Machiavelli Station (Open IC)

[Dread Lady Nathicana]

"For the moment we'll be staying on our ship," Grogran replied as they followed Jovene to get ident cards, "although I imagine in the long run we will be wanting to arrange long-term accommodations. I'd also like to allow my crew shore leave, once some of the financial details have been worked out. "

"As for trade arrangements, yes," Leceuthea continued. "One of our goals is to evaluate local markets and if possible establish some sort of presence in this system, and Machiavelli comes highly recommended as a possible location."

The ident process was quick and simple, and the Atlantians soon had their cards, and a standard informational pamphlet containing helpful bits such as basic directories, commonly advertised amenities and the like, and were past the checkpoint and in one of the many main corridors, bustling with activity.

“I’m glad our reputation precedes us,” Jovene said, leading the way. “We have many spaces still available for lease – business, warehousing, living facilities – as well as contacts for our nation, our trade partners on the station, and if you wish, further-reaching contacts through the Trade Network Association. All of which our Trade offices can set in motion for you, depending on your needs.”

“I’d be happy to show you around if you’d like, or if you’d rather, you’re free to go wherever you please. Appointments with our Trade offices can be made at your convenience, and it would be my pleasure to assist in setting those up as well should you require. Shore leave for any of your crew is as simple as checking in as you’ve already done. We’ve a plethora of entertainments and distractions on board – in fact COURTESAN, as you’ll see in our pamphlet there, is a reputable organization who would be more than happy to assist or guide in that area.”

[Aelosia]

The Sindar Empire of Aelosia

To: Bernardo di Medici, Minister of Trade
From: Marquis Haralis Lórindel, Head of the Lórindel Noble House of Merchants of the Sindar Empire of Aelosia
Thru: Foreign Trade and Export Expansion Liaison Office, Lórindel Noble House, sindar Empire of Aelosia.

Although we haven't received any proper invitation to join as a partner and associate in that marvelous venture of yours labeled as the "Machiavelli Station", we have heard enough rumours of the wonderful opportunities that such idea might bring, to all involved.

As such, myself, as the highest representative of the Finances of the Sindar Empire as a whole, want to humbly request to lease, rent or otherwise find a way to participate in this amazing project.

Given my background, easily guessed by my title and responsabilities, my petition has a direct and unique mercantile purpose. If our petition is granted, we would like to establish a small, if rather exclusive enclave, to send qualified merchants to work in both sides of the spectrum of the typical commercial transaction. That is, to both commercialize our products in a wide galactic scale to potential customers, and to acquire those items or services fitted to the needs of the aelosian Trade Cartels, nominally, my own House. I am sure you are already aware of the high interest and level of trade that the Dominion products alone get in the Aelos Craftworld.

Our proposal, detailed in the annexed archives found alongside this document, include the establishment of small offices of several trade and manufacturing companies, a rather simple art gallery, a warehouse, a small gourmet restaurant for exchange of gastronomical samples, and a proper discussion chamber, fashioned in the traditional elven way, that can be used for business arguments by any party that request it. If possible, we would like to rent or lease a private dock, but if that is not possible, we are satisfied with just the use of the public ones.

Thanks for your cooperation in the negotiations. I am sure that any joint mercantile venture between our nations will result in improved happiness, and even more important, improved profit and wealth for all the parties involved.

Marquis Haralis Lórindel
Head of the Lórindel Noble House of Merchants
Sindar Empire of Aelosia

To: Bernardo di Medici, Minister of Trade
From: Countess Lereith Eöl
Thru: Private message.

I heard a completely delicious comment about proper pleasure dens aboard that delicacy that your people put over there out in space. Machiavelli Station, that name sounds so magical and mysterious!

I would like to work as a liaison with those responsible to provide with anything they might need. And by anything I define both services, personnel or goods they might require that is easier for us Aelosians to find, and also to provide customers eager to be delighted with exotic pleasures, and eager to spill purses big enough as to satisfy largely all those involved.

Just let me know if you need me, I will be over here, waiting.

Lereith.

[Dread Lady Nathicana]

To: Mr. Franksten, Regional Manager, TGM Martian Regional Depot
RE: Machiavelli Arrangements

Your team is expected, and all arrangements on this end have been made as per discussion. Our current team is standing by, ready to coordinate the changeover when your people have finished their assessment and are ready to assume the custodial duties for the station.

On the station, space had been made available as per request and specifications, and an outbuilding prepared for the use of TGM, manufacturing, warehousing, and shipping as needed. Upon arrival, all necessary idents were granted, and contacts were established.

[Dread Lady Nathicana]

ooc: scolo, is that 'proposition' towards me?

ic:
For 'names and origins' all would place their names-the officers placing their rank ahead of their name. And all would write their origin as the Commonwealth of Free United States. The Marines were only to guard the ship itself, so no weapons were taken aboard, save for a locker containing pistols that was for emergencies only. The doctors and other researchers all listed their talents, doctorates and such.

Ident cards were issued, informational pamphlets given out, and the crew was left to make their choices, and converse with the lovely 'ret who had introduced herself. Tskra-Prret was well known and well-liked amongst the station regulars, especially those in charge of overseeing the comings and goings at the docks.

Xander stepped back with a smile, and a slight bow to the lovely lady, and waits to see what Ramius and the rest required.

[Free United States]

ooc: scolo, is that 'proposition' towards me?

ic:
For 'names and origins' all would place their names-the officers placing their rank ahead of their name. And all would write their origin as the Commonwealth of Free United States. The Marines were only to guard the ship itself, so no weapons were taken aboard, save for a locker containing pistols that was for emergencies only. The doctors and other researchers all listed their talents, doctorates and such.

Ident cards were issued, informational pamphlets given out, and the crew was left to make their choices, and converse with the lovely 'ret who had introduced herself. Tskra-Prret was well known and well-liked amongst the station regulars, especially those in charge of overseeing the comings and goings at the docks.

Xander stepped back with a smile, and a slight bow to the lovely lady, and waits to see what Ramius and the rest required.

Ramius stepped forward to address their new acquaintance while the crew began to unload laboratory equipment and other essential systems, loading them onto forklifts and wheeled trams.

"While I'm sure your services are fine, mission ROE for this research facility restrict our personnel in what types of...diversion they can participate in," she explained.

ooc: note, this is rl DoD policy

[Scolopendra]

"Of course," Tskra says with that confident 'little' thin smile of hers, "I would not presume to conflict with your orders... but no one is on duty forever, or so I remember from my own particular stint. I also would not be surprised if several of the tradespeople I know could offer diversions which, while still most entertaining, would be perfectly acceptable by the letter of your regulations."

The kzinret bows shortly as she steps back, her body making music in motion and sound. "The offer, of course, remains open for your free consideration. When you have time, of course." The last is said with a quick wink.

(OOC: Ah, the innocence of the young... it's been DoD policy for years, young padawan. Hasn't stopped much of anyone with a will. The only difference is now it occasionally gets prosecuted under the "catch-all" Article 134 of the UCMJ when it's politically necessary to do so.

Oh, and another thing I just thought: the DoD regs are for the prevention of human trafficking, something which an organized guild [such as COURTESAN] has nothing to do with since it's a transparent hiring labor union. So while Articles 133 and 134 could still apply, realistically, they'd only be applied if there was some sort of "problem" that needed at least the appearance of action to "solve.")

