Machiavelli Station (Open IC)

[Dread Lady Nathicana]

"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.

Seeing all was in order, Xander nodded and motioned for the party to carry on. "I hope that your time aboard the station treats you well. Please do not hesitate to contact us if you need any assistance."

And with that, if nothing further was needed, the FUS group was left to take care of their business.

[The-Citadel]

It has taken a surprisingly short amount of time for the CCEF to construct their facilities aboard Machiavelli. The outreach center is (of course) painted the traditional red, with Liberty Adams acting as receptionist, aide, ambassador and general salesperson. Her desk is backed by large photographic murals of the United Socialist Concord; asteroid settlements spotted with cheery lights, convoys of truncated-wedge-shaped Concord freighters, concourses filled with cyborgs of every shape and size ... the Concord is determined to present a good face to the universe, and they truly don't have all that much to hide.

Elsewhere in the station, the technical hospital resembles, at least superficially, hospitals throughout the galaxy; sterile white surrounds, the faint smell of disinfectant, doctors and nurses hurrying down the corridors. But here the doctors and nurses are housed in polished metal carapaces, their eyes clusters of passive and active sensors and their fingers terminating in arrays of medical tools; and the hospital has its own robotics engineering facilities and machine shop, not to mention the designers and engineers to make new parts a reality. The Concord regards bodies as only a little more important than clothes, and like clothing, their fashion designers are held in high esteem.

The Concord is open for business.

[Dread Lady Nathicana]

<snipped>
"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

"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.

Unfortunately for the Solarians, no quantum channels had been previously established with the station, so Ian was, in essence, posturing and talking to himself – entanglement being what it was, two points at least were required. And while the Dominion did indeed utilize quantum entanglement via Spook, and had for quite some time, said systems were, by nature, closed and quite unbreakable.

The little relay system continued to put out its usual message, alerting the ship – and any others entering the accepted area of control – that they were on the verge of entering Dominion-controlled space, and that responses were encouraged prior to entry. Otherwise, things could get … unpleasant. While not explicit, the meaning was fairly plain, considering the fleet strength in the general area.

[Largent]

[ooc: I'm just bored, let me know if I'm stepping on any toes.]

"From the Days of John the Baptist
Until now, The Kingdom of Heaven suffereth violence,
And the violent bear it away" Matthew 11:12

There were four of them. Two men in uniform counting the colonel and Hoggenback, and two who thought of themselves as "in uniform," although a plebeian strain compared to the taintless and incorruptible stature of the colonel and Hoggenback. The shortest and frailest of the four sat on the floor squirming from his hazmat suit, while his fellow plebe knelt at his side. They spoke in hushed voices. The group were in one of Machiavelli's docking stations, which was used primarily by Largentian trade traffic. The two who remained standing gazed into the vastness of space, the epitome and apotheosis of the old wild life which the little puny humans swarmed and hacked at in a fury of abhorrence and fear like pigmies about the ankles of a drowsing elephant. This station on the outer reaches of Sol was to these men of Terra the last trace of man's puny gnawing at the immemorial flank, until, dwarfed by that perspective into an almost ridiculous diminishment. The massive ships themselves seemed to have ceased to move, hanging in lonely immobility in the infinite wast of black ocean. They were witnessing their own birth.

The smoke from Major De Spain's pipe hung in the air as if it refused to dissipate, until it too had solved the mystery. "Tell me," the Major said with his old American southern twang. Soon however, he would forget his language slip back into his Harvard speak. It seemed almost as though people knew when they looked at his face that he asked not only for his own curiosity or his own selfish using. "Well," began the Machiavelli Chief Officer for United Federal Bank, Joseph Fuller, his voice was trembling almost as noticeably as his hands, "You see, every day banks exchange massive amounts of currency to correct imbalances. Its a lot like an international trade imbalance which many countries use hard currency to balance out. It essentially allows banks to share in risks and agree to partnerships over investments. Machiavelli's branch of the UFB is the recipient and source of more of these transactions than almost anywhere in Sol. It would not be untrue to say we have a hand in literally every pot. Whenever a round is fired on Mars or a high-rise goes up on Terra, it is almost always a product made with money that has gone through this very office." Mr. Fuller motioned to the impressively large office which would have been quite nice were it not in complete disarray from that morning's proceedings. The Major nodded.

