Machiavelli Station (Open IC)

[Dread Lady Nathicana]

Solont

Processing and identification cards were indeed handled with ease. What might or might not have been surprising was the number of non-humans passing through the docking area and corridors of the station. Silke was greeted and treated with the same respect as any visitor, indeed, was seen as nothing out of the ordinary, considering the number of kitsune, neko, and other humanoid – and indeed, not so humanoid – races seen in the crowds. Elves of various sorts, Kzinti, Sakkans, Reploids, AI’s, and several other perhaps not so immediately recognized sentients were common enough among the many sorts of humans who had made the station their home, or temporary dock.

Gino Salvatore enjoyed his job. It allowed him to meet and greet a plethora of people, kept him busy, and hey, it paid well. He greeted the two Solonti with a genial smile, and a crisp bow, extending his hand to Matthias as he spoke.

“Truly a pleasure to welcome you aboard Machiavelli, sir. My name is Gino Salvatore, station liaison, and I’m here to see to it that you and your lovely daughter enjoy your first visit here. Is there anything I can be of service in? I see you have all the necessary paperwork and cards, so you’re free to explore as you wish of course. And if there is nothing you currently need, you are always welcome to assistance via our offices.”

[The Garbage Men]

The group went behind closed doors and fairly quickly nutted out a contract, which included services offeref to the Station itself, services offered to the Station's clients, businesses and visitors as well as future plans for equipment upgrade to the station. Included in the remuneration to the corporation for the services they provide.

The contract was signed and soon the Engineering team was deployed to start constructing the sub-depot. The Engineering team comprised of numerous individuals which all went hard at work, One of the team was hard at work, using a device to scan the area allocated to them, following with information provided by Aryard beamed a holographic projection of what the sub-depot will looking like. Confirming the details the construction started.

Connecting into the frame of the station walls were erected cables were routed bench tops and various equipment installed. Fixtures including tables, chairs. Second hand catalogs on specially designed kiosks.

Everything was ready, including the initial processing facility located in the bowels of the station where the waste gets deposited from all over the station.

[Free United States]

Lt. Crussov and the rest of the aerospace team were assembled in the Propulsion Lab, overlooking the large bank of display screens. The various screens showed readouts of the SF-01; internal temperature, pitch, angle, engine readouts and dozens of others. There was another screen which showed the pilot's vital signs, which was overlooked by one of the medical officers.

"We're ready," Crussov said. "Ensign Nara, you may begin."

"Roger," the young pilot replied. "Bringing engines online."

The screens blipped as energy readings came to life inside the fighter's engine plants.

"Engines nominal, going to minimal thrust," he informed the scientific team. They simply looked on as the Lidar displayed the fighter moving in space.

"Looking good, Star-1, bring it up to 50%," Crussov radioed.

"Confirmed, throttling up to 50%," Nara answered.

"His alphas are leveling off," the doctor informed them. "Gammas and Betas are beginning to spike."

The fighter continued it's level pass.

"Star-1, you may begin maneuvers," Crussov said.

The fighter began to bank in a wide arch, turning back into it's path to bank in the opposite direction. He leveled off and climbed, then rolled over to dive.

"Breathing's increased," the doctor warned. "Heart rate is up as well. Gamma and Beta waves have started to dominate."

"Neuro-links 23-45 have been severed!" a technician warned. "Remaining links are unstable."

"Nara, throttle down and try to regain control," Crussov radioed worriedly.

"I-I'm fine..." he said breathlessly. The starboard engine flared and died, and the fighter began to tumble through space. Warning lights inside the cockpit began to sound, filtering through the com-link.

"Shut it down!" Crussov ordered, as one tech hit a termination command into the console. The computer display of the tumbling spacecraft froze, and a loud hiss was heard as an enclosed pod a dozen feet away opened. The doctor and his medical staff rushed over, as Ensign Nara was assisted out of his harness and helmet.

"Simulation terminated," Crussov said into a recording device, his voice deflated, "Flight instability is pronounced. Mental instability on part of the pilot is suspect."

"Lieutenant," Nara said, his voice hoarse but strong, "You can go on and shove it," he spat, shrugging off the medical team. "It's your buggy computer that's the problem," he implied, "And don't say it's my ship either. I designed the OS myself."

Rather than start a row, Crussov let the Ensign storm off, still refusing the harangued medical staff.