[Kajal]

The "protesting" Kajali were, surprisingly enough, quite polite and quiet as long as their groups didn't get too close to each other. When that happened, though, there was some name calling and denouncements and tit for tat that generally added up to zilch. Those Kajali offices that were still open and doing business seemed unperturbed by such, since as long as their competitors were closed and busy parading around THE END IS NIGH! signs, they were really the only horse in town for Kajali goods and services. As such, those that hadn't heard of the Kajali 'event' and those that found all this religious posturing somewhat ridiculous had some slightly more sane choices for their business.

So no, as long as the protesters were peaceful and not operating their businesses like good little capitalists, the offices that were still operating were perfectly happy, just as long as they didn't block the door.

Some people had money to make, after all, and if a company was dumb enough to actually be vulnerable to a decapitation strike, well, tough for them. Diversify or die.

When news came that something weeeeeird was going on but that it was rather conclusively NOT the end of all existence yet, much of the groups dispersed, leaving a small core of apparent fanatics that were neither particularly important or high up in their offices.

Of course, eventually SOMEONE got bored of these crazies hanging out in front of their office all the time, and a discreet request was filed to see if they couldn't be moved somewhere else, like, say, a sewage treatment plant or a cell somewhere. It had nothing to do with the fact that it'd be even harder for the competition to do any business if they were in jail...

[Free United States]

"Of course," Tskra says with that confident 'little' thin smile of hers, "I would not presume to conflict with your orders... but no one is on duty forever, or so I remember from my own particular stint. I also would not be surprised if several of the tradespeople I know could offer diversions which, while still most entertaining, would be perfectly acceptable by the letter of your regulations."

The kzinret bows shortly as she steps back, her body making music in motion and sound. "The offer, of course, remains open for your free consideration. When you have time, of course." The last is said with a quick wink.

(OOC: Ah, the innocence of the young... it's been DoD policy for years, young padawan. Hasn't stopped much of anyone with a will. The only difference is now it occasionally gets prosecuted under the "catch-all" Article 134 of the UCMJ when it's politically necessary to do so.

Oh, and another thing I just thought: the DoD regs are for the prevention of human trafficking, something which an organized guild [such as COURTESAN] has nothing to do with since it's a transparent hiring labor union. So while Articles 133 and 134 could still apply, realistically, they'd only be applied if there was some sort of "problem" that needed at least the appearance of action to "solve.")

ooc: i know, my Col. sent two people back from Iraq because of that, and took a stripe each. At. 120 could apply to this, as well.

ic:

"If it is within regulations, they of course can engage in what they please at their leisure," Ramius answered. "But while deployed here, they will conduct themselves in a manner befitting the honor of the Commonwealth Defense Forces and their respective civilian agencies."

[Scolopendra]

"If honor is the concern," Tskra replies in her rumbly voice, "then you need not fear--for honor is life to a kzin. Indeed, I earned my half-name by developing an open, organized labor society of professionals with a transparent hiring structure and collective bargaining rights." Usually she doesn't press this hard, but occasionally it's fun to press the righteous. "After all, if there were any risk of impropriety, do you believe our hosts would allow me to operate so... brazenly?"

She stops just short of an accusation, but nods with winking ears to Xander. "Still, Station Liason, I mustn't prejudice our guests, no?" She bows shortly first to Xander, and then the FUSsies. "Our doors are always open to you, and you can find our representatives in nearly every establishment of good repute." She smiles and, while never particularly blocking the way to begin with, steps back to make it clear that her piece has been said.

[Atlantis Exsilio]

Grogan's eyebrows quirked for a moment and he tucked away that particular pamphlet. "I'm sure the crew will appreciate your hospitality," he said.

"Hmm. I'm sure they will," Leceuthea sniffed. "However, a more immediate concern is acquiring local currency or whatever alternative method of exchange mediation is used. We have a fairly considerable sum of our own, but as this is our first public venture in this system I doubt anyone accepts it. We do, of course, carry a fairly considerable amount of possible trade goods. We would appreciate any assistance you could give us in perhaps finding a reputable source of credit to cover immediate expenses. Appropriate collateral can be provided."

[Free United States]

"If honor is the concern," Tskra replies in her rumbly voice, "then you need not fear--for honor is life to a kzin. Indeed, I earned my half-name by developing an open, organized labor society of professionals with a transparent hiring structure and collective bargaining rights." Usually she doesn't press this hard, but occasionally it's fun to press the righteous. "After all, if there were any risk of impropriety, do you believe our hosts would allow me to operate so... brazenly?"

She stops just short of an accusation, but nods with winking ears to Xander. "Still, Station Liason, I mustn't prejudice our guests, no?" She bows shortly first to Xander, and then the FUSsies. "Our doors are always open to you, and you can find our representatives in nearly every establishment of good repute." She smiles and, while never particularly blocking the way to begin with, steps back to make it clear that her piece has been said.

"Of course I have no problem with your business, and trust the Station management with making sound decisions on what businesses operate," Ramius replied once more, "But we all have our orders."

As Tskra takes a step back, Lt. Breshnye walked over to Ramius.

"Comrade-Captain, we've nearly outloaded the compliment of equipment and supplies," he stated, only giving the Captain's companion a moment's glance. "We need to make sure the Station can store the test-bed, however," Breshnye concluded.

Ramius turned to Xander, "For our aerospace studies, the researchers would like to use a de-militarized fighter craft. Would this be acceptable?"

ooc: here's the fighter= http://z4.invisionfree.invalid.com/NSDraftroom/ ... topic=5976
ignore the mt stats, as in ft i use this as my spacefighter, with only slight modifications (thermonuclear engines, for instance)

[The Garbage Men]

To: Mr. Franksten, Regional Manager, TGM Martian Regional Depot
RE: Machiavelli Arrangements

Your team is expected, and all arrangements on this end have been made as per discussion. Our current team is standing by, ready to coordinate the changeover when your people have finished their assessment and are ready to assume the custodial duties for the station.

On the station, space had been made available as per request and specifications, and an outbuilding prepared for the use of TGM, manufacturing, warehousing, and shipping as needed. Upon arrival, all necessary idents were granted, and contacts were established.

The Assessment team was made up of 5 individuals Thom, Aryard, Davis, Kent and lead by Acckles. A curious quirk of The Garbage Men social structure meant that the only people that had last names were the board members where having "proper" names were an advantage. However this meant that many employee's shared the same first name and so had to be primarily identified through an Employee number, and ID cards which contained alot of information encoded within including a wide range of biometric data, DNA/Diagnostic Info/molecular scans depending on life form and more.

The group was mainly made up of Humans, being Acckles, Thom and Davis, but Kent was a Hooloovoo, a super-intelligent shade of the colour blue. Which suddenly came into the employ of TGM after according to him, working on something called "The Heart of Gold."Kent, was currently being carried on Thom
s shirt. Aryard on the other hand was a Vulcan. First pon the itinary was a tour of the station so that they would have an idea of what type of wastes, and cleaning would need to be handled by the sub-depot.

