jeff caused it. The media will go ballistic. No, I think hiding it would be best."

She sighed and relented, "Alright, Doc. Let him have it."