Outside of the showers, Ensign Nara dressed into his usual flightsuit and left. He didn't have anything other to do than fly, and as the eggheads went over the latest sim, he was free for the moment. He checked out by the reception desk and walked through the station, not really towards anything, but to take in the sights and sounds of his latest port-of-call.

[The Ctan]

To the Atlenateans’ eyes, the Erisavenus would look disturbingly familiar, its upper surface covered in pyramids and ziggurat, and its aft section bore traces of other designs they were familiar with, dominated by sizeable keels above and below the horizontal section of the ship. However, that was where the resemblance ended, for its deep, sea-green colour and shimmering surfaces suggested some entirely alien route of development.

A few standard permission-to-approach and docking requests were sent to Machiavelli Station.

A vessel detached from its underside, little more than a pod, really, and hovered away toward the station. The shuttle’s speed over time would appear as a steep pyramid if it were being monitored, and it banked toward the Dominion station, having, just in the name of good practice, adopted a course that wasn’t straight towards its destination. there were very few engine failures even among the younger races of Sol, these days.

The ship didn’t mind the caginess of the people it wanted to speak to – even though it would obviously have a much easier time of it if the other ship would receive guests, it had formulated its wording earlier just to spook them a little bit. It was a well known mischief-maker and meddler after all.

The shuttle docked, matching the station’s speed and rotational axis before it did so, and a side-door opened. The only passenger was a dark haired elf; a noldo specifically, tall and imposing as they tended to be. On this occasion, he had bothered to remove the socially customary weapons – less trouble than bothering to register them.

The process of getting a security card was a simple enough one; Name: Anárion – followed by a small string of titles - Origin: The ‘Eternal’ Necrontyr Empire of The C’tan – Company: The Government. Business: Diplomacy

Of course, this wasn’t entirely accurate. The security guards would probably have an aneurysm if he knew quite what Anárion had done in his time. However, the concerns of the organisation he usually worked for, with Erisavenus had never really intersected with the Triumvirate of Yut or the ‘Non Democratic Alliance’ – much as they might disapprove of the latter, their methods were not exactly a feasible to deal with the Iraqstan problem.

Of course, it was technically true – for now, he was speaking as the representative of the government of the C’tan.

This and other essentials recorded, he headed over to the nearest vaguely helpful looking member of the station’s staff, “Excuse me,” he asked, in perfect Italian, not a language that he normally spoke, but he was currently carrying a rather useful device (from his ‘other work’) which served as a most effective translator, “Do you know where I could find the captain of the Atlantean vessel Provactor?”

[Dread Lady Nathicana]

"Ah, si Signore," began the attendant, his words spilling out in a smooth, rich Italian easily translated by the Ctani device. "I believe something was mentioned about the main hub and expected company? If you would like, we could forward on your arrival and coordinate a meeting?"


ooc: pardon the shortness, and let me know if I've overstepped here - seemed something was desired, and I doubt that any one would tell any other visitor exactly where someone else was without express permission, though assistance is something we can manage.

[Solont]

Matthias Isolda felt right at home aboard the space station Machiavelli, from the moment he'd stepped off the executive transport. He would've been rather out of place, having stepped into an environment populated by a single species, but the diverse array of sentient life milling about, especially those species of which he was familiar, reminded him of home. Still, he managed to keep a cool composure as he greeted the station liason. The simple of gesture of a handshake was apparently universal across the cosmos, and Matthias clasped Gino's hand with a firm, calloused grip.

“It is an honor to meet you Mr. Gino Salvatore, and a great er, privilege?” Matthias said with a broad smile, though his unfamiliarity with the common language was rather apparent as he fished for the word, and his accent was rather thick “... to be allowed aboard this installation.” Matthias released Gino's hand and habitually adjusted his tie. “I would like very much to get to work, as soon as possible. I am to be meeting with a representative of the Dominion, if I understand correct.”

Matthias placed his hands upon Silke's shoulder, jarring her out of her mesmerized trance at the spectacle of the station. “However,” Matthias spoke again. “I would like someone to look after my daughter while I am working. To show her around, and make sure she has a good time.” He gave Silke's shoulder a protective squeeze. “She does not speak the language. I would be worried if she were on her own.”