"According to recent law all of these transaction are only done in hard currency and not credit. As a result, this morning we had roughly nine hundred and forty two billion dollars in our vault. It is now gone. We have forbade all office personnel from leaving and the few customers we had have been placed under a sort of detainment with the employees. All Largentian travel has been halted. The Dominion authorities have been notified through the necessary channels and we have asked that they share this with no one until the situation is resolved. We cannot afford to throw markets into chaos. Our assets have been insured, but investors in the insurance firms are historically fickle. We simply can't take the chance."

...To be continued...let me know if you care to join

[Scolopendra]

<does a little trimming on his own initiative, don't mind him...>

[Solar Communes]

Scratching his cheek, Ian shrugged as apparently they were not into the only form of communication that wasn't subjected to light-speed lag in their home universe. Instead he picked the tools on the shed to make two plus two four, and searched inside his brain for the answers:

"Dominion... well it comes from Dominus which is synonym to Tyrannus, and that means tyranny. Tyranny branches into Monarchism, Stalinism, Global Statism, National-Socialism, Fascism and the likes. Dominion has never been used by nations which stood for political freedom. So I should... should I pretend I don't care? Surely... surely I don't."

"Ian... what the heck? Is this bad?" Alex reached his shoulder again, "it would not be cool to die now."

"No worries... this place is far too busy for that to happen, just set the Pidgey Comm System on for this. They will answer positively." Ian simply replayed his voice inside his own head, with a few modifications, as the transmission was sent through the frequency the message from the station came:


"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 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 laughed softly during the transmission and his voice became less serious than before, "to which we are some of the greatest specialists of the multiverse. We will send some shuttles if you let us come to negotiate business proposals. I am afraid the Sage has a too hot exhaust and no proper docking bays to go there herself."

(OOC: Don't have time to make anything longer today)

[Dread Lady Nathicana]

Largent

The idea that money, especially in that large an amount, had been stolen on board was … well, unthinkable. Granted, Dominion security was only responsible for so much – and only one nation had contracted with them to handle their personal security issues. What businesses did with their own assets was generally thought to be their affair, so long as it didn’t harm anyone else.

But this … this was bad PR. Such things did not engender a feeling of safety and encourage continued commerce. And that simply couldn’t be allowed to go unanswered.

The usual suspects were discretely contacted by whatever means were ‘appropriate’ – whether that entailed a face to face talk in a nice, well-lit office, or a shakedown in one of the maintenance areas depended entirely on who they were speaking with.

Thus far, all possible leads in those directions had turned up nothing, which was frustrating to say the least. Efforts were of course made to coordinate holdings and the halting of particular traffic, and as requested, not a word was breathed concerning it outside select station offices.

Return contact was made.

We very much regret that such an incident has occurred on Machiavelli, and wish to offer our assistance in whatever way we can to help bring the perpetrators to justice, and recover your assets.

Please let us know what we can do to accomplish this, and if possible, be allowed access to what personnel, visitors, or citizens you are currently holding. We can offer information on them as is pertinent to any investigation, or red flag any potential suspects should there be anything on their files to suggest involvement.

With Regard,

-- Colonel Javier Sarto, Machiavelli Security

Solar Communes

"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 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 laughed softly during the transmission and his voice became less serious than before, "to which we are some of the greatest specialists of the multiverse. We will send some shuttles if you let us come to negotiate business proposals. I am afraid the Sage has a too hot exhaust and no proper docking bays to go there herself."

“Any clue who these guys might be?” Tozzi said idly, looking over the communiqué.