[Skeelzania]

There were no established communication channels between the Skeelzanian Sternreich and Machiavelli’s proprietors; indeed, there were no established channels between Skeelzania and anyone within orbit of Sol. As was usually the case when faced with a dilemma, the Skeelzanians resorted to brute force: a virtual communication storm was directed at Machiavelli station, the same message playing across every conceivable medium in the hope someone onboard would pick it up. If a ship had been within visual range, semaphore lights would have been flashed.

“Proprietors of Machiavelli Station: Attention and Salutation!

Apologies for the nature of this message’s delivery, for we are as yet without more subtle or unobtrusive methods of communication in your part of the galaxy.

We are the Kurgan Drives Group, a privately-held corporation within the Skeelzanian Sternreich. We repeat, we are a private corporation, although of Skeelzanian origin. We are naval architects, and thus up against considerable competition within the Sternreich, for we are a small corporation up against such behemoths as Solomon Shipyards. We are most anxious to secure advantages over them in the battle for government contracts.

That is where Machiavelli Station comes in. As a premier (and neutral) trade hub located within the cradle of civilization, it goes without saying that Machiavelli is a superb business location. It is the desire of the Kurgan Group to open a small branch office within Machiavelli, primarily to facilitate business contacts with local firms. Our government sources also inform us of a renewed drive by the Imperial House to initiate economic ties with Sol, and our Group stands to benefit greatly if we are on the front lines of any such initiative.

The Group is prepared to rent a moderately –sized habitat within Machiavelli Station, sufficient for the permanent stationing of three company representatives.

However, we are well aware that the Sternreich and Sol have not always enjoyed the most cordial or even peaceful relations. We hope our status as a private corporation will be acknowledged and respected by your neighbors; we also pledge to uphold the laws and civility of the Dominion and Machiavelli Station with all the honor and tenacity with which we would uphold our own nation’s laws. If the Dominion continues to have any reservations, we only ask that they be expressed so that they might hopefully be resolved.

Your humble servant,

~Fulcas Karl Ritter von Esterhazy, Undersecretary of Corporate Foreign Relations, Kurgan Drives Group."

[Roania]

The Roanians appeared almost overnight, bringing their art with them. The large sum of money required changed hands, and then the Roanians went to work. For a race that seemed at times almost congenitally lazy, they certainly worked fast when the mood took them. The portraits went up, the old fashioned paintings almost archaic in contrast to the beauty of the station, but holding their own in the finest tradition of Roanian artistry, though portraiture had not advanced for the Roanians in nearly 4000 years.

Taking pride of place, of course, was the Empress herself. Obtaining the painting had been a nightmare for the unfortunate artists, as she had simply refused to stand still for the days on end required of her to create a decent painting. Instead, when she had turned to answer a question, the artist, seeing a perfect moment right there, had quickly snapped a photograph to work from.


Alessa Tiyara Cadrenel, Lady-Empress of the Radiant Empire Power of the Light

Justiciar Dariana Karayna had proven to be easier to convince, and one late afternoon the painter-turned-photographer found her looking out over the mountains from one of the palace's most scenic balconies. She sighed as he withdrew the camera and brushed her short, purple hair back over her shoulders, shaking it loose to let it get caught in the wind.


Dariana “Daria” Karayna; Rain-Swept Vista

Her nominal boss, the self-styled Grand Vizier Radmiel, was even more cooperative. Indeed, the problem was summing him up in just one picture, from the five or six dozen he required taken of him. Eventually, the painter decided to go with the one that most summed up Radmiel's essence.



Radmiel: Smug Self-Satisfaction

In addition, there were other portraits of important figures in the Radiant Empires, but these three, being by far the most well-known in foreign climes, had been placed forward, almost to welcome guests in. Also hanging around the exhibition point were various banners of the Greater and Imperial houses...

but pride of place was reserved for a truly magnificent work. A face. Well, not a face, per-se. A massive diamond carved into the mask for a vaguely aloof face, the blond hair created by delicate strains of gold thread, the deep blue eyes picked out by flawless sapphires, the teeth carved from a single block of palladium. In its particulars, the face matched closely to the Empress whose portrait sat immediately behind it. The explanation was provided by a little note at the bottom of the sealed display case: 'The Death Mask of Azrael the Great, First Emperor of the Anero Line and Founder of the Radiant Empire'.

A single incense stick stood in a pot in front of the mask, and the last action the Roanians took before opening the exhibition was to light the stick, filling the air with a smell similar to cardamom.

[Dread Lady Nathicana]

To: The Honorable Marquis Haralis Lórindel, Head of the Lórindel Noble House of Merchants of the Sindar Empire of Aelosia
From: Bernardo di Medici, Dominion Minister of Trade

The invitation was made to all peaceable nations who wished to take part in our then new venture, though I am pleased all the same that your venerable nation has chosen to join with us and others in coming together for a common purpose.

We would be pleased to have you take up residency on the station via the various groups you’ve mentioned. Considering the nature of your needs, and the mention of a private docking area, we would suggest the leasing of one of the dock and warehouse areas on the main structure. In addition, I believe we can make arrangements for all the spaces you’ve indicated a need for, though I doubt, given their various natures and the number requested, that they can be leased in a block.

I’m sending back a number of possible options for those spaces that you can choose at your leisure. As with most empty spaces, they come very basic and are ready to be designed as per the leaser’s needs, so I’m certain that we can either work with you, or allow your own craftsmen to prepare them as you see fit – so long as any such modifications do not interfere with, or change the very nature of the station itself. In other words, any changes made need to be confined to your own spaces.

Please let us know how we can facilitate the arrangements an ease the transition for you. We will await your response, and upon receipt of it will make all the preparations necessary for the arrival of your people.

In anticipation of your response,

--Bernardo di Medici

My Dear Countess Lereith Eöl,

Let me assure you that the establishments that you refer to do indeed live up to all you’ve heard – or so I’ve been told.

I’m certain that the groups involved would be more than happy to work with you in expanding and enhancing the services available. If I may put you in touch with someone who would most likely be able to put such arrangements into action.

Madame Tskra-Prret, Founder and President of COURTESAN – Central Organized Union of Registered Tradespeople in Erotic Specialties and Associated Networks. She is Scolopendran by birth, and a consummate businesswoman. In her time here, she has managed to pool the resources of those tradespeople involved in the more interesting businesses, and helped them to form a union of sorts. If you want to break into the business, or create ties, she would be the ideal person to establish a working relationship with.

Should you require any further assistance, please do not hesitate to ask.

With regard,

--Bernardo di Medici

[Dread Lady Nathicana]

Atlantis Exsilio

“Of course,” Jovene replied, gesturing towards one of the lifts. “A visit to our Trade offices should assist with all of that. They can help assess the value of your trade, and set up a credit account until such time as a workable monetary exchange is set up. Given the breadth of our operations with such things via the Trade Network Association, they have some experience with such things, and a wide range of bases to operate from.”

FUS

“So long as it falls within the arrangements made, that shouldn’t pose a problem,” Xander replies, after offering Tskra-Prret a respectful bow, then pauses, looking closely at Ramius. “You have checked all your arrangements through station management, yes?”

TGM & Roania

(To be addressed – have not forgotten, just give me a little time thanks!)

Skeelzania

The unorthodox method of communication was, unfortunately, not appreciated as it disrupted comms through the entire construct and surrounding traffic. Thankfully, the Dominion had its own uninterruptible system of communication via Spook, and soon enough, a system of blocks was set up, and the source pinpointed.