[Free United States]

ooc: this doesn't have to be responded to. But DLN, we're expected to interact w/ one another as well, right?

ic:

Ensign Nara wandered aimlessly, taking in the diverse neighbors he shared the station with. He wondered if there was a pilots bar or something nearby. Certainly, he knew, one pilot couldn't roust a bar. He chuckled at his thought, remembering his liberty in Sayenia a couple years back. Suddenly, the trouble with the OS came back to him, and he frowned.

His wanderings brought him to the reception area of the station, where he noticed a new arrival being greeted by a station personnel. He supposed it was a routine thing to have new tenants arrive so frequently, and he stopped to simply observe the exchange of dialogue between them.

[Atlantis Exsilio]

There were in fact a posting on the local noticeboards directing the C'tani representative to a small cafe on one of the main public concourses. There weren't many patrons about at that time of day, with the lunch rush gone, but there were still a fair number of people about. It was a bad place to have a private conversation, but that was something of a selling point in this case, as it left rather less room of unpleasant shennanigans.

Grogan and Leceuthea were sitting off to one side, where they could observe people coming and going. When Anárion approached, Grogan nodded politely. "Good afternoon, sir. I'm Captain Grogan, commander of the Provactor, and this Leceuthea, the head of our trade delegation. What can we do for you?"

[Dread Lady Nathicana]

Translations were often a problem when encountering new races and cultures, and as such, steps had been taken to provide small devices that operated via one of the station’s isolated subsystems. A small earpiece and mic, all in one little package that fit lightly over the wearer’s ear were all that was required to take advantage of the translation capabilities. Two were taken from a rack under the counter, scanned through the system, and registered to the newcomers.

“Perhaps these will be of assistance,” Salvatore said, offering one each to the Solonti visitors. “They should ease the negotiation process and avoid any potential misinterpretations, and help your lovely daughter enjoy herself without being dependent on asking someone to translate for her. Over the ear, and you should find your conversations eased.”

After a quick confirmation over Spook, he nodded to Matthias and smiled at Silke. “If would accompany me to the lifts, we’ll make our way to the main hub, and from there to the Station Offices. Many of our entertainments can be found there as well, and I would be happy to show Silke some of the sights. It is admittedly the largest area, but you will be able to know her location simply for the asking while in my company, so you needn’t worry for her safety. Shall we?”

He escorted them to the lifts, taking the opportunity to explain a bit more about the station and some of the amenities in person as they rode, hoping to put them at ease as various others boarded and exited at random points. The offices were not hard to find, and Matthias was introduced to several representatives there who would sit down and work with him to find some common ground to work from, all over a pleasant meal and fine wine – tradition, after all.

Meanwhile, Salvatore turned to Silke and enquired what her preferences might be.

“I realize it might feel a bit overwhelming, but perhaps if you let me know what sort of things might interest you, I can help introduce you to some of the areas that you might enjoy?”

Ensign Nara was of course welcome to go wherever he chose, and if he happened to choose riding the lift with the trio, that was within his power. All the areas they went through were open to the public, and perhaps he overheard the offer to show the young lady around.

ooc: FUS – nothing is ‘expected’. Opportunities are simply open to take advantage of, or not. What you folks do is up to you. I’m pretty much just facilitating the medium here – and playing where it works for folks. This is all for fun, introducing people to each other, using it for a backdrop for one’s stories, or what have you.

Solont - I hope I didn't forward things too far, but wanted to free you up to interact. We can discuss the trade/contact information in character or not, at your leisure, just let me know your prefs.

[Free United States]

ooc: ok. i just didn't wanna be accused of 'butting in'

ic:

The young pilot did in fact hear the invitation to escort the young lady, but her father was still around. In a pilot's experience, there are only a few things to cool their afterburners, and fathers were one of them. But he also heard about the entertainment venues, and where one door closed another began. He got onto the lift, beating the doors and nodding to the occupants inside. He wondered if any would question his military attire as Machiavelli was mainly civilian. Ensign Nara tried to remain nonchalant, as if he were simply going the same way in coincidence.

[The Ctan]

Anárion sat after shaking hands, his dark red robes folding neatly behind him as he ordered one of the multitudinous dominion wines. He took something from his pocket, a octagonal small device like a coin, which he set on the table, “I think it’s time to explain what this is about. Do you at all recognize this structure?” on the word ‘this’ an image appeared, seeming like a solid object just popped into space. It was a rendition of Leceuthea’s home.

