Machiavelli Station (Open IC)

[Treznor]

Treznor sits uncomfortably in his otherwise comfortable chair, sitting next to the Dread Lady Nathicana without touching her or speaking a word. They'd spent the last two hours this way in agonizing silence, because there was nothing to say. It was an old, old argument that had never really been resolved, and now it seemed that all of his predictions about the girl were starting to come true.

Had he been in time? Had the team found Alkanphel? Had they killed him, or at least wounded him? Or had he killed them? What was going on up there? He wanted to scream, to destroy furniture, to strangle the man with his bare hands. Unfortunately, he'd gotten old. He had enough trouble fighting Alkanphel once before in his prime; he was in no condition to do so again.

Decades before he'd studied up on the Maiar from elven records, as much as he could. Their powers varied based on their purposes, but by and large they were immortal so long as they chose to be. Which wasn't to say they couldn't be killed, and Treznor was counting on that. A knife in the ribs will cramp the style of even the most subtle of wizards. He could only hope that a plasma bolt to the head from a Menalmacari rifle would have much the same effect. It was a contingency plan he'd never expected to have to use.

The bastard was dead, dammit! Dead and buried! I saw him laid to rest myself! Why the hell couldn't he stay that way?

Nothing he'd read about the Maiar indicated a reason. It was infuriating.

He felt Nathicana's presence next to him like a weight. She didn't know what he'd set in motion, and hopefully by the time she figured it out it would be all over. There would be hell to pay, he knew, but he would not apologize for it. He'd do what he'd always done: protect his Empire and allies to the best of his ability, even when it cost him more than he wanted.

She'd tried several times to engage him in conversation, but he hadn't responded. Not verbally, not physically, not even their prized line-of-sight communications S.H.O.D.A.N. had given them so many years before. He was furious with her for not listening to him twenty years before, and frightened to death of the dangers it posed to her and their child. He'd made sure the team knew not to harm her daughter. That was for Nathicana to take care of. But he'd be damned if he'd let Alkanphel get his hooks into his family once again.

If, somehow, the team failed, if Alkanphel was still alive...well...perhaps Nathicana would get her wish after all. Treznor would not rest until he saw the man dead for good. Whatever it took. Even if it meant immortality under S.H.O.D.A.N.'s care. He could hand the reigns of the Empire over to Marcus and go hunting himself, as long as necessary. Even if it cost him more than he wanted once again.

"Majesty, Imperatrice," said the steward bowing obsequiously. Treznor wanted to slap the woman until she stopped wasting time. "We'll be docking at Machiavelli Station in ten minutes. There will be a slight delay before we disembark; there seems to be a security lockdown and station personnel are on high alert. They're not happy to see us right now."

Treznor nods but says nothing. His heart pounds in his chest. Something had happened, but what? Demanding answers would do him no good. He would have to wait, and be patient. He could feel Nathicana staring at him, silently begging him for answers but he couldn't give her any. Not yet. Not until he learned of Alkanphel's fate.

So he waited, and counted the seconds until the time came to learn what he would need to do next.

[Dread Lady Nathicana]

“They’ve arrived.”

The word came down from the station’s port authority that the expected shuttle had indeed requested to dock, with the Emperor and Imperatrice on board. Given the chaos that had been ensuing in the imperial apartments, a request for a slight delay had been made. After all, the private docks were just above, and the security teams were scurrying to put things into as much order as plausible, along with securing the foreign operatives.

Well, perhaps not as foreign as they would have preferred, but that was something that would have to be dealt with by the higher ups when the time came. Needless to say, the entirety of the security force aboard Machiavelli was in a stir as word filtered down concerning the rather egregious breach, and steps were being taken to remedy it as quickly, and thoroughly as possible.

Throughout the station, there were temporary interruptions in various services, issues here and there with ident cards, computer systems that went down for ‘maintenance’ and other inconveniences. Not on such a large scale as to be noticeable all at once across the board, but if enough to raise some brows nonetheless.

In the apartments, Naiya and Alkanphel sat quietly in her room, she cross-legged on her bed with a pillow in her lap after having made a quick change of clothes.

On the shuttle, Nathicana sat quietly, her emotions tied up in a knot that sat heavily in her stomach. Perhaps it was best if they waited. Something was clearly going on down there, and though it was killing her to not know what it was, running in without a clue what she was doing wouldn’t help any. And they had Naiya down there.

She didn’t honestly think that Alkanphel would do anything to harm the girl. Not unless something had seriously changed since last she’d known him. Which admittedly, was possible. Which again, filled her with a silent dread. Everything had suddenly spun out of control, and that was the one thing she simply couldn’t handle.

The lack of control.

She couldn’t control Devon, as much as she’d like to sometimes. It was part of why she loved him. And admittedly, the one thing about him that made her furious with him. She couldn’t control whatever was happening on the station. She couldn’t control what Alkanphel might or might not do. And she couldn’t control how her daughter was going to react to all of it.

She tried once again to speak to the man all the same, but was met with the same stubborn silence. If she weren’t so worried, she swore she would knock him flat on his ass for that, and perhaps later she would anyway.

Biting her lower lip worriedly, she once again risked comms over Spook, standing up and moving to the back of the shuttle, keeping her voice low.

“I need to know if Naiya is safe,” she murmured. “And I want an update on the situation. What’s keeping us?”

Given the various systems involved, it took some time to sort a return message, and get her some manner of response, though it wasn’t at all to her liking.

Naiya was safe, yes. Unharmed, and in her room in the apartments. Everything else, security – and this came from Pellegrino’s office itself – needed to wait until she boarded to discuss, given the sensitivity of the situation.

With a frustrated shriek, she smashed the Spook unit against the wall, and stalked back to where Devon was sitting, proceeding to pace back and forth impatiently as the minutes ticked by.