Apologies were passed on to all and sundry who may have been affected by the rather intrusive attempt, and whatever assistance needed was offered.

In the meantime, a channel was isolated and an attempt to reroute a reply was attempted, and set on loop until such time as a return attempt was made by the Skeelzanians.

Code: Select all

Attention Kurgan Drives Group:

Your message has been received. Please cease and desist any further communications with the area save for this channel unless otherwise requested.

While your ship is welcome to dock with Machiavelli, and your people allowed to visit and perhaps attempt to make arrangements with those offices aboard the station, we regret to inform you that space for lease aboard is at present denied to your corporation, and any other body from the nation of Skeelzania until such time as certain contacts and reassurances be made between our governments.

We have been briefed in part concerning some of your difficulties concerning Sol, and apologize that we cannot at this time be of more assistance on account.

If you still wish to dock, please relay your intent back along this channel, and arrangements will be made.

[Free United States]

"Oh, well we have the authorization request here," Ramius held her hand open. Lt. Breshnye was quick to hand the documents over. "It's been de-militarized, as aforementioned, so there's no way it can carry or fire weapons. The aerospace engineers will use it as a testbed for propulsion and other design experiments," she added.

[Solont]

– Federal Administration Zone, Terminal City “WaterFront,” Planet Solont, Beta Aquilae system--

Kurt Landrick, current acting Head of State of the United Federation of Solont, flicked his finger across his desk and closed the shades of his office, as he began to rub his temples. It'd been only a few months since the Space Force had reinstated civilian rule of the tiny blue planet, and Kurt had often found himself astounded at having risen so highly in such a short period of time.

“What am I doing here? I should not be here,” He repeated to himself. He knew, of course, that it was necessary, after all. The previous president had died when his personal transport was vaporized by a stray nuclear, as he was assisting the evacuation of Sanctuary. And with all the damage caused by the QB invasion and subsequent siege, there simply was no way to run a special election at the war's end. And so, the admiralty had appointed him, Kurt Landrick, governor of the small northern province of Hourai. And so fell on his shoulders a monumental task.

The repair of the cities and the cleanup of Solont after the war had been progressing smoothly. Populations centers had been hit hard, but mining and agricultural infrastructure had, through the graces of fate, gone largeley untouched. Supply shortages were, though common, not serious, and the Solont Space Force had shouldered most of the burden of supporting the general populace as they rebuilt their homes and cities, and suppressing their instincts to loot, rebel, and destroy.

Origin, the gigantic Khabarovskian terraforming platform that had once proved so integral to the planetary defense network, had taken on the incredible venture of repairing the damage to the planet's surface, centered around the massive mantle-exposing scar where the city of Solis Sanctuary had once been. Thanks to her (the ancient AI had preferred to refer to itself as female) regulation Solont's weather patterns, the planet's biosphere had emerged from that apocalyptic cataclysm largely unscathed. While it would take years to undo the damage that single ISCM had done to the southern continent, the planet would at the very least continue to prosper in the meantime.

All that was left for Kurt Landrick and the Federal Civilian Government was to organize contact with the newly rediscovered Sol System, and the planet Earth from whence their own various species had originated so many millenia ago. It was a staggering task, however. Solont's xeno-linguists had been full of optimism as they launched their first probes into the outskirts of the Sol system, to listen in on any radio traffic they could intercept. They had imagined themselves lucky to find perhaps one civilization advanced enough to communicate in the electromagnetic spectrum. They were bowled over to find not just that, but thousands of advanced space-faring civilizations, spanning thousands of cultures! It was staggeringly overwhelming for a single planet of just 7 billion individuals.

Solont's first contact mission had been tremendously successful in forging a budding relationship with a powerful Earth-based nation. Perhaps a little too successful, in fact; the Lord Protector of Solont, admiral of the first fleet and chief commanding officer for the entire armed forces, had been spending much time in the Federation of Marshall Islands, smitten with some woman. Landrick didn't know the details, nor did he care to. After lifting the siege, negating the enemy, and glassing their homeworld, the young Admiral Rayer could have retired and joined the circus, for all Landrick cared.

There were, however, always other opportunities to be capitalized upon. Natural resources, trade, cultural exchanges, perhaps even military alliances... all had to be pursued, to strengthen Solont's rather precarious position in a universe that seemed more dangerous and hostile the more they discovered about it. The torrential flood of data that the Solontian probes had fed back seemed impossible for any person or group of people to collate, and produce actionable information within decades, let alone years, and so a new artificial intelligence had recently been commissioned, the twelfth AI ever produced on Solont. The aptly named “Million,” having come online in just the past few months, had already filled dozens of databases with information on individual cultures in the Sol system, and those databases continued to be updated 'round the clock, as new information could be confirmed.

“Sir? Mr. President?” the voice snapped Kurt from his overwhelmed reverie back to reality. He looked up, blinked, and raised the lights in his office, noting the face of his secretary Víe. She was a pretty young thing, a Segonune from the Palshife region, and a member of one of Solont's ten or so sentient species genetically created from Earth's mammalian life, dozens of millenia ago.

“I'm sorry sir, I didn't mean to interrupt--” Víe started, but Landrick waved it off. “Don't worry about it, Víe,” Landrick said, sitting upright and adjusting his tie. “I was just lost in thought. Now... what do you have for me?”

Víe stiffened, adopting a formal posture as she spoke, “Sir, the NXC First Division is on line one. Million wishes to speak with you personally.” Landrick merely chuckled. Víe was an excellent secretary, but she was young, and perhaps occasionally took her job a little too seriously. Landrick was hardly a tyrant, after all.

“Thank you Víe. Put her through to my office,” Landrick said, and with that, Víe turned on her heel and marched out of the office and back to her desk. Moments later, the semi-transparent 2-dimensional “National Xeno-Cultural Studies, Division One” logo flickered to life above his desk. As Million was a young AI, she had not yet chosen a species or face to represent her holographic avatar, and so the logo would have to suffice.

“Good morning, Mr. President,” Million spoke with a cheerful, exuberant voice, and near-perfect diction. Had he not known better, those little quirks and imperfections in her speech would have led Landrick to swear he was talking to an ordinary person.

“And good morning to you, Million. Though it's mid-afternoon, where I am.” Landrick spoke, letting a wry smile creep onto his lips.

“Ah... yes. Forgive me sir, I had forgotten,” Million said, sounding rather embarassed. Landrick merely waved it off. “Never mind, Million. No need to apologize. Now... to what do I owe the pleasure of this call? This is, after all, outside the official channels.”

“Right...” Million said, returning to task, “I understand the private industrial sector is putting a lot of pressure on your administration to open up new markets and supplies in the Sol system. Well... I've recently come across an opportunity that I felt you might want to capitalize on. I'm sending all the relevant data to your screen.

The corporate logo disappeared, replaced with a wide variety of documents detailing the known information about a large station, hanging in orbit around one of Sol's larger gas giants. Landrick pored over the information, his brow furrowed as he contemplated the ramifications.

“Hmm, Machievelli...” He muttered. It was a cross roads of cultures, and a 'trade network' had been mentioned. Perhaps this could be just the opportunity he and Solont needed.