“If you’re wondering, we acquired this from a species you may be familiar with,” he said, and the image added a few renditions of a grey skinned alien race, the scale beside showing three stages of their decreasing size, with approximate dates, from man-sized to dwarven, over thousands of years. The intermediate one looked positively intimidating, and would probably surprise Grogan, though he would recognize the smallest. The writing – in Leceuthea’s own language (which of course, she would also hear Anárion speaking in) and English.”

“We had a very brief interaction with these people, though unfortunately, they are no longer present in this… ‘reality.’ Some time after, we quietly borrowed the architectural style of that city ship for a project of our own. So, aside from interest, we think we owe you a little something for imitating your style…” as he mentioned a ‘project’ the depiction of Leceuthea’s home shrank, and was dwarfed by a much bigger, more regular version of itself, primarily in some shining white material.

“Of course, the real reason is simple meddlesome curiosity,” he added with a little smile.

[Atlantis Exsilio]

"That does appear to be one of our city-ships, in a modified form," Leceuthea replied, leaning forward for a moment to study the image more carefully. "We never felt the need to expand them to such size, although we certainly could have if we desired."

Grogan nodded. He did a slight double-take as he looked at the aliens - he was pretty sure that Asgard were not supposed to have evil, narrowed eyes, chins, or so many teeth. He looked at Anárion skeptically. "So, what, you flew all the way out here just to tell us you ripped off our architecture?" He didn't sound like he believed that for a moment.

[The Ctan]

Anárion frowned, “Oh, indeed. Well. The point of that little illustration,” he waved a hand, causing the projector to fly into it from the table, before he pocketed it again, “was mostly to resolve some questions. Far easier to show you what we know of your history and see if you confirm it, as your friend here has, after a fashion, than go through a complex set of questions. Of course, it’s not so unbelievable, is it, Captain Grogan? Your own culture, if our records and conjecture are correct, is one that has launched multiple armed expeditions from your most high profile facilities to examine interesting bits of archeology. A few minutes power supply and a little longer for me is not at all a comparable expenditure of resources.

“We were, after all, informed that your friend here’s culture was extinct. It is quite interesting when a vanished race whose achievements you memorialize mysteriously comes back to life. Surely worth the trivial expense of coming by to say hello and try and make some new friends, yes?”

[Atlantis Exsilio]

Grogan and Leceuthea both narrowed their eyes, albeit for complete different reasons. She said, "Any information that you have received regarding our culture's 'extinction' is clearly incorrect and nothing more than scurrilous rumor. We may not be quite so strong as we used to be, but I assure you that we have hardly vanished."

Grogan would much rather not confirm or deny anything, but he didn't have a lot of choice. "I don't know that I'd emphasize armed expeditions so much - we're peaceful explorers, we just have to carry weapons to defend ourselves. What's your information source? It doesn't seem to be entirely correct."

[The Ctan]

He looked at Leceuthea, “Please don’t misunderstand me. This translator does sometimes lose subtleties,” and with that, Leceuthea heard him speaking in English as he disabled it, “By referring to your species, I mean your particular form. I understand that most of you became energy-forms, but as a distinct biological species, with a culture creating physical artifacts, our records suggest you no longer existed. One of our own species was extinct by that standard, for some seventy million years, having become a new species. Though there has recently been a trend to adopt older forms among them…” he turned to Grogan, “Oh, I exaggerate, I entirely approve of what our records show of you. I wouldn’t very well want to get to know you if I did not.

“This particular world is occupied by refugees and travelers from any number of parallel histories, we have met some people like you,” he said to Grogan, “before. As for our sources of information, parallel timelines of your own development are nothing new here. Some of our friends have one of your old home star-gates, there is a sizeable nation run by someone called Jack O’Neill, who I’m told is significant in your history. There is an unrelated, from a parallel timeline, a former Major Samantha Carter, in our nation, who actually established a flag on contact with your species,” he nodded to Leceuthea, “that brought me here.

“That is the uncomfortable reality of a ‘fractal’ reality, I’m afraid. It has… been reported… that there is a morally repellant version of myself in some alternate reality, encountered by one traveler.”

[Atlantis Exsilio]

"Really? That's fascinating," Leceuthea said, all trace her earlier displeasure gone. "We had speculated that might be possible, as we have encounter some traces of ourselves here and there. We have considerable experience with interdimensional travel before, but until we, ah, accidentally entered this universe we had never seen them try to all co-exist in the same place. I don't suppose you could share any data you might have on the phenomena?"