Back on the station, the operatives were escorted down to the security floor to separate rooms – cells for all intents and purposes – with those in need of medical assistance receiving it. All questions had thus far been met with silence in every case. Disappointing, but expected. It was clear this team knew its business, which was even more of a concern. All they had to go on was the name the tall man had seemingly been forced to release, and the implied tie to the Empire. Nothing had been proven, and not a thing on the team could directly link them.

Tapes were being reviewed, going back so far as to those when the Ardan delegation had first made their boarding. Ident files were referenced, and cross-referenced, hoping to pick up the trail somewhere showing when the team had boarded as well. It was all going to take far more time than they had before allowing the shuttle to dock, and soon, they’d run out of even what little they’d been afforded there.

Word was sent on to the shuttle that they could dock and proceed, with the addendum that security forces were waiting to escort them – for their own safety, of course. Briefing would begin as soon as their Imperial Majesties disembarked. Apologies for the delay were forwarded along, for whatever they were worth.

[Dread Lady Nathicana]

Almajoya

Caccini commented on this and that as they walked along, showing her the sights in a relaxed, yet enthusiastic manner. He was aware that she’d been responsible for some rather sizeable favor or other, and was to be given all due consideration on account. Nice lady, he figured. Certainly seemed like she would be an enjoyable person to work with in any case.

Upon arriving at the property in question, he unlocked the door, and escorted her inside. The interior was unfinished, but neat and clean, and open – allowing her all the freedom she desired in completing the design she wished it to have. Another secure door in the back lead to a set of stairs, which in turn lead to a spacious apartment set above the shop, with a complete kitchen and dining area, three bedrooms, a large bathroom, and a comfortable front room. It was all unfurnished for now, save the appliances, but the potential of it was obvious.

“It shouldn’t take long, once you choose a location, for the builders to make whatever changes you need,” the liaison notes casually. “Though we could have you set up in the living space before the end of the day, should it meet your approval.”

--- --- ---

Warhaven/TGM

The security team in charge of 'keeping an eye' on things so to speak, melted into the background as best they could, considering the situation, allowing the group to discuss with an acceptable amount of privacy.

(ooc: Yep, have at it, no reason for me to interfere.)

[Almajoya]

Jade nodded gratefully. She was quite pleased with the property, and with the surrounding area. On the bottom floor, she had imagined a few possible setups- displays along this wall, repair desk over there- and decided that the space could comfortably support just about any setup she chose. The same went for the apartment; she figured three bedrooms may be too many, but who knew what the future had planned for her?

"I think I like this place," she commented, with a casual tone similar to Caccini's. "What sort of furnishings are available? I'd like to know what I can buy here and what I will have to have shipped."

[Scolopendra]

For Warhaven

The Dragon meanwhile went looking for Mme Tskra-Prret, wondering just how entertaining she could be, and how entertaining her connections were.

Madame Tskra-Prret is not a particularly difficult person to find, even aboard such a place as Machiavelli Station that has such people in't. For starters, she's bright orange and tiger-striped. For seconds, she's somewhere around three meters tall (and graciously indebted to the Dominion astronautical engineers who learned at the feet of Scolopendrans and their need to service a broad range of personnel heights). For thirds, she dresses something like the historical Mata Hari. Finally, she runs a parlor of good repute amongst the higher social circles aboard the station.

That being said, of course, all the houses and entertainments she runs are of good repute, or at least good reputation, so long as one is not particularly prudish or reactionary in one's perception of the morality of certain biological functions inculcated in most species by the exigencies of at least a billion years of evolution centered around a particular method of varying and sharing genetic material through various forms of gamete exchange. It is, however, well known that misbehavior, especially in terms of mishandling the merchandise, is severely frowned upon and the professionalism of the businessmen and businesswomen under the Madame's employ--including those merely aligned through her labor organization--is perhaps unusual for people in that particular career.

[Dread Lady Nathicana]

Almajoya

“That depends entirely on whether you wish to order from any of the many storefronts on the station, or order elsewhere,” Caccini replied smoothly. “The same with any display cases or other such things to round out the shop.”

No matter if the costs crept up a bit. After all, a good deal of the charges were going to be forwarded on to the Roanians for having created the incident to begin with, if they could at least. Much of that would depend on further talks with Nesar and Kyrie, and weighed against what could and couldn’t be done in the end without alerting too many to the problem.

[Almajoya]

"I see," Jade said, considering. The cost-effective way (for her, at least) would be to buy everything there and charge it to her "tab." But she was aware of how costly that could be, and she was determined not to accept anything worth more than the amount she would have charged for repairing the mask under normal conditions. It was the honorable thing to do, and Jade was nothing if not honorable.

"I will shop around and decide the best option in each case," she said. "As for the properties, I think I've grown attached to this particular location."

OOC: I'm not planning to play out the whole shopping thing. We could "fast-forward" through it, if you like.

[Dread Lady Nathicana]

Almajoya

"Excellent!" Caccini exclaims, offering her his hand to seal the deal in a gentlemanly manner, so to speak. "I can have the proper documents drawn up and to you within the next twenty-four hours, and in the meantime, we have a room for you at one of the hotels - just down the street, actually. You can use your ident card to check in, and to track any of your transactions made through shopping, and I will have the key here recoded to it as well, so you can do whatever's needed with it. Obviously, delivery is part of the service when buying on-station, so you shouldn't have to worry about that once you've found some things that suit you. And once you have the place suitably ready, you will be free to open for business."

He takes out another card, and hands it to her. "Contact information, should you need anything. I truly hope you enjoy your time aboard Machiavelli, Signora. From what I've heard, you do beautiful work. I'm certain you'll have patrons beating a path to your door in no time."


(ooc: Not a problem - you're free to do as you like, wherever the public has access on the station, with whatever other players are willing. Have fun with it, and thanks!)

[Warhaven]

Scolopendra:

The Dragon entered the parlor and looked around smiling, finding each product to be more entertaining than the last. However, having never used such an establishment before, he wasn't entirely certain of protocol.