“Not a one. Running dbase check now.” Delogu replied, quickly typing in various search parameters. “Lot of new traffic lately, neh?”

“Mmm. Sex peddlers this time, is it?”

Delogu shrugged slightly, scanning the results. “They certainly seem convinced they’ve got it going on. Reminds me – you still seeing Prala down on deck four? Recall hearing she was pretty damned talented.”

Tozzi scowled, shooting his compatriot a quick glance before getting back to his own checkings. “That’s none of your business, Mister Delogu,” he snapped, then sipped some coffee thoughtfully. “But you’re right, she is pretty damned talented.”

“Whatever lifts your sk—well hey now, got some interesting findings here. Check it,” Delogu said, sending the other man a cap of this results. “Interesting ties, no? That’ll have to be flagged. Run it through Sec, see what they say.”

“Got it, aaaaaand sent. Second one this week, after that weird infoblast. Think it means anything?” Tozzi asked, one brow cocked up questioningly.

“Hope to hell not,” Delogu said flatly. “That would seriously screw with my vacation plans.”

“Right-o. Got the clearance, info prepped for any boarders, proper flags in place, guess we’ll see how they blend in. Hope they don’t mind the local wildlife.” Clearly, Tozzi was amused as he relayed the message back to the Sage.

To Ian Gutierrez of the Sage:

First, let us welcome you to Machiavelli, and the Dominion-controlled space around it. Second, we must clarify that space aboard the station is available for lease only, not for sale. Thirdly, we regret that at this time commercial business opportunities are not available to your group, until such time as we can further assess your background, and natures, though we are more than willing to allow you docking privileges, and the freedom to enjoy the station as any other visitors would.

Please make yourself, and your passengers aware of station rules and regulations prior to boarding – said information to follow this message. We hope you enjoy your time here – any and all questions can be addressed by any of the station liaisons at each of the docking areas.

ooc: Please see the initial posts for said rules and regs – they will be enforced.

[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.

Seeing all was in order, Xander nodded and motioned for the party to carry on. "I hope that your time aboard the station treats you well. Please do not hesitate to contact us if you need any assistance."

And with that, if nothing further was needed, the FUS group was left to take care of their business.

"Yes, thank you sir," Ramius said, noting as the test engines were being offloaded. With most of the equipment already off the ship, all that was needed now was to set up the research facility and the AEsir would head back to base.

[Dread Lady Nathicana]

TGM

Machiavelli itself was comprised of four ring layers and their hubs, two large saucer-type areas, a smaller command portion at the top, a large node under the main saucer, and a long vertical tubular area, all of which were full of various living, entertainment, commercial, and of course, maintenance partitions.

Maintenance areas had been kept as unobtrusive as possible, in keeping with the overall aesthetics of station design, and had been made to be as secure as was reasonable – reasons for which were obvious. Access required a person’s station ident card, along with voice pass, and retinal scans for verification.

The main systems running throughout were basic necessities such as water and overall plumbing, self-contained treatment thereof, air and filtration, waste disposal, power, surveillance, sound, lights, and a myriad block of computer systems, comm relays, and of course, a Spook hub.

Access panels were located at various locations on each level, some marked, some less obvious, all very much sealed. Redundancy had been a part of the design, ensuring that if one system went down, there were backups in place – there were simply too many lives riding on things operating smoothly, and no expense had been spared when it came to making it as safe as possible at the time of construction.

The very top of the main structure was mainly Operations, Security, and Station Business™, up to and including flight control central, incarceration and holding areas, and very limited access.

The next layer down was the Main Hub, where most prominent and high-paying tenants were to be found. There was no direct docking to either part, that being handled on the rings only, via various docks and tubes and various methods of connecting ship to station. This being the case, a lot of waste and resources were spent on the Main Hub, and the intricacy of systems in place there reflected that

The four rings, for the most part, were docking, warehousing, people-moving, sentient-monitoring, and boarding/departure activities. For those spending only a short time aboard, there were of course businesses scattered throughout these levels, of various sorts that might appeal, but on a less grand scale than perhaps most on the min hub. One did not have to travel around the entire perimeter of these rings, as spokes ran across at regular angles, one per fourth of the ring. Moving sidewalks were available to those who simply couldn’t walk any further (indeed, such amenities were to be found on all the upper levels) – or who just enjoyed scooting around while something else moved for them.