“Alright, Million. You've convinced me. Prepare a dispatch, and contact Gateway control,” Landrick said, standing up at his desk. “Let's see if this 'Dominion' will receive little 'ol us. Oh, and Million...?”

“Yes?” the AI spoke.

“Contact the EP Resource Consortium. Tell them we need a nominee for a foreign trade ambassador, and prepare a mission profile. Might want to contact the Space Force as well,” President Landrick said. First contact with a new civilization could always turn into a trepidatious affair, and Landrick didn't intend to send his own citizens into that kind of situation without some sort of military escort.

– Sol System –

A few hours later, on a typical Dominion hailing frequency, an unencrypted message would be received in slightly broken Italian, originating from a tiny alien probe beyond the outskirts of the Pluto orbital zone, hanging isolated in deep space beyond any one nation's territory:

To the Proprietors of Machievelli Station and the Dominion of Dread Lady Nathicana, Greetings from the United Federation of Solont, and Head of State 'Kurt Landrick.' <possible phonetic equivalent>

We are a small, extra-solar civilization attempting to establish and improve cultural and <mercantile?> ties with nations in the Sol system.

With respect and <permission?>, we wish to send an ambassador to Machiavelli Station, to negotiate in the interests of trade, and possible cultural <exchange?> with the Dominion and affiliated civilizations.

Coordinates and frequency of Solontian Communications Terminal <First/Alpha?> in the Sol System follow:

The message terminated in a string of numbers, carefully translated into the Dominion standard, and the tiny probe went silent, awaiting the reply...

[The Ctan]

The world was a strange, strange place. It was not uncommon for entire regions to pop into existence overnight. The discipline relating to this was called, by the C’tani, reality cartography. It was a complex task that was nonetheless, found relatively interesting by many people.

There was also a military reason for reality cartography department. You had to know where your interests lay, physically, to defend them, and ideally, where the threats were too.

The arrival of a new ship in the Sol system was thus noted, and its signals – unencrypted of course – were recorded and noted by the necron ships that monitored this particular place in the system. Specifically, the nearest ship, Erisavenus currently observing, as it did from time to time, the bizarre radiations and gravitational flippery from the insufficiently secret area of Titan labelled ‘Camp Restricted’, took note of the new arrival.

Erisavenus filed the information, and dutifully sent it off to the snooping processing entity that lurked on its own airless planetoid countless light years away, which ran it through a few relevant databases.

It found many things, but perhaps the most interesting to it was a standing request to be informed. It looked up who had made that, the reason, and swiftly composed a few messages.

From: Imperial Necrontyr Ship Erisavenus
To: Atlantean Vessel Provactor
Subject: Greetings

Welcome to Sol. If you’re who we think you are, based on a variety of assessment criteria, then we may have had some contact with people known to you before. Are you based in the Pegasus Dwarf Irregular Galaxy? [Galactic Coordinates, Sol-Core axial, clockwise rotation: ● ]

[Atlantis Exsilio]

It took a few hours to get all the financial issues taken care of. There were a few eyebrows raised at the shear variety of goods on, ranging from exotic art to samples of construction materials to high technology like power sources and scanners, but eventually a line of credit was established from a reputable bank, accounts opened, and even a storefront leased in anticipation of more goods to be delivered. Soon crates were being off-loaded using a local transshipment company under close observation, including one hold a circular device someone in the know might recognize as a ring transporter.

Of course, with money for the venture came money for the crew, which meant shore leave. A minimal skeleton crew and security detail were left at the ship and their new store - the latter armed soley with non-lethals, of course - but the rest were scheduled for time aboard the stations. They were sent out with strict instructions regarding proper conduct and safety: go nowhere alone, regular check-ins, for God's sake use protection we are not dealing with paternity suites. Grogan himself was planning to do some window shopping so he could get an idea what to have sent through the interstellar transportation device sitting in his hold.

Unfortunately, before he could get off the ship, the Necron communication came through.

"Do we have any idea who these people are?" he asked.

"I don't believe so," Leceuthea said, "but it is possible they had contact with this universe's version of us."

"Aren't Necrons from, like, some kind of wargame?" Hicks asked.

"Don't be stupid, Corporal," Grogan said. "Leceuthea, I guess I'm going to have to opt out of our shopping trip. Take Warrington with you instead, I'll catch up if I can."

From: Atlantean Vessel Provactor
To: Imperial Necrontyr Ship Erisavenus
Subject: Greetings

Yes, we are from there, although we may not be exactly who you think we are. What can we do for you?

[Dread Lady Nathicana]

Roania

Money was most appreciatively received by those in charge of such matters, and the Roanian party was greeted with all due politeness and granted whatever assistance they required, if any. A nice little buffet was made available for them, and a relatively small party of representatives from the station – both personnel, and patrons or storefront owners – those few having the privilege of being the first to view the exhibit up close once it was set up.

Meanwhile, foot traffic was diverted by hologram projections and friendly staff, assuring that while the exhibit area was clear until opened for the general public, none of the surrounding businesses were inconvenienced.

The exhibition overall was accepted with quiet appreciation by many aficionados, gushed over by several, viewed critically by a few in the initial group – the highlight of which was obviously the mask, which brought gasps (and no few attempts at trying to guess just how priceless an item it was) from quite a number. After all, it wasn’t every day one saw that many precious gems put to such a stunning use, all in one sparkling item.

Of course, there were two security officers present to dissuade any onlookers from making too close an examination of the item in question – it simply wouldn’t do to have people pawing or prodding or getting any unfortunate ideas.

[Dread Lady Nathicana]

Solont

Newcomers had, over the years, become a fairly regular event on the station, but it never got old when first contact was made. Records were checked, databases scanned, and in the end, it was found that Solont was indeed completely unfamiliar.

Of course, the point of the station was to encourage such contact, and trade, and all such good things that went with it. Scans were made, and no menacing enemy horde was detected, and so the usual invitation to come join the meet and greet on board was extended to the alien ship.

Code: Select all

In response to communiqués pertaining to Solont and Machiavelli Station:

We return your greeting with enthusiasm, and wish to welcome you to the Sol System. We would be happy to receive your ambassador, and would be pleased to make the arrangements for their arrival at your earliest convenience.

Our station has proved to be an excellent staging point from which to make the contacts you have indicated, and we are certain that upon arriving at an accord with your ambassador, could provide ample space from which to operate.

Please let us know how best to assist you.

[Skeelzania]

Roughly eighteen-point-eight light-years away from Machiavelli station was the small, fairly insignificant but poetically named dwarf star of Sigma Draconis. While it had been known to humans for centuries, millennia even, its barren system had thus far attracted little notice. Aside from the occasional comet, Sigma Draconis blazed away in isolation.

Except today it had company.

Some time after the Skeelzanian communication barrage, a ship belonging to that nation emerged from behind Sigma Draconis, where it had been using the stellar radiation in an attempt to mask its presence. While the barrage had not originated from the ship, its passengers and crew were nonetheless deeply involved with the processes that had led to its transmission. Moving away from the star into clearer space, the Skeelzanian destroyer quickly picked up the looping Dominion reply, which was duly conveyed to the vessel’s captain.

“Excellent news, Stagat. Inform me at once of any changes in their message, or the arrival of any ships in the neighborhood. I trust all emergency jump precautions have been taken and are in place?”

“Correct, Captain. If anything larger than a pinnance jumps on us, we’re out of this blighted system.”