[Scolopendra]

Seeing how each "product" at the salon is one or another thinker, artist, or other such intelligentsia who has an opinion or a theory or just a musing and isn't afraid to voice it (albeit in the most polite of manners) Tskra, sitting back in her corner walled off by privacy screens, is glad to see someone so erudite and cultured appear. Far too many people mistake the salon for one of the lower-deck whorehouses for some reason or another and are usually turned back at the door in a polite manner (very polite and helpful and discreet, given how it doesn't do to lose a customer simply because of an honest mistake), but since this gentleman had gained admittance, certainly he was looking for a good time.

"A good time" of course being intelligent conversation shared in polite company--the best of times, no?

[The Garbage Men]

With the guards returning back into obscurity Zeneal nodded nodded to the lady, with all the hubbub over his sudden appearance he hadn’t had the chance to learn her name. “I suppose we should formally introduce ourselves. I’m Zeneal, I work for The Garbage Men.” He bowed slightly before offering his hand to shake. This was the usual standard protocol for greeting an unknown people.

Just as Zeneal was about go with Cara, Worthington came rushing around tripping over himself just as he rounded the corner. He landed flat on the ground before sliding 1m, or just over 3 feet. He looked up towards Zeneal and Cara still 4m or so away. Zeneal coughed. “... and this a friend of mine... Worthington.”

Worthington also coughed before slowly and in an attempt to keep his dignity rose to his feet. He smiled and nodded towards Cara before turning his attention towards Zeneal. “So... I was right? The headache was from an unusual source?” He followed this by whispering in a voice loud enough that they could hear. “magic...”

“Well, yes... otherwise I wouldn’t be here!” Zeneal glared at Worthington, sending the message that they’d talk later. “Anyway, I’ll catch up with you a bit later... as you’re obviously busy.” He smiled slightly self conscious at making himself look silly before with the slipping. “Nice to meet you.” He nodded to Cara before starting to walk back to where he came from.

[Warhaven]

Scolo:

Yes, the dragon was delighted indeed. Physical pleasure came and went but the mind lasted forever, he was glad this wasn't some common brothel. Besides, when it took one over a thousand years to reach adulthood, one tended to take a longer view of things.

So far, Security believed him to be an egotistical rich boy from somewhere far away. No one ever thinks twice about what such people do, meaning he could go about unobserved.

In one corner, a lovely young woman was painting a picture that was physically impossible in the real world. Her paintings were of the same school as M.C. Escher and Salvidor Dali, and it was his favorite school of art.

He took a seat near the occupied woman, satisfied to simply watch her paint.

...

TGM:

"I am Cara, Daughter of The Light, adopted sister of Tajen, Son of the Darkness, Lord Emperor of Warhaven."

[Cetaganda]

The painter in question was a woman by the name of Talia Sidallus, a Cetagandan by nationality. She was a visual artist first and foremost, having spent a not inconsiderable amount of time and effort learning different styles of painting, drawing, and other skills and considerable passion for it as well. She was young, though, and not particularly well-know, and thus not yet capable of living comfortably off her art alone. That was not to say that she had ended up in her current profession just for the money; if that had been the case, there were plenty of other jobs available. Madame Tskra's parlor allowed her to make any number of contacts with highly regarded individuals from around the system and beyond, and more than that the stories she heard often served as good inspiration. She was also well versed in the art of playing hostess and entertainer in more ways than one, although that was hardly unusual here.

Talia noticed the young man who was observing her, and took a moment to politely acknowledge his presence with a nod and a smile. If he wished only to watch, that was fine, but she was also open to conversation, simply choosing to allow him to make the first move for now.

[The Garbage Men]

He followed her to the lounge and sat down, at first there was a brief awkward silence... as Zeneal was still trying to get things straight in his own mind but he soon started talking.

"The Novaens are a weird people, weird but nice. How many peoples do you know that 2 individuals share the same identity, particularly when those individuals are two different races. I met them one day some sort of trading ship or so it seemed. It was just one of those random encounters that pop up every now and again and it's either good bad or utterly strange. This was the latter, they just gave us a sunstone... more specifically they gave me a sunstone, well two to be precise. I didn't know why me... once they laid eyes on me it was like they knew something, they sent a couple of people of to check something, who knows what, before they returned and gave us a rather large sunstone and one more the size of a small pendant. They just gave it to me, no attempt to trade it or anything. The Suntones were in my hands and in a pocket respectively as I returned them to the ship. While I was away they explored the possibility of establishing a depot with them but it didn't turn out feasible and so we left... anyway, let's just say soon after that something rather strange happened and I can't really say anymore."

[Warhaven]

Cetaganda:

The dragon sat and watched her for a few minutes before asking a question, a simple ice breaker question.

"So, what inspired this picture?"

.....

TGM:

"If you cannot speak, then do not do so, I won't press you for details. The only people I know of that are just as weird, are the Aquamarinians. They seem to be able to do a lot with their minds, and their hive minds. I saw one concentrate for a few minutes, and suddenly know how to pilot a warship, as though he just simply downloaded the knowledge and understanding from the Hive Mind."

[Skeelzania]

Throughout all the communication channels of any conceivable format, all humming with trade, communication, or angst, there was one channel that was entirely silent. Established by the Dominion for the usage of the Skeelzanian Sternreich, no words had traversed its wavelengths since the arrival of Fulcas Esterhazy.

That Skeelzanian, after being shunted out of an art exhibit following a catastrophic failure of stewardship on the part of the exhibit’s curator, had been amusing himself by shopping for souvenirs. Something was definitely amiss somewhere on Machiavelli: increased security presence, slightly longer examinations of his ident-card, and just the slightest current of tension in the air. Not an environment at all conducive to spying. So, Esterhazy was shopping for friends and enemies. Currently he was in UnBoutique, instructing the clerk on which docking bay to send the Complete Collection of Triumvirate Leaders Bobblehead Collectibles that the Skeelzanian had just purchased. His handlers aboard the Skeelzanian destroyer orbiting Sigma Draconis had not dared to squawk at him over a monitored channel, and could only hope that he was doing something productive.