"Yeeah, what she said," Grogan added. He looked for more creeped out than excited. "It might be nice to know if there's other us...-es running around. How is the major?"

[Roania]

Kyrie sighed and swept back her long brown hair from her face as she read the book she had purchased in the embarkation point. She had precious little else to do. Most visitors to her exhibition were interested primarily in the jeweled death mask or the pictures of Empress Alessa and Lady Daria, and few of them had even bothered to ask her questions about them, content simply to stare and then wander off. The young female was starting to have a suspicion that people weren't actually all that interested in learning about foreign cultures.

None of that was as big a problem as the men who occasionally turned up simply to stare at her, though. She didn't understand them at all, always poking around walls and looking at her when she was looking away, as if she couldn't see them. Once she had smiled at them, and they had hurried off quickly. She wondered if her smile was scary, and looked in the mirror to check, but hadn't been able to tell.

Kyrie decided it was just a human thing and stood up, adjusting her sensible brown dress. Time to do her rounds.

[Solont]

Matthias bid Silke goodbye with kiss to the forehead and a protective embrace. He knew she was in good hands, but this was still an unfamiliar place, full of unfamiliar faces. He couldn't help but feel a little protective. Still, after making sure her translation earpiece was properly situated-- she had forgivably put it on upside down at first-- he and his adopted daughter parted ways.

As soon as Silke was able to speak, understand, and be understood, Gino would find her to be an absolute bundle of questions and curiosity, mixed with a healthy smattering of trepidation. Every 10 seconds without fail, as Gino led her through the station interior, she would tug on his sleeve and point to some new feature, establishment, or person, and would ask him in her lilting, elegant native tongue to explain it.

“What is that, Mr. Salvatore?”

“Is that a restaurant, Mr. Salvatore?”

“Is Sol a peaceful place, Mr. Salvatore?”

“Mr. Salvatore, what species is that?”

“Do all countries from Sol come here, Mr. Salvatore?”

Every turn brought new questions from the inquisitive young girl. Prior to this trip, she had never been into space before, let alone be among the few who had ventured beyond the bounds of her home solar system in peacetime. Despite her anxiety at being in such an unfamiliar place, her desire to learn about all the fantastic sights presented before her overwhelmed her natural instincts to timidity. But despite her incessant curiousity, she practiced perfect courtesy and maintained excellent manners, never once interrupting Gino's answers to her questions. And not a single complaint or demand dared escape her lips, sealed back by the perpetual endearing smile on her face. That is, save one request...

“Mr. Salvatore,” She asked, coming to a sudden stop in one of the station promenades. She pointed across the walkway to the gallery which had caught her eyes, that same gallery which had housed the Roanian cultural exhibition. “Is that gallery open? May we go see the exhibition?” she asked, a tinge of excitement creeping into her voice. But even before he could answer in the affirmative, she had already started off towards the exhibition, gently tugging Gino along by the sleeve.

[Skeelzania]

Inside one of Machiavelli’s fine dining establishments . . .

“I do not have a ‘charge card.’”

The bartender raised an eyebrow. The towel he was turning inside of a shotglass turned just a bit slower. “Is that so? Then I suppose we best open a tab.”

“That will not be necessary.” The big Skeelzanian reached for his belt, for his gun. “We Skeelzanians always strive to pay our debts up front.”

The towel stopped. Surely the ogre wasn’t that drunk, that insane. What had he done to deserve this? Machiavelli was a nice gig, good clientele, wasn’t some fucking pirate haven, where men commonly shot one another over a queer look. And he hadn’t given one! He’d been polite to this one, same as all the others, human or otherwise. Sure he’d given him a twice over, man was new. Wasn’t any harm in it!

The pleasant music piped in throughout the restaurant, the gentle babble of conversation, seemed to die away in the man’s ears. The hand came to rest on the butt of the pistol, that huge man-smashing brute of a side arm, designed to make an Ork step back, or take a man’s arm off messily at the shoulder. It would liquefy the bartender’s torso, shatter the shelf of fine liquors mounted behind him, and drill through God-knows how many bulkheads. Probably shoot right through the bar if he tried to duck. Point blank range, no escape.