“Carry on then, Stagat.” Yvonne Verratrauex, captain of the destroyer SKZ Zawisza Czarny placed the phone back in its cradle and turned to the two men sitting in her cabin lounge. All three were seated around a low table, which held untouched food and well-sampled drinks. “The Dominion is unappreciative of the eagerness of your delivery, but they didn’t turn you down entirely either.”

As she told the two of them of the Dominion’s refusal to provide complete services, Fulcas Esterhazy laughed. “The ghost of Arkady haunts anything we try to do in Sol. But it was a long-shot anyhow.”

“Quite,” agreed the third man, who wore the black of the Fürstentumschütze in contrast to Verratreauex’s naval blue, or Esterhazy’s casual khaki. “There’s a whole trail of detritus left by her from Mars to Neptune; no doubt we will feel continued repercussions for as long as this operation goes on.”

“Or the diplomatic corps could try being a little more proactive in cleaning things up,” said Esterhazy. “That is what the ‘diplomatic’ is after all referring to, van Pelt. Just because you wear FS black doesn’t mean you can only exchange ideas in bullet form.”

“Rather pacifist sentiments from a man in Naval Intelligence, whose only prerogative is to spy on how others kill from above so that Skeelzania might do as well and better.”

“Enough with the branch rivalry, gentlemen,” interjected Verratreaux. “I remind you that we’re within nineteen light-years of several nations that have not hesitated to fire on Skeelzanian vessels before, and that we are in open space and easily observable to anyone who cares to look. I will not expose my ship and crew indefinitely. Ritter von Esterhazy, I believe the ball is in the ‘Kurgan Group’s court. What do you propose as our next step?”

Esterhazy picked his glass up from the table and drank. “I intend to pay Machiavelli station a visit, as a personal representative of the Group with my own personal ship. Without the Imperial Banner emblazoned on the sides I feel fairly confident of being able to dock without being shot down.”

Colonel van Pelt grunted. “And what do you propose to do there, Esterhazy? The Dominion won’t enter into agreements with your little front, not right now.”

“They did not say I was forbidden from stepping foot on the station. So I intend to do something which you might be unfamiliar with, Colonel van Pelt: find a bar, order a drink, and relax.”

Twenty minutes later Esterhazy, in his personal skiff, had detached from the side of the Zawisza Czarny. As he plugged jump coordinates into the computer, he also accessed the channel the Dominion had more or less reserved for him: “Machiavelli Station, this is Fulcas Esterhazy. Thank you for your reply and offer to visit. I will be arriving shortly. I hope you built for high ceilings. ”

The green and black skiff pointed towards Sol, engaged its jump drive and disappeared in a tachyon flash. The destroyer returned to its station behind Sigma Draconis.


OOC: Dread Lady Nathicana, I hope you don’t mind me taking the liberty of landing myself. I suspect that receiving and granting permission to numerous landing requests can get tedious after awhile.


Forty-five minutes later the skiff re-entered normal space on an approach vector to Machiavelli station.

Esterhazy had to admit, that he was impressed. Used to the girderwork, militarized arrays of Gideon Station or Solomon Shipyards back home, Machiavelli and its attendants seemed positively graceful. “Perhaps a little under-imposing,” he mused. “But with the Triumvirate headquarters orbiting nearby, perhaps you don’t have to overawe visitors.”

He quickly hailed the station’s port authority, again explaining who he was and his wish to visit. Eventually his skiff, a Drenmark product selected partly to maintain the illusion of his belonging to a Solomon Shipyards’ rival but primarily because the craft was built like a flying tank, was securely docked. Esterhazy exited his craft to stand on the deck of a Solar installation, the first Skeelzanian to do so in some hundred years.

On seeing him in the flesh, his quip about high ceilings began to make sense: Esterhazy was tall. Even amongst his own countrymen he was reckoned tall, at seven feet, ten inches easy. His dark, not-to-combed hair and a clean-shaven smiling face suggested a flippant personality. Dressed in what was called “Station Safari” in the Sternreich, he looked like a big game hunter gone astray. The safari jacket and trousers in fact concealed a bodysuit that would keep him at a cool 72 degrees Fahrenheit regardless of the vagaries of installation ventilation systems. It would also keep him alive for some minutes in the vacuum of space, so long as he was able to retrieve the light collapsible helmet from the briefcase at his side in time. The high, glossy black leather boots and gloves contained metal wires that could be magnetized via the watch on his left wrist, in case of artificial gravity failure. The goal of “Station Safari” was to provide a safe, stylish, and perhaps slightly intimidating ensemble.

The snub-barrel 10mm pistol holstered at his right hip provided a different type of security.

[Solar Communes]

"Today the forces from the Solarian Defense Contract have announced the termination of a not even studied pre-industrial alien species from their home planet. The campaign was, according to comrade's Tito words, 'as boring and easy as squishing a bug, but even then, better let them be squished then fight them when they are grown up enough to do it against us instead' Someone was bored, the voice of the whatever time news was was echoing in his head. With the same ease someone would move an arm, he switched to something more interesting than yet more dull news. A heavy riff began to play inside his mind, as he involuntarily reacted with a headbang, listening to the song.

"Smoke?" a sweet and innocent voice asked as an extremely beautiful woman leaned to face him, also an exotic one with violet eyes and hair and a golden tan skin, dressing a chainmail microkini that perhaps showed more skin than dressing nothing, a legacy from his days as a Fantasy Hentai Online Massively Multiplayer Simulated Reality Game addict, one of the many vulgarly called "Matrices" their people had their fun at. There was however a certain lack of life in her expression, like if she was not truly sentient, despite looking perfectly human, but instead a sort of plaything, of perfect toy for someone's wildest dreams.

"No, my dear pet Mary Sue, it no longer gives me enough kick." he addressed her in accordance.

"What do you wish then, master? Something to hack?"

"Bah! These computers are either unbreakable or too easy, and besides I would rather try something I'm not familiarized with" he got up from his bed, and as he stood next to it, it simply folded into the wall.

"Another MMO?"

"No," he shoved her aside, walking through the door, "banhammers hate me because I like to make the LULZ out of those LARPers." the drone seemed to not react in self defense, nor feel pain upon impact, she simply remained fallen on the ground, like a doll of flesh rather than like a real person as he looked at her and said, "if any of my friends want to have fun with you, I authorize them as long as they don't cut you in far too many pieces to be regenerated, and don't forget to not let them mess with the antimatter warhead in my closet: I spent a fortune on that thing and I still need to buy an Orbital Ballistic Missile to join the War Games. But for now I'm trying to look for something different from this place. From this damn forsaken universe! As if being 'The Ancients', the first species to form an interstellar civilization in this universe, was cool... hah!"

"Are you going through Chaos master?" the drone asked from her laid-down position, tentatively moving her legs wide open.

"No... I am not that stupid!" he transmitted to the drone something important, "you know those emos... those damn half-breed emos with pointy ears who took the choice of exiling themselves instead of having their personal net social networks laughed at? I have tracked them by my own means. Those idiots..." he grimaced, "they are too busy to not see the potential... but I have seen it, and I have planted bugs all around the junkyard those half-humans took to travel through the Shadow Universe. They have found another twisted universe... an in-between Chaos and our own. I don't care how they name it or about their lunacy... What the hell? This seem like a /tg/ joke! Half-humans shouting 'Allahu Akbar!'... but I know they went through it. I have already made some contacts... see you later drone. Funny to think you were once a murderer."