And so the private channel, which the Dominion had taken the effort of setting up to keep the Skeelzanians from giving Machiavelli a demonstration of the number of communication methods the Sternreich possessed, went unused and silent. Thus any surprise on the Dominion Port Authority’s part was understandable when short, concise, and slightly panicked comminque blazed its way between Sigma Draconis and Machiavelli.

+++ATTENTION MACHIAVELLI+++

Skeelzanian Sternreich Imperial Embassy Ship APPROACHING!

Identification SKZ ZAHHAK

Zahhak intentions peaceful, repeat, PEACEFUL.

Dominion allies’ respect of exclusion zone COUNTED ON.

+++END TRANSMISSION+++

Five minutes after the message was received in full, the heavy cruiser Zahhak re-entered realspace with a blaze of tachyons. Materializing just within the Machiavelli Exclusion zone, the chiseled, angular hull of the Skeelzanian warship gunned its engines and brought itself to a docking heading with the Station. Contact with the Dominion Port Authority was quickly established. Any protest over the abrupt arrival of a Skeelzanian cruiser, even one with peaceful attentions, was brusquely waved aside due to “security concerns.”

“You indicated that relations would only approach normalcy when the Sternreich makes an effort to amend them,” was the gist of Skeelzanian response. “We are here to make that effort.”

The SKZ Zahhak burns its way towards Machiavelli.

After a quick dash to put itself firmly within the Dominion Exclusion Zone, the Zahhak disgorged one of its armed shuttles for the transfer to Machiavelli. Soon the Skeelzanian delegation was standing on Dominion plating, the first true delegation from the Sternreich since the Neptune conferences.

There were thirteen of them, all giants, all uniformed, and in regards eight FS guardsmen, amply armed. These eight stood to the sides of the group, their faces hidden behind armored rebreathers so that even in the event of total atmosphere failure, they could continue to fight and protect their charges. Normally they would carry submachine guns packing rounds equivalent to some nation’s standard rifle caliber, but in a nod to sensibility and as a sign of trust in Dominion security, each of the guardsmen was armed ‘only’ with a 10mm pistol.

They were the only Skeelzanians ostensibly armed. Of the remaining five, four of these wore the white uniform of the Diplomatic Service, each with a color-coded sash designating the branch he or she served in for their military career. One woman wore the silver-trimmed green of the Heer, two the gold and blue of the Sternmarine, and the fourth the red and black of the Furstentumschutze.

The final Skeelzanian was dressed fully in FS black, and loomed over both Dominion and fellow Skeelzanian. From his polished leather boots to the peaked cap emblazoned with the Vehmic Cross, he was a full eight feet tall. His dark hair was becoming flecked with gray, but the aquiline features of the Skeelzots were still strong on him. Even beneath his uniform it was obvious that he was physically powerful, with the thick wrists and heavy, calloused hands of a swordsman. Kaiser Bertrand may have inherited the throne of Skeelzania, but Enguerrand de Serrat was more his father’s son.

Stepping up to the Dominion representatives, the Archduke brusquely introduced himself and his companions. “I have been sent by my Imperial Brother to oversee the establishment of a proper Skeelzanian Embassy in Sol, to repair as many frayed ties as it is possible. If you will direct me to the Kommandant of this facility, it is my hope that we may begin this process immediately.

“A suitable hotel recommendation would also be appreciated. We are not quite yet ready to trust the Dominion’s allies to respect your Exclusion zone, and the less time spent traversing it the better.”

[Arthropoda Ingens]

Roania (Also Casinos in General)

Hiero looked somewhat oddly at the almost panicking Roanian, but eventually resolved to just shrug, and taking the information he'd come to acquire from the same. "I understood that the deposits were unmanned...? Well, it doesn't really matter. If an inspection happens at the wrong time, we'll be well prepared to deal with it. After all, we wouldn't want to lose an excellent partner such as yourself and your Lord." Hiero's mandibles clicked appreciatively. "And that should be it, I reckon. Besides..." He looked around, observing what appeared to be a subtle increase of security activity, and the odd, nervous twitching of a passing soldati outside the Casino. "You're right. There is such a thing as being too conspicuous."

It was Hiero's version of a good-bye note. Following it, he stood up (Sitting down on human-specific chairs was, of course, rather awkward in the first place. At least, it was when you've four legs and your third - horizontal - segment is longer than your first and second - vertical - segments taken together, but Hiero had managed). Beyond this point, he didn't pay the Roanian much attention, figuring that he wanted to get out of this place and away from Hiero as fast as possible, anyway (A reaction surprisingly common whenever the bugs met... Well... Pretty much anyone else).

Instead, he went to one of the gambling tables. He'd read a short treatsie on human entertainment on the flight to Machiavelli, and thought of giving it a shot. Depending on how things would develop, he'd have to blend in and get used to local customs, anyway, so he could just as well start right now. And that aside... Building up a positive reputation was necessary. It'd been suggested that it wouldn't be more than a few weeks before bug activities would become public. By that point, a positive reputation could help rather a lot, if not be an outright necessity.

[Dread Lady Nathicana]

The message from the Skeelzanians was decidedly unexpected. While it was known they had one citizen aboard, and there had been the initial request that had been temporarily denied due to the … delicate nature surrounding the nation, their request, their history in the Sol system, and the allies of the Dominion who would no doubt take great interest if not exception to the Skeelzanians gaining any sort of foothold.

Of course it was touchy business. But then, that’s what the Dominion dealt with all too often. And in order to preserve the intent of diplomacy first, it was their business to pursue opportunities that presented themselves that might in some way, now or future, result in something positive. The less enemies one had, the better. And if not friends, at least neutral grounds might be achieved, and tensions or past issues put to rest.