Looking up from his vodka, Fulcas Esterhazy grinned down at the server. At his height, even sitting on a stool was enough to put him over most of the humans on this station. He wasn’t the biggest cat in the place (in fact, he’d seen a feline courtesan that was a fair size taller), but he always enjoyed being able to grin down at a person. His hand moved a bit to the front, past the grip of his pistol and reached into a small pouch tied on the front of his belt. Still grinning, he pulled out a coin, reached out, and let it drop to the countertop with a pleasant thud.

It was gold, there wasn’t anything else it could be. The coin was scuffed, a bit worn around the edges, but the profile of the Kaiserin stood out handsomely on its face. “Twenty baskz piece here, friend,” Esterhazy said, giving no sound to the ‘z.’ “Worth near $32 standard according to the Supernational tracker, last I heard. Maybe get a bit more if you melted it down, took the shine off. Course, then I’d have to kill you for lèse majesté.” Esterhazy slid the coin across the bar with one hand, raised his drink with the other. “Long live the Kaiserin!”

A few moments later he stood outside the restaurant, shifting his belt and enjoying the warmth of good vodka. Not as hard as Solomon product if he knew his drink, but the drinks hadn’t been any rotgut. Whistling an old academy tune, the Skeelzanian set off to see some more of Machiavelli.

Overall he enjoyed the place. You were less likely to get shot here than in a place like Armjorath, or Far Tortuga. The businesses showed every sign of healthy competition, politely relegating their red work to the back rooms, if they did any at all. Esterhazy knew Tortugans were never above a little commercial assassination, and he guessed these Solars weren’t either. And of course, the crowd was far more interesting than any you’d fine in the Ciguri pirate systems. Unlike most Skeelzanians he could stand to be around Xenos without his skin visibly crawling, or having to rest an easy hand on his pistol at all times. He did the latter anyway though just, he told himself, to keep up appearances.

Following the easy flow of the crowd, steered by the electric current of interest, he soon found himself amid the Roanian art exhibition.

Skeelzanians, at least their nobility of which Esterhazy was nominally a part of, were at once both great connoisseurs of art and terrible artists. Living in a monarcho-fascist militarized dictatorship had tended to steer artistic expression in the Sternreich down the path of the propagandistic, the monumental. Skeelzanian paintings were invariably of battle or martial scenes, and often very large, or else portraits of august heads of households who gazed out at the viewer as if suffering a personal affront. When it came to furbishing their own households, Skeelzanians much preferred foreign products, which they regularly imported, or even more regularly looted. The Archduke Serrat was even rumored to have an ancient Rembrandt somewhere in the Imperial palace.

The child of these two traditions, of philistine flag wearer and admiring looter, Esterhazy looked on the works with a critical eye. He stood for some time in front of the Empress. Being something of an enlightened xenophobe (he told himself) he could appreciate the attempt at portraiture, but not particularly the execution. The poor woman looked as if she had been ambushed coming out of her bedroom, wearing a bathrobe that was unpleasantly reminiscent of a vent bat.

Rain-Swept Vista he rated marginally better, due in part to having no idea who woman was, thus dispensing with the prejudices he brought to bear on the Power of the Light. Obviously a woman used to command, even if her hair color was delightfully riffraff. “Perhaps a pirate queen in these parts,” he mused to himself.

His favorite piece thus far, however, was [u ]Smug Self-Satisfaction[/u]. The gentleman pictured looked quite rakish, reminiscent of the Archduke in a sallow sort of way. He could stand to suffer a haircut, as well.

Spying a bored young woman who was walking around in an official sort of way, Esterhazy caught and held her eye. He called out in mildly accented English, hitting his consonants a trifle harder than was strictly necessary. “Honorable fraulein, you serve this exhibit, do you not? I have questions about your most exquisite art.”

He gestured first at Rain-Swept. “What can you tell me about this woman? I am foreign in these parts, and sadly lacking in knowledge of celebrities. Quite a confident one, isn’t she? No doubt a military commander or princess of industry.”

[The Garbage Men]

Once the sub-depot was constructed the flurry of Activity around the sub-depot folded the five members of the assesment team plus 3 members of the engineering team stayed behind to form the crew of the Sub-depot.

It was time to place advertisements, letting the fine clientelle of the station know that now the waste, sanitation cleaning and practically anything else involoving unwantered matter with the station was under the fine stewardship of The Garbage Men corporation.

The signs were small, readible and to the point. "This waste recepticle is managed by The Garbage Men." However in addition to the Strong team that would be responsible for all of The Garbage Men's activities on board the station the Engineering team left a suprise.