The lower saucer was just as populated as the first, but held an if not ‘lower’ class of tenants, a more ‘down to earth’ sort, who lacked the funds of the Rich and Famous. It shared the same needs as the Main Hub, just on a smaller scale

All along the central shaft ran conduits for all the various station systems, a series of lifts to get people where they needed to, quickly and efficiently, access tubes, and yet more spaces for living, and all the rest. The further down one went, the less money was required to set up shop, and thus the ‘poorest’, or those looking to lose themselves for whatever reason, found themselves living life at the bottom. The further away from central security, the rougher the crowds got, by nature, and the more maintenance tended to be required for things that were easily clogged, broken, or misused.

These were some of the things pointed out, shown, and outlined to the TGM representatives as a general tour was made. Questions of course, were encouraged along the way.

[The Garbage Men]

The team walked and looked around the areas as their Dominion hosts took them on a tour of the station. The tour included some of the more blue collar areas and areas that most visitors wouldn't even dream entering but were necessary for performing basic sanitation and janitorial services.

Though there was something that wasn't quite clear,

"Exactly what areas would we be responsible for our Janitorial serces, I take it that the Spooks hub would be handled in-house?" Acckles asked

Aryard kept kept quiet and kept a notes the details of what's there what is happening, number of toilets and a number of other details that impact on the capital assets required for the corporation to be able to keep it's high standard of customer service.

Davis also had a question, "where would the sub-depot be?"

[Dread Lady Nathicana]

The team walked and looked around the areas as their Dominion hosts took them on a tour of the station. The tour included some of the more blue collar areas and areas that most visitors wouldn't even dream entering but were necessary for performing basic sanitation and janitorial services.

Though there was something that wasn't quite clear,

"Exactly what areas would we be responsible for our Janitorial serces, I take it that the Spooks hub would be handled in-house?" Acckles asked

Aryard kept kept quiet and kept a notes the details of what's there what is happening, number of toilets and a number of other details that impact on the capital assets required for the corporation to be able to keep it's high standard of customer service.

Davis also had a question, "where would the sub-depot be?"

"That is what's left to be decided, really," Roscuro Vanetti, the maintenance representative who was leading the tour replied. "We wanted to give you an overall idea of the scope of operations here, then we could sit down and discuss what your corporation would be willing to take on. The sub-depot is located just under the fourth ring, about midway down the central axis. As you've indicated, there are a few areas we would prefer to maintain in-house, the Spook offices being one of them, as well as sections of the main station control where security might be an issue - in the grand scheme of things, rather small areas."

[The Ctan]

With some reluctance, Erisavenus decided it would have to leave the nice area where it was getting a view of the hilarious spacetime warping of high energy crazy people, and plotted a wide parabolic course that would take it to a stop just outside of Machiavellian space, that shouldn’t be a problem, while the C’tan weren’t in the Triumvirate of Yut (for a start, their ego wouldn’t fit, a fact of which they were quietly self-conscious of) they were in the Dominion-led Trade Network Association, and generally pretty friendly. Erisavenus was quite confident that there’d be no issues if it took a languid cruise past their sphere. Not that it would be at all unusual. Its current assignment was one of the thirty odd necron ships presently assigned to the routine task of ‘patrolling’ the Sol System. Which was more about showing the flag and helping the occasional incompetent yacht crew out when they got into trouble than actually fighting anyone.

The Necrons currently shared no faster than light communications technique with these Lanteans. While there were ways to establish something closer to real time transmission, as these aliens were in Machiavellian space, Erisavenus would simply have to do it the old fashioned way, which entailed travelling almost five light minutes.