All good for business, that. And not only was it good for business, but it could be a wonderful thing to have potentially dangerous or historically twitchy nations under one’s nose, so to speak. Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer, no? Within reason, of course.

Considering the potentially hostile response of some, permission to keep their warship within the protected zone around the station was granted – so long as it was kept at a distance. Several Dominion ships adjusted their courses to hover nearby, both to keep an eye on the Skeelzanians, and to provide the protection promised from any other enterprising entities who might think to challenge its right to police its space.

Thirteen was an ominous number in the eyes of some. Of course, it might be considered symbolic as well. They were not the only ones to have had, historically, a party of twelve surrounding one leader after all. Commander Gilberto Clemente idly wondered which among them represented Peter.

Were it not for the implications and complications potentially surrounding this diplomatic party, he’d have allowed the liaisons to, as usual, handle things and not given it a single thought. As it was, even with some of the other issues currently going on aboard the station, it was felt his personal attention was warranted.

Accompanying him were the usual soldati, and station personnel on hand for safety, running errands, or providing information on demand, as the situation warranted. A benefit, and an irritant that came with the position. Also present, a representative of the Public Relations Ministry – Giovanna Renaldi, recently having finished greeting the Warhaven Princess. Being the highest-ranked representative on board, her presence was also required, along with her secretary. All were of course in the appropriate uniform, and all looked to be ready for business.

“That would be me,” Clemente offered, stepping forward even as the Archduke did, and extending his hand in greeting. “Commander Gilberto Clemente, Machiavelli Station, Dominion Aerospace. It’s a pleasure to have you aboard, and hope we might be able to assist. If I may introduce Signore Giovanna Renaldi, of the Dominion Ministry of Public Relations?”

Here he gestures to the neatly-uniformed woman who steps forward and also offered a hand in greeting. “A pleasure,” she said briefly, allowing Clemente to set the tone of the meeting.

“I’m certain we are all aware of the potential difficulties inherent in the establishment of diplomatic ties, however often those things which offer us the greatest challenge, often net us the greatest rewards. Gentlemen, Ladies, if you would accompany me, we’ll bypass the usual identification process in favor of taking care of it all upstairs in one of our decidedly more comfortable conference rooms. Right this way to the lifts, if you will?”

[Euroslavia]

It had been far too long...

Time. The concept of time holds a different meaning to each and every person. Some hold it in high regards. Some let it pass by as if it meant nothing to them. Who are we to judge which was the most appropriate for each individual? For Lady Destra, time brought about the best of times and the worst of times. From social gatherings to the success of the nation in general, time was on her side. But the years of repeated isolationism from the rest of the world really started to affect her. It wasn't how she wanted to be remembered, when her time was put to an end.

Lady Destra the confused?, she thought, then gave an odd smirk as she stared off into space. That'd be just my luck.

The decision was made to re-establish her beloved nation as a diplomatic power among friends and potentially foes alike at the Machiavelli Space Station. With the guarantee that a few of Euroslavia's allies would be present, Lady Destra felt comfortable enough to put herself in such a situation, in hopes that she can make a return to her previous diplomatic stance, before the sudden and unexpected isolation of her country from the rest of the world. As for an explanation of why she withdrew from all diplomatic contact?

It isn't quite fair of me to waltz in there without some sort of explanation as to why I had dropped off the face of the universe. But at the same time, we all have our reasons to react in one way or another..., as she tossed around the potential reactions from each and every representative that could possibly be there.

The ship was closing in on the Machiavelli Space Station, so all preparations had begun to take place to ensure a smooth arrival. After all, an unidentified ship heading into the area where multiple and important delegates and leaders would probably lead to a catastrophe, in regards to Lady Destra's political career. Not particularly what she was looking for, at least not now.

>>>> Transmitting Message <<<<

To: Bernardo di Medici, Dominion Minister of Trade

Greetings. Our intentions upon arriving at the Machiavelli Station are indeed simplistic. For now, our sole purpose of arriving here is for diplomatic purposes as well as a semi-vacation from the daily issues that Lady Destra deals with, regarding Euroslavia. We wish to occupy two resident areas, one for myself and one for Lady Destra. As for the specifics on those rooms, we aren't picky. We're thankful that this is even an option in the first place, so really, any room that is available for us, we would be grateful to have.

From: Captain Diem Brown

>>>> Ending Transmission <<<<

OOC: Diem is female, I figured the name might not exactly be easily identifiable one way or another.

[Sentient Peoples]

Omnes aequo animo parent ubi digni imperant
Office of the Imperial President, Imperial House, Griffin, Commonwealth of Sentient Peoples, FSP

“Dad!” came the complaint from a young baritone of Daniel Smith.

The older, darkly clad man behind the desk regarded his son calmly, brown eyes gleaming as he prevented his lips from curling into a smile. He knew how badly his eldest son had been looking forward to accompanying D’ron’s sister Jessica to Machiavelli Station to attend the concert. Well, not the concert itself so much as the station – which held a reputation as place to party even more than Paradise Tower in Griffin – despite its nominal purpose of being a trade hub. “Jess?” he asked after moment’s consideration, turning to the brown haired woman who looked no older than her nephew, despite the nineteen year age gap.

“I have too much experience with unsettled reality to go haring off into it,” she agreed, “particularly to take Daniel with me, given how much difficulty I had a tendency to get into at his age.” She shrugged. “But you’re being hard-assed, big brother. I still ought to go and represent us at Nadia’s concert. We certainly need to send someone.”

Having been an active member of the diplomatic service for Daniel’s entire life, Jessica’s opinion certainly carried weight, and D’ron knew that her opinion matched that of the entire top level of his International Relations Directorate. For that matter, it matched his own opinion. “Yes, but I have a highly paid set of ambassadors and other representatives expressly so that I don’t have to send my family members off to places that’re unsettled. We’ll send Deanna or Bruce, or perhaps just Tobias. He hasn’t done anything in a while.”