Around the various promenades, the walkways and public areas of the stations little black piece of cloth could be seen almost gliding across the floor, easily dodging in between any feet that might be in it's way the black cloth hid something underneath. A creature without a head or brain infact with no discernable organs at all a simple amorpheous blob of matter, known to all those within the corporation as a Trash Slime.

[Dread Lady Nathicana]

Several Addressed at Once …

Machiavelli may be a primarily civilian facility, but that wasn’t to say any number of servicemen or women were not present in some capacity or other, from any number of nations. Militaries were not permitted to operate from the station of course, but individual ships, so long as they passed the usual security protocols, were welcomed to dock, reload, take advantage of the shore leave opportunities that abounded, or request repairs if needed. Some chose or were required to remain in their uniform, some were not, but all were expected to abide by the same rules as everyone else, and thus far, there had been few documented problems.

Salvatore had offered Ensign Nara a polite nod as he boarded, and thought nothing more of it as they continued along their way, seeing nothing out of the ordinary in the brief encounter.

Silke’s never-ending slew of questions didn’t seem to faze the man, in fact she thought the little girl to be rather adorable as kids went. He tried to answer her questions as well as he could, going by her interests to guide him rather than try to point out things he thought the most interesting – adult tastes and preferences and his familiarity with the ‘norm’ being less helpful than her youthful curiosity.

“That would be one of the local constabulary boxes – if you need help, you can stop there.”

“Mmhmm – they make a really delicious smoothie from some fruits found somewhere far away, Outsystem – Scolopendran colony, if I remember.”

“Sol, peaceful? Well, I guess that depends on what part of Sol you’re talking about. It’s a pretty big place, miss. Though we tend to keep things pretty safe and sound around here.”

“Oh, that’s a Reploid. They come in all sorts of shapes and sizes and types. Good folks, really. ‘Course their nation isn’t just Reploids, they’ve got all sorts. Humans, Nekos, Drakonics, Elves – they’ve taken in a lot of immigrants from what I understand.”

“No, not all countries by a long shot. Lots, it seems, but there are so very, very many nations out there. Even with all our trade and communications, we only know a relative handful when you try to look at the whole picture. Like I said, Sol is a big place. Can get a little confusing sometimes.”

He smiled and followed her lead towards the Roanian art exhibition area that was set up with various people passing through, taking note of the items being shown.

“I believe it is, Silke – very interesting group, the Roanians. I hear they have a beautiful Empress who rules from a diamond throne with eyes like sapphires, and the voice of an angel,” he replied – glamorizing a bit perhaps, but then didn’t all little girls want to be princesses and hear about those sorts of things?

He took note of the Skeelzanian towering over and speaking to the young lady overseeing the exhibit, making a quick scan with his handheld device and confirming a cautionary marker on his ident file. There hadn’t been any trouble, and he didn’t expect there would be, but still – situational awareness, especially when escorting a minor in new territory, was a good thing to maintain.

Aboard the station overall, the Dominion Public Relations Ministry had launched an informational and promotional campaign of their own, announcing their welcome of the Garbage Men constituents and their gradual taking over of sanitation services for the station – all part of the package arranged previously. As their members took over the various sections, the Dominion staff worked with them to make the changeover as smooth as possible. The change in employment wasn’t really a bother, as the Dominioners had guaranteed contracts for work of one sort or other, and given the new projects in the works elsewhere … in the end, things were worked out amicably all around.

[Dread Lady Nathicana]

She hadn’t arrived at one of the usual depots of course, which was again a bit of a disappointment. Her mother insisted on taking all the proper precautions, regardless of her daughter’s capability, her trust, her obvious desires. Heirs to the Empire were not allowed the freedoms so many often took for granted, as ‘unfair’ as it might seem.

Naiya was used to it, but it still chaffed. She knew well enough that her mother got away with doing as she liked now and then, even more so in the past from what she’d gathered, but that was Nathicana. And few were in a position to tell her what she should and should not do – at least few who would either be listened to, or remain in working order at the end of said conversation.

A very private port was accessed by shuttle near the top of Machiavelli, where the Imperial suites were located, in between a security depot and main station operations, making it the best protected location on all the station. She fingered the simple-looking onyx bead bracelet around her wrist absentmindedly. At least here she wouldn’t have to be tailed everywhere with a personal guard. They could track her location at any given moment through the devices hidden in that little bracelet’s beads, and she knew there would be at least one person if not more dedicated to doing just that for the duration of her stay at all hours of the day.