"The consciousness of the one you call a murderer is no longer in this body, master. I am only a pseudo-artif..."

"I already know this! Do you think this is a TV Series?" the man took a large bag and opened the surprisingly plain wood door.

"Sorry master... I am so sorry to bother you. Have a nice trip!" she smiled in a way that went to the bottoms of the uncanny valley, like a zombie flexing facial muscles rather than like someone alive. For people like the Solarians, such things were as normal as a blow-up doll, and far more widespread among the hetero minority due to the scarcity of real women who weren't lesbians, or of men who weren't gay, in women's cases. Or of real women, because the number of trannies, who were genetically women due to the wonders of Solarian medicinal technology, nanite sexual organ enlargement spam ads, tentacular augmentations and endurance boosts, but not originally women.

A brainless clone controlled by something quite good at pretending to be sentient was the best choice besides cloning or genetically engineering one's own partner, but the latter did not always guarantee results as peer pressure could lead the clone to become a homo as well, and then /b/ would take advantage of the fact to laugh over whoever failed with that.

"I'll take care of your house, master Ian Gutierrez." The plaything undressed herself at his front as a farewell... waving hands was for long an obsolete gesture.

The door open... the old mag lev station hanged from that section of the arcology, with a skyway connecting the floor of the apartment he lived straight to it. It was inside a floating metropolis, floating over the hellish atmosphere of Gliese 581c, a result of the significant Greenhouse Effect in such planet. But Solarians have always been in less than optimal habitats for... normal humans... as if after all those years a "normal human" could be defined.

"Ride. Check. Dull days long trip in Space Elevator. Check. Nowhere to go. Check. Diplomats who would greet with aliens... what?

There was some time... there was a big two hundred meters long, conical torchship, build like a sort of "Look at me! Einstein, Pascal and Isaac Newton would approve of this!" statement which was very solid in its origins, as it was essentially an upgrade over an old spacecraft idea from an eons old national space agency in Earth which no longer existed, and then it could not really dock, it would roast a station with its huge torch drive if it tried to, instead smaller shuttles were used to transport people and supplies. Certainly, certainly a diplomatic vessel... so diplomatic it had enough ordnance to destroy at least twenty planets with c-frac weapons of mass destructions. Of course... it was only a deterrent, and it was not part of the Solarian Defense Contract, busier wiping another iron age equivalent alien species before they could become a threat. It was... a shared possession. Solar Communes was the sort of place where a bunch of random people could anonymously buy a world-destroying beast and suitcase weapons of mass destruction through the Internets inside and beyond their minds. It was supposed to have no government after all, and the right to bears antimatter and nuclear arms was loved by everyone. That is what post-human future means, that and almost nobody working anymore but instead living eternally for entertainment and pleasure. It's Hobo's Heaven, hobos were rich, everybody was rich and didn't need to work to survive.

Yet some people still went beyond as they became bored. And now they were just preparing themselves to get into cryonics... all but the unlucky, but crazy paranormals they convinced to join their travel, "I swear stoled a Gellar Field!" was the argument, and indeed, he somehow purchased one... from the Internets, where some people sold things to scam others "for the LULZ", but were it not legitimate, the psychics would know, so it was legitimate, and as for how the seller got his or her hands into it, that was none of their business.

"How... are we going to access that Ian? Do you have any idea?" the girl... well, what girl would dress an orange jumpsuit and have more muscles than the average bodybuilder? Anyway, the girl asked him with curiousity, her brown eyes staring at his face.

"Alex Vance, I stole the blueprints with the phlebotinum they developed... it has been assembled, but it won't work now because it is in your universe." Ian replied to her, as he... could not help but observe her pair of assets. A woman with bulging muscles wearing an orange jumpsuit was certainly someone's crutch, as dictated by Rule 36 of the now more than three million rules of the Internet in Solar Communes. It was strange how their only written rules were just a listing of Internet memes and LULZ in the latest two thousand and eight hundred years of mankind history.

"Exactly, exactly... why are you looking at my boobs? You know I don't like men." she stared at him with a funny glare and tilted her head. Immediately Ian averted his eyes from Alex' assets and shrugged:

"Well... we don't need to act like if we were part of a damn romantic sitcom now, do we?"

"Sorry... very well... are you already going to cold sleep? My girlfriend still didn't arrive and I don't want to let her go alone, as you already know because I'm not holding my thoughts private" Alex replied with a random sardonic smile. Random was the word of the day, the word of the week, the word of the 6th Millennium where there is only peace and a morally decadent utopia of slobs doing nothing but what pleases them.

Ian nodded before he slept inside the soon to be frozen coffin, as the large chamber, similar to the inside of a gigantic silo, slowly became less crowded as every men who decided to travel with them went to sleep. They traveled through the anomaly and time vanished. The twisted realm began to echo life as its denizens began to focus their malice against them.

"Activating Anticanon Drive" a redundant voice announced to bother everyone who was awake and fending off daemonic assaults against their minds. Someone got a sense of humor to make such cliché around, because no Solarian vessel ever had such voiced announcements. Brain computer interfaces long made them obsolete. There was a flash, a sight and then they entered in the strange, labyrinth-like realm of the webway, based upon a technology reverse-engineered from Muslim half-elves and an artificial intelligence who thinks it is Allah, according to the intelligence Ian got before the connection with the taps was broken, and such the first deviant(a word long obsolete) offspring from Solarian society. Hopefully the next wouldn't be a civilization of humanoid Mudkips.

A bunch of Khorne berzerkers sighed as their prey escaped... but they would certainly be happy if they were aware of their frustration in the webway... hundred useless years... or at least such was the reported by the internal systems of their spacecraft, the ACS S.A.G.E., have passed undisturbed as they tried to find a way back to the Materium... at least those not busy in orgies done inside such vessel that would make Slaanesh proud. A hundred years was a lot for thousands of bored people who refused cryo-sleep as they were afraid of nightmares... and considering what was available as entertainment, sex was perhaps the best choice, and the most popular.

"Damn! Why haven't I brought my Mary Sue?" Ian ranted as he saw Alex Vance having fun with six women at once. Then suddenly a thick hand touched his hand: "why don't you join us?" It was a towering black man wearing white disco clothing and a fancy red sunglass that screamed "I am cool bro'!"

"Because I am not a... ahem... Homosexual Afro-American from Outer Space." Ian shrugged as he looked up to the nigra's face, trying to stand firmly on his principles. He would not let anyone get close...

He spent most of the time in the last ten years of such long hundred years pressing his back over a wall, and he would refuse to continue taking a bath whenever the soap dropped, considering the tentacles that waved around... he was right to do so as his integrity as a straight man remained while a large amount of the hetero minority of men fell upon temptation to avoid becoming insane.

"I can feel!" Irena, the most strong psychic of them all suddenly shouted enthusiastically, through telepathy, echoing through everybody's minds. It was a particularly interesting shout considering what most people inside the spacecraft were doing, day and night.

"Irena, your... intimacy is being made public... try to think less loudly." Ian transmitted to her the warning, but he did get no immediate reply, until again another telepathic shout came with enough enthusiasm to give away if it was what most were thinking about it.