Tobias Mulvehill was, in fact, scheduled to attend with his family, and D’ron had been planning on sending Jessica along as an additional expression of interest. When she was not doing special missions for him that relied primarily on her relationship to him – representing him to monarchies and such where familial relationships carried great weight – she served as an attaché on the Eighth Ambassador’s staff.

“I really ought to go, D’ron,” she said, calmly, knowing how much he hated the idea of exposing her or any member of the family to unstable situations. “All our intel reports on how integral the great families are becoming in the Five Kingdoms’ government give evidence to that.”

“And all our intel reports on Alkanphel, demons, dragons, photonic angels, and Intercessor only knows what else say exactly the opposite!”

Jessica bit back a furious response to her brother as Daniel tried to shrink into his chair to be invisible in this confrontation of his elders.

“Be reasonable,” she spit back after swallowing her initial reply. “The consulate is fine for assisting our population on the station, but this is a major diplomatic event sponsored by a very friendly nation and a nation with which we have had no contact since I finalized the peace treaty with Konrad’s father. Bruce and Deanna have real jobs, and haring off to Machiavelli for four or five days, at least, is not something they have time for. That’s why you have Tobias and myself, along with five more Ambassadors. I was our last contact with them – that’s why I need to be there when we renew contact.”

The Imperial President shook his head with finality. “Not unless the situation calms down out there.” His brown eyes finally looked back at his son. “If Jessica goes, so do you, Daniel.” The timbre of his voice held the note of command, the voice Jessica had learned would always save her when she was a little girl, after the deaths of their parents, grandparents, and all their other relatives within quite a few degrees of consanguinity in the opening attack of the war that propelled D’ron into a national hero. “But Tobias takes a maximum strength Marine detachment, both of you take two Guardsmen, and I’m going to order Cortana to leave her Field Force assets in place until the end of your mission.”

Jessica nodded calmly. Thanks to her youthful, involuntary, adventures, she had been accompanied by two Guardsmen for twenty years. Daniel had barely adjusted to the one which had followed him since birth, a presence which had become steadily more annoying to him as he aged, and, as such, his response was much less relaxed. “Two?! I’ll not be able to have any fun.”

The young man had arrived at what he thought was a reasonable compromise with his primary guardsman, a Corporal Mark Ferguson, which had allowed him some freedom while at university, but adding a new person to that would be difficult. He figured he would have a hard enough time escaping the eye of his Aunt, much less four highly vigilant guard dogs.

The petulant tone in the boy’s voice fairly evident, and D’ron hardened his eyes at his son. “You’re not going to have fun, Daniel. Your mother and I had no problem with you attending university while you figured out what you want to do with your life, but you know what the deal was.” The deal that the President was referring to that Daniel had to follow people in various government Directorates around during his summer breaks. Even if that failed to inspire him to government service, it still might give him an idea of what he wanted out of life. Personally, D’ron was sure that his eldest son would more than willingly take a Federal Service Term on his own terms, though Lesley was not. It worried her that she thought they had failed to teach their son an appropriate level of civil responsibility.

D’ron was less convinced – he was fairly certain that watching his family’s involvement in politics and governance had simply turned the boy away from that calling – but that he retained a sense of civic duty.

“Fine, Father,” Daniel replied, his usage of the less familiar form of address letting the oldest person in the room be aware of just how upset he was.

D’ron Smith smiled at his son and sister. “I’m sure things will calm down in the next few days, and if they don’t, Dominion Security will make sure that they do. Nothing’s going to interrupt this event, I think.” D’ron knew that he would impose a city- or even nationwide curfew if it was needed for an event such as this to occur, and the Dominion was hardly less restrictive when the need arose – Nathicana was an amalgamation of the capo di tutti capi and a military dictator, whatever she chose to style herself.

His eyes flicked down to the blotter which was displaying his schedule in blinking red, warning him that it would soon be time for his next meeting. "Sorry, you two," he said, "but I'm not going to risk you right now." He smiled gently. "I've got another meeting, so..." A shrug, and the two family members got the hint, promising to see him for dinner.

[Skeelzania]

Enguerrand’s grip was firm, and the Skeelzanian took the courtesy to lean forward so that Clemente wouldn’t be shaking hands somewhere above his chest. Unfortunately the reception area was rather crowded with diplomats and their security details, forcing the Archduke to settle for another clasp of the hands and a respectful bow of the head to Giovanna Renaldi. “An honor and a pleasure to receive so much attention on so short of notice.”

He raised his right hand and flicked it, gesturing to the rest of the Skeelzanians to follow him and the Dominioners to the lifts. Doffing his cap, Enguerrand idly batted it against his knuckles as he entered the lift with Clemente. “Your unspoken word, Commander, was ‘the difficulties inherent in Skeelzania’s establishment of diplomatic ties.’ You need not remind me of the Sternreich’s past misadventures in this system. My own great-great-grandfather, the first comte de Serrat, was lost in our rout at Neptune. And of course the entire Arkadian fiasco on Mars and beyond.”

His cap continued to thump as the lift ascended to the conference rooms.

Meanwhile, in space the captain and crew of the Zahhak began settling into a pattern of casual vigilance. The cruiser had maneuvered to a rest so as to keep the bulk of Machiavelli between itself and the far-off satellite of Titan. Naval intelligence had scoffed at the existence of any sort of weapon capable of engaging across such a gulf, but Captain Bussel wasn’t about to have his ship shot out from under him by some unknown Yuttie toy.

Long-range considerations addressed, the Skeelzanians turned their attentions to the Dominion vessels taking up positions around them. While naval records did not include any incidents of the Dominion firing on Skeelzanian vessels (which couldn’t be said for so much of ‘civilized’ Sol), it was still prudent to not do anything that might startle their hosts. All weapons save those used for point-defense were ordered powered down, and only passive sensors were to be used in observation of the Dominion tenders. Captain Gerhardt Bussel himself was on the flying bridge, observing the nearest vessel with his personal binocular telescope. Perhaps he would catch a glimpse of a Dominion captain doing the same.