Security was what made the station a breath of fresh air for her, because here at least, it was done subtly. If she didn’t have to see it, she could at least pretend. The only place less intrusive of course, being home, though given the changing situation there, she wasn’t sure how much longer that would last.

So it was with a bit of relief that she stowed her belongings in her room, checked in with her mother to let her know she’d arrived safely, and finally made her way down to the Main Hub, mixing in comfortably with the crowds.

She stood slightly taller than her mother, even at her age, and there was a slender gracefulness about her that seemed to hint at something more than human, in spite of her looks. She still wore her hair in a vibrant shade of red, deep blue eyes peeking out from behind wispy locks that framed her face in a pretty layered bob cut. She had matured, the still young yet alluring curves she’d developed left no doubt about that, though she carried herself with casual confidence, and none of the knowing flirtatiousness some of the other girls her age did, especially around the boys. Given she was here to relax, she wore a simple white tank top under a short cashmere cardigan, faded skinny jeans, and low-heeled leather boots that came up over her calves.

Of course she carried her own personal protection – who on the station was going to deny her, after all. The handgun was holstered comfortably on her belt, and a serviceable knife was tucked away safely inside one of the boots, unseen but not out of reach. She was so used to them by now she didn’t really notice them any more than she did the sturdy canvas backpack she had slung over her shoulder to carry things like her music, a book or two, and other personal needs.

The Hub seemed as busy as it ever was, and her first stop was at one of the open cafés for a salad and iced tea. Settling in at one of the ‘outdoor’ tables, she slips an earphone in and punches up her music list, leaving the other ear free to listen for any approaches or questions such as ‘would you like a refill’ that might come her way. Not too far down, there seems to be a new exhibit – Roanian art. Her brow crinkles slightly as she recalls some of the events associated with the name ‘Roania’, but hey. These things happened.

Pondering where her wanderings might take her after, she takes her time eating, enjoying the ebb and flow of conversation and sentients around her as she enjoyed her light meal.

[Free United States]

The Ensign nodded in return, again remaining back as they exited the lift. He followed after them, keeping a distance and getting a free tour out of it as well. He was sure they wouldn't mind giving him his own tour, but he shrugged his shoulders and continued. He looked at all the sites that were pointed out, taking note of them, albeit with less enthusiasm as the girl. As they continued on near the restaurants and such, Nara decided to make his move. He walked up to them and got Salvatore's attention.

"Excuse me," he tapped his shoulder lightly. "I couldn't help to hear...I got a question, ya got any pubs here?" He glanced at the girl, "Er...sorry for interrupting, Ensign Nara," he offered his hand, "12th Carrier Air Wing."

[The Garbage Men]

Solont & Dread Lady Nathanica

The small blur of black cloth that hid a small creature was getting close Silke and her chaperone. Getting around the corner and comming up from in front the creature leapt and landed on Silke's foot. Apart from the sudden increase of about a pound of weight it stayed and clung onto her footware.

[Roania]

Kyrie didn't understand half of what was going on. The ogre had approached her and was demanding explanations. "Uh... sir?" She asked him, uncomfortably. "Oh, her? She's Lady Daria Kara, Justiciar to the Empress." The young lady's attention wandered a bit. "She's not very nice, I'm afraid. And the man over there is Grand Vizier Radmiel. He's a very nice man." And that was that, as far as it went. Kyrie's interest in the politics of the empire was limited. It wasn't her area of expertise, nor was it... and then she saw her, and her whole expression changed. "Oh my! Excuse me, sir." Hurrying off as fast as she could in the heels and dress she was wearing, she ran to meet Silke as she approached, slowing down just in time to prevent a conclusion. "You there! Are you a new species! Oh, you are! You simply must tell me everything about you! May I have her, sir? Please?"

The Archivist felt all atwitter. She had gone on this exhibition as a docent in order to meet exciting new lifeforms and catalog them and their cultures, and here one was, coming straight to her! "What's your name? Do you speak galactic standard, no, it's not called that here, do you speak the common language?" Kyrie looked Silke up and down, and her mouth kept working. "I see you're a mammal, and you resemble an animal known on Sol Tertius as the Fox in some particulars, but..." She slowed down slightly. "Oh, you simply must come in!"