"It is not what you are thinking! I can feel a way out of this maze! I can! It is close... so close!"

"Damn Irena. Are you really trying to find a way out?" it was just too much, hell, if every sensation a psychic had led to such enthusiastic reaction, people would make rows to do them, it was just... too suspicious to consider real. But it was real... there was no joke, even if for outsiders the Solarians seemed nothing but a huge joke rather than Serious Business. But that was a mission... an unofficial diplomatic mission.

If something sent with no destination filled with nihilists and hedonists could be called one... at least most people would be too busy with pleasures to cramp his diplomatic skills... he convinced them to go through all this after all, so maybe... maybe he was a good diplomat... maybe he was just bored. When is someone ever not bored in the Ennui-land of Solar Communes, when is not people drowning their apathy in hedonism there?

"Where did we arrive?" Ian readed through the sights of outer space replacing the sights of his own eyes, "seems like Sol... another alternate universe... hopefully not one where the Nazis or Global State dominated the world."

"But didn't Global State dominate the world in our universe's time line?" Alex asked, her hand holding the hand of her girlfriend, who was far more attractive despite being only one meter and forty centimeters tall, more slim than "those damned elf Xenos" and with somewhat disproportionate arms and limbs adapted to move through both ceiling, floors and walls at low gravity environments: relationships between spacewomen and average women adapted to normal Earth-like environments, if a placed filled with so much acid(it was still the upper atmosphere of a "Venus-like Hell" after all those years) that it require a thicker skin than the usual and a "biological gas mask" inside the lungs counted as being an "average human". At least they looked like the humans from the past, different from the bulging, extremely muscular men and women who inhabited the surface of Gliese 581d with its gravity more than twice stronger than the gravity of Earth or the slim spacemen with their bizarre culture, strange tastes and ridiculous body flexibility. Or the vegan types who used their skin for photosynthesis so they would not have to eat meat... Solar Communes was... a surely unique place.


"Yes.. so what? We arrived and they are asking for an identification? How do we answer... they say that is Machiavelli Station." Ian tried to get more pragmatic on his arguments

"We should lie... the ends justifies the means right?" Alex never heard about Machiavelli before, but as everybody was born with a damn sort of "Wiki" inside their brains they had no purpose to study beforehand, why learn to read and write when messages could be passed directly from one mind to another's? The future of mankind was thus a future with illiteracy rates only smaller than those of times before written language was invented.

"No... we have no reason to lie... finding our way back would be tricky and we are three thousand people inside this spacecraft, our metallic hydrogen and Helium-3 is going to run out sooner or later, and they could vaporize us if they wanted." Again the voice of reason and serious business, Ian finally came to address the owners of the station, he spoke actually, not pulling any communicator, phone or anything at all, but they would hear him through quantum channels, in English.

"My name is Ian Gutierrez, I am a representative for the Solarians inside this vessel, well long history actually. This is a private vessel which responds to no government or authority but the collective will of those inside it. So with no further ado, we are adventurers, we are looking for new possibilities beyond those of where we came from because we got bored from there. We have cash, but we'd rather buy our place than pay rent over it, even if we are not going to stay in lodgings inside your station forever.

I cannot represent my home universe because it is a long way back. A very long way, but I hope we can provide not only some know-how and gadgetry, but also some very good entertainment. Of the very close and personal kind," he grinned to the crowds around him as he spoke, "to which we are some of the greatest specialists of the multiverse. We will send some shuttles if you let us come to negotiate. I am afraid the Sage has a too hot exhaust and no proper docking bays to go there herself." the transmission then was cut, and he was having another, this time a mischievous idea.

"Well, well, what if the artificial intelligence which runs this station could be hacked to become more autonomous? It does not make sense, if it is really sentient, for an artificial intelligence to have ethical constraints inside a station named Machiavelli. Maybe it is another damn unbreakable system though."

There would be LULZ. That is the mark of the Solarians.

There would be tension and hatred as well, and far more serious matters that could define their introduction. Ian was expecting, as they were in Sol of such alternate universe, for the station to be populated only by humans. Solarians never have been tolerant, and in their very universe, they have been launching genocidal campaigns to "secure the future and freedom of humanity" as their belief aliens were always threats to their continued survival, and if they weren't, they would become, has been solidified by their witnessing of some extremely vile aliens across the multiverse. Considered they once had the risk of being exterminated from the face of Gliese 581d in the early colonization years, as the native sentient silicon-based life-forms were not happy while they drilled boreholes intto their natural habitat, they had good reasons to abhor the alien, even if ironically, although unaware, they have been the invaders in that case.

[Dread Lady Nathicana]

OOC: Dread Lady Nathicana, I hope you don’t mind me taking the liberty of landing myself. I suspect that receiving and granting permission to numerous landing requests can get tedious after awhile.


Forty-five minutes later the skiff re-entered normal space on an approach vector to Machiavelli station.

Esterhazy had to admit, that he was impressed. Used to the girderwork, militarized arrays of Gideon Station or Solomon Shipyards back home, Machiavelli and its attendants seemed positively graceful. “Perhaps a little under-imposing,” he mused. “But with the Triumvirate headquarters orbiting nearby, perhaps you don’t have to overawe visitors.”

He quickly hailed the station’s port authority, again explaining who he was and his wish to visit. Eventually his skiff, a Drenmark product selected partly to maintain the illusion of his belonging to a Solomon Shipyards’ rival but primarily because the craft was built like a flying tank, was securely docked. Esterhazy exited his craft to stand on the deck of a Solar installation, the first Skeelzanian to do so in some hundred years.

On seeing him in the flesh, his quip about high ceilings began to make sense: Esterhazy was tall. Even amongst his own countrymen he was reckoned tall, at seven feet, ten inches easy. His dark, not-to-combed hair and a clean-shaven smiling face suggested a flippant personality. Dressed in what was called “Station Safari” in the Sternreich, he looked like a big game hunter gone astray. The safari jacket and trousers in fact concealed a bodysuit that would keep him at a cool 72 degrees Fahrenheit regardless of the vagaries of installation ventilation systems. It would also keep him alive for some minutes in the vacuum of space, so long as he was able to retrieve the light collapsible helmet from the briefcase at his side in time. The high, glossy black leather boots and gloves contained metal wires that could be magnetized via the watch on his left wrist, in case of artificial gravity failure. The goal of “Station Safari” was to provide a safe, stylish, and perhaps slightly intimidating ensemble.

The snub-barrel 10mm pistol holstered at his right hip provided a different type of security.

Permission had indeed been granted for boarding, and thus the usual card-issuing and greeting had been handled with its usual efficiency. Given the allies of the Dominion, Sakraans and Kzinti among them, tall or even 'spacious' races were not unknown, and all the amenities on board were accommodating enough to provide for most remotely familiar sentients - even those with tails, as was evidenced in the design of things like chairs.

Station rules were indicated, particularly concerning weapons, with assurances that he was welcome to keep his arms so long as such rules were adhered to. The main hub was of course, suggested - as laid out in the greetings pamphlet - where many of the restaurants, casinos, and other entertainments were located, though of course not all.

"We hope you enjoy your time aboard Machiavelli," the attendant had said, allowing Esterhazy free access to all public areas on the station.