[Aelosia]

Moving alongside the station, finally the Marquis found (or more properly, was found, but ego factors are still an issue in any proper aelosian narrative), the Dominion liaison to put in order each and every paperwork necessary for the start of the aelosian operations aboard the Machiavelli Station.

According to the aloof perception of the Marquis, the woman was, at best, unremarkable. It was a curious thing, because after all, the Dominion merchant delegates he has met before were, at best, quite remarkable. Of course, wine smugglers tend to be remarkable, in a way. And the chances that a wine smuggler could attain the place of liaison in such a station as this one were...Well, this was the Dominion after all, and the Marquis had heard stories.

However, as said before, the Marquis was one to prize efficiency, and even if this woman, Leda Cortesan, Cortesini, whatever was her name, was unremarkable, she was efficient. Enough as to earn a smile from the aelosian Marquis' lips.

"Thank you, Miss Leda", he said as he procceed to extract his laser burnfeather and burn his signature over each of the spaces the Dominion woman asked for. He imagined that in a place like this, the offer of tips could be taken as an insult. He looked at this Leda woman from head to toes again, as if measuring that she would take a tip for all the good work. It took less than half second to decide that, without doubt, this woman was no courier or simpleton, but someone up enough the hierarchical ladder as to refuse tips, and maybe get insulted by them. After all, thought the Marquis, This is the Dominion, not any normal barbarian nation were everyone can smile for a piece of gold or a mirror.

Well, the Marquis had to check the inventory, (thing he did by a single look at the warehouse), check the personnel, (and by that he meant to look at the face of the personnel manager for like 5 seconds), and get the reports from his mining enterprises in the Outer Rim. (That took a few hours). Soon enough the message of Madam Tskra-Prret arrived, and a date was set. Checking his timeline, he realized that he had enough time as to fit himself before the reunion at the Scolopendran Madame soirée.

By fitting himself, the Marquis meant full oxygen/nitrogen treatment of skin, detailing of extremities by laserprism, and regeneration and trimming of hair by hairspiders. After he was done, he was finally ready to get dressed. Of course, by getting dressed, he meant, "calling the assistants to get me him dressed". After all, appearing in a ball with a military armour could create all kind of wrong ideas, starting with the one that he was one willing to defend himself. Able, maybe, but willing?

So he started to remember everything he had heard about the Scolopendrans. He remembered those Cúthalion Adventure Books about some guy called Mangus Heche. Well, if that was their standard of beauty, they could keep it, the Marquis wasn't a man of ripped shirts or floating capes.

Then, he recalled the outfits used by most of the Scolopendrans he had seen during his travels. They were supposed to be one of the powers that be and everything, maybe they were smart, capable, and powerful, but to be quite frank, they were simpletons. All their clothes were made in shades of grey, and with usually the same cuts as to look as uniforms. No offense, of course, but the Scolopendran fashion was...Well, stillborn so far, hoped the Marquis. Dead, in the worst case.

After a while, he finally remembered the key. Something about the scolopendrans speaking an old Earth's language, from a civilization close to the Desert Fhirlonni of the Numilandë Cluster. "Arabic", that was it. So, well, floating Fhirlonni fabrics, perhaps a turban? No, no turbans. And perhaps a detail was more than enough, so he grabbed, (translated to "called his assistants to grab") a simple, "simple", pair of black pants crafted with wraithfiber from the depths of Mantheria by crabweavers, (that actually looked like something made out of thick, shiny black spiderwebs), a fitting clear Roanian shirt of pearl silk, and a knee high pair of ochre Pilon's synthetic leather boots. After disposing of a white Laza tiger's skin belt, (not a good detail perhaps), he chose a Hellas Sea Snake skin belt to trim his waist figure. Finally, a delicate piece of ivory coloured trisheep vellum linen served to make a keffiyeh around his mane of hair, giving the necessary "Arabic" touch.

He managed to go, alone, and more importantly, undetected, to the location of the Madam Tskra-Prret Salon. After all, with these clothes, he could pass for a normal, if rather flamboyant and outlandish, tall human. When he reached the door, he tried to pass as a normal guest, without giving out any clue that could distinguish him out of the other visitors. (Of course, that was what he thought).

As son as the Marquis saw the Kzin saluting and greeting the arriving guests, he smiled broadly. Now this is an improvement, a charming bodyguard, I suppose Madam has an impeccable taste. I wonder how civilized is this race. He just tried to enter, awaiting the Kzin's response. After all, I am perfectly fifteen minutes late over the fifteen minutes late I was told about. Ain't my sense of time perfect? Any Paelisi Courtier would be so proud...

[Scolopendra]

Fourteen minutes before the arrival of the disguised:

Surreptitiously checking a clock in her little nook of the salon, Tskra-Prret notes that it's getting to be about time for her new guest to arrive. Easily wrapping up the conversation she was having with the philosopher and the diplomat sharing her nook with her, she escorts them out to the rest of the room with a smile and gently flicking ears, then wafts her way to the cloakroom, checking up on the guests she meets on her way. Things seem to be going rather well, with lively discussion; the young man from Warhaven, recently added to the guest list on the suggestion of her Dominion hosts, seems to be sharing a quiet conversation with the Cetagandan painter... Talia, that was her name. Brilliant artist, if she hadn't quite found her niche yet. Moving from the gentle burbling babble and noise of the salon into the cloakroom with a swift but smooth slip through the doors, she takes her station at the guest list podium and waits.

And waits and waits and waits. This bodes not well; the Marquis is not here. Has something else come up? Is he just brushing me off? She bristles very slightly. He had better not. I can make things very pleasant or all too dry around these parts... no, it is best to keep an open mind. Perhaps the Aelosians are not so keen on schedules. She waits, and waits, and waits some more... and when the door opens, she steals a glance at another clock cunningly concealed within the podium; actively looking at an obvious clock would be a horrible insult. The clock reads fifteen minutes after her fifteen-minute-late appearance time. Also, the lanky man in the slightly Arabic clothes smells more like ozone than a properly done up human. Such things are not common and they are therefore somewhat expensive... all this fits together most neatly. Still, it remains to be seen how he wishes to play this.