Eight and a bit minute delay… Ho hum.

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

Oh, we think we might owe you something. We have had some contact with people who know of you, loosely. I should be within a more… manageable… shuttle and/or communications range within an hour.

[Atlantis Exsilio]

"They think they owe us something?" Grogan said. "Oh, that's wonderful. They probably want to kill us because someone turned their great-grandmothers into toads or something as part of a science experiment."

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

Well, you're quite unknown to us, but we would be more than willing to talk - say, somewhere public aboard the station? If that's acceptable, our captain will meet whomever there when you arrive.

[Largent]

I was gonna kill them. All of them. My head was killing me. The major raked his cigarette ash carefully off against the table. He did it slowly and carefully like sharpening a pencil. My hands had quit shaking. My hands were shaking. It was early, no customers really. I was trying to focus on my crossword before they eventually barged in. Two of them wore full body suits, the kind a bomb squad or something would. The other two were armed, dressed in the security gear you see all around the office but had gas masks on. There were a few gasps from patrons. "Tell, me."

"I told you, they were wearing all that gear. One of them grabbed my glass of water and dropped a tablet in. It started to fizz and they had these little machines that started to beep and then it was just chaos. They demanded we let them into the secure part of the bank so they could find the source of...well...whatever it was that they were looking for. They had all that stuff on so I had to use my key card, thumb print, retinal scan, and voice activation. Next thing I know I get the butt of a rifle to my forehead and when I woke up the bank was significantly poorer."

The short one dropped the tablet in and motioned to the back door. I nodded and the four of them followed. I opened the door. I turned to make the call--I'm still here? The police were arriving. I was lying next to the vault door. It was empty. The major arrived later, it was over their heads. I was icing my wound in a remote corner when I saw him standing alone. I hit him, my hand beat the impulse to shut it to his face. His hand moved as fast as mine. I swung with the other hand, he caught it too. He held both my wrists with the same hand. He let go. "I trust you will make the right decision."

I hit him I was still trying to hit him long after he was holding my wrists but I still tried then it was like I was looking at him through a piece of colored glass I could hear my blood and then I could see the ceiling again his frame against it and he holding me on my feet
did you hit me
I couldn't hear
what
yes how do you feel
all right let go
he let me go I leaned on the wall
do you feel all right
let me alone Im all right
can you make it home all right
go on leave me alone

The major drew in another breath from his cigarette letting the thin wisps of smoke leak from his mouth and dissipate. "Hm, yes, you did say that before. Mr. Edmonds, stay where we can find you, I may have some more questions for you and we wouldn't want you fainting on us again."

The Dominion authorities were brought more fully up to speed so that they might assist in the investigation.

From: Major Ignacio De Spain
To: Colonel Javier Sarto, Machiavelli Security

To whom it may concern:

I have been informed that Dominion authorities have been gracious enough to assist in resolving out predicament. We have been able to ascertain and verify the following details:

Early this morning, at 4:17 am on our schedule, four men entered our bank with gear stolen from the Largentian run science laboratory using stoled key cards, lab security is lax around our environmental suits for emergency situations. Two were armed, we do not know yet if those weapons were stolen or registered. Under the guise of containing a dangerous chemical leak they gained entry to the secure area of the bank and knocked our clerk unconscious, proceeding to use his card, retina, thumb print, and 64 digit code, which he was in charge of setting the lock to (being the first employee there that day). Almost ninety percent of the money stolen was in the form of bank notes valued at ten million Kopecs/dollars each. The rest was money deposited by patrons and was in standard bills. For anti-counterfeit purposes Kopecs are small, plastic, and covered in holograms, making them impossible to replicate but easy to transport and conceal.

We have the two employees that were on duty and the five customers in "custody." They are free to come and go as they please at this point but we are aware of their location at all times. It is my opinion that all steps made toward working in concert will only help the situation.