"Good evening, gentle sir. Your name?" Upon being given the local equivalent of 'John Smith' she simply chuckles softly in her throat and shakes her head gently. "Hrr hrr hrr. I am most afraid that your name does not appear on the guest list... but..." She smiles knowingly, albeit thinly, as the thin black lips of her muscle can smile no other way. "I believe I can make an exception. If you could please join me, I shall announce you."

She slides next to the Marquis and offers her arm; she is also very tall, so this may be mildly comical, although she does it so as to minimize the disparity and maintain only the highest elegance. "Are there any titles you wish to be announced with, honored sir?"

[Dread Lady Nathicana]

Euroslavia

The request came as rather a shock. Not due to any anxiety on the part of the Ministry of course, but the fact that Euroslavia had not been in contact for so long. Relations had never been strained really – anything but. And the personal nature of the message soon had a certain gentleman disentangling himself from his rather charming partner, and hurriedly making himself presentable.

While he showered and dressed, he dictated a response, and directed security on how to proceed.

Captain Brown,

It would be my distinct pleasure to personally make certain that Lady Destra’s needs are taken care of. Two suites in the Rialto are being prepared as we speak, containing all the amenities one might hope for. If there are any requests you or the Lady might have as per refreshments, food, or special arrangements, please do not hesitate to ask, and we will happily see to it.

Please pass on my regards to Lady Destra, and my assurances that you are both quite welcome aboard Machiavelli.

--Bernardo di Medici

In the meantime, the proper arrangements and security were being made, and a more private docking area cleared. Heads of state tended to draw attention, and given the incidents earlier, they would take no chances here.

--- --- ---

Skeelzania

“My sincere condolences,” Clemente offered upon hearing of Engeurrand’s loss, however distant. “No insult intended of course, simply stating a fact that there might be those who view even a diplomatic envoy by your nation in a less than encouraging light. Fortunately, our mandate here encourages contact, and trade, and good business, and so we’re somewhat freed from some of the usual fetters that clutter up such relations”

Upon reaching their destination, the Commander lead the way. “If you will,” he continued, gesturing to an open door some ways down the corridor, then stopping at the door himself to admit the Skeelzanians and the rest of his entourage. Inside was a large table surrounded by comfortable chairs that oddly enough, were large enough even for the large foreigners. Having close ties with large-framed, and non-human allies did make for some convenient understandings and arrangements, all things considered. No ducking of heads or crouching in chairs or being forced to perch uncomfortably on this station.

On the table, light refreshments had been set of various sorts. The Dominion party waited for their guests to make themselves comfortable before taking seats themselves, security making themselves at least seem scarce in the corners of the room, and outside the door.

Clemente was the first to speak.

“Now, how can we be of assistance?” he asked genuinely, Giovanna paying close attention at his side.

In space, the ships merely watched the Skeelzanian vessel, keeping a comfortable distance, yet looming menacingly enough one supposed. While they may be ready for action, it was clear that they were not positioned for it, nor were weapons running hot. Perhaps a glimpse could be caught of one officer or other peering out into the dark at the foreign ships from the bridge of his or her own ship, wondering quietly just how smoothly this would go down, or if history would repeat itself.

Longer-range scans were, of course, being run. Only two kinds, after all.

[Aelosia]

The aelosian Marquis was extremely pleased by the attitude of the welcoming... Kzin. Quite a hard word to be pronounced by elven lips, that one. The noble wondered for less than a moment that perhaps the rough human equivalent was "kitty", but then perhaps it wasn't good to use it right now. After all, he wouldn't like to be called "Sindy", just because it was similar to "Sindar".

This Kzin, well, wasn't he or she tall?, and looked strong. He hadn't seen a lot of Kzin before, of course. Only one, so this one was the second. Although the first one was a really good one. According to his source, that Kzin was an Emperor of sorts in Scolopendra, Papisa something. A hero among the Kzin. Completely remarkable.

Well, if the humans from the Segments were frankly bland and simpletons, these Kzin people represented everything that could be colorful and full of personality in a race. They were huge, furry, elegant, educated, and, although hard to recognize, a little bit scary. In other words, completely remarkable.

The Marquis is a patient elf, after all, and although aloof and arrogant as few, he knows to wait for the proper moment to complain, specially in an unpleasant way. Although the information that he doesn't appear in the guest list is uncomfortable at first, the realization that perhaps that is because he is a remarkable special guest stops him from complaining, or even making his playful smirk dissappear from his features.

As soon as the...Impressive mass of the Kzin moves to his side and offers him the arm, the Marquis stopped smirking. First doubt. How in the nine levels of Angband he was supposed to know the gender of this creature? Should he grab his arm as a brother, or as a lady? By the garments, the Marquis was willing to bet female. But then again, the Marquis had to recognize that he knew as much about Kzin dresscodes as he knew about the last results of the Tyriadan ballhunting games.

Having been a decent gambler in more than a hundred casinos across a similar number of star systems, the Marquis takes the bet, with a splendid smile alongside his lips, depicting a look almost as playful and predatory as the one displayed by the Kzin. "Of course, My Lady", adds the elf, using a thick elven accent, quickly taking the Kzin's wrist, and slowly kissing its forepaw with barely an elegant brush of his lips against the fur, a gesture accompanied with a extremely flexible bow that included bending the back in an almost non human angle. However, the miracle was that somehow, the elf managed to maintain the keffiyeh perfectly placed over his head.

That done, the Marquis straigthened up and took the Kzin's arm, in a posture so regal that almost, almost makes people around to forget about the difference in height. After hearing her question, the elf added, simply. "I'm a gentleman. Of that anyone can be sure. The rest is irrelevant"