[Free United States]

The installation crew had finally completed their work, the labs each set up with their respective equipment. The main reception area proclaimed their arrival as the newest organization on the station with the words, Commonwealth Aerospace and Medical Studies Laboratories. A large Hammer and Sickle over a red four-point starburst was inlaid over this, with an inscription: est. 1955 CE.

"So, this is it," Ramius said to Lt. Crussov. The entire research team was in the small foyer that acted as a reception area, talking merrily as one researcher opened a smuggled bottle of Vodka. Ramius had frowned, but she had accepted a glass without objection.

"Yes, sir," Crussov replied. He looked over at the older woman. "The Æsir is returning to Earth?"

"For a while," she answered, "Rumor has it we're deploying to Alpha Centauri for our shakedown cruise. Of course, that's all scuttlebutt." She smiled and stopped; they had walked to the airlock already. "You'll do fine here, Lieutenant, I'm sure."

The airlock opened, leading back to the Æsir.

"Sir, it may have been a short while, but I was honored to meet you," he saluted.

"The honor was mine," Ramius returned his salute. She dropped it and did an about-face, heading back onto her ship.

Michael watched her walk away, hearing the faint order of Captain on Deck before the airlock shut closed.


At the checkpoint, a last-minute addition was getting his ID card. Ensign Kira Nara of the Spacy Aviation Command had been the last pick for the research station, and as such, a fitting person to be the last one aboard. He was destined to be the pilot for the testbed SF-01 fighter.


The Æsir disengaged from the station, maneuvering thrusters taking it far enough away before its main engines could take over. At a safe distance, the ship once more folded, its expulsion of energy signaling its departure. From the station, the researchers looked on and saluted the last glimpse of home they would have.

[Aelosia]

The aelosians are usually as flamboyant as any elf in their day-to-day lives, yet however, some among them possess quite practical minds that have the ability to focus upon certain task with extreme efficiency. These uncommon, although not rare, individuals, usually lead a sad life away from the pleasures and the relax enjoyed by the rest of their kin, and have only two careers available for such talents and disposition. One, military officer, the other, administrator.

As not all, actually most, of the Sindar elves are willing to give away their inmortality in some forbidden star system for "The Everqueen and Empire" at the hands of an alien stray bullet or laser beam, many serve the merchant branches of their houses, although only the best of the best are adopted and employed by the Chief Merchants of the Lórindel Noble House.

The above paragraphs are only a background explanation of why the preparations of the building of the aelosian facilities inside the Machiavelli Station were made in speed, and yet properly, once the main approval was issued.

The Marquis Haralis Lórindel didn't have any problems in signing whatever the Dominion people demanded for him to sign, including the proper contract of lease, or paying the necessary amounts of money to speed all the paperwork and the negotiations. Actually, the only answer from the aelosians representatives was "yes, we agree" during the entire setup of previous meetings. They only accepted each and every condition placed by the Dominion representatives, as after all, they felt that said conditions didn't threatened the aelosian interests, that in the plans of the Marquis Lórindel, were extremely profitablein the end, so expenses weren't an issue.

As petitioned, the spaces asked for the aelosians were a private dock, a warehouse, an art gallery, a meeting room, and a few lodgings and offices for personnel, not necessarily in a block, but quite apart one from another, (with the exception of the warehouse and the dock, of course, that had to be next to each other). To guarantee that the needed refits for such spaces didn't threatened the integrity of the Dominion's property, the aelosians planners offered a project that included to place thin covers of wraithbone over the walls, floors and roofs, as to guarantee diverse (and extremely elven) decoration inside, without altering the main structures, and even then, easily removed or changed. Over that wraithbone cover, the craftsmen offered the plans of the already designed and made furnitures, decor, and the rest of the paraphernalia to their Dominion counterparts.

The only thing missing was the arrival of the Marquis Lórindel himself to sign personally the arrangement and lease document in a formal manner. However, as practical and efficient the administrators in charge were, it was planned that all the hardware, machines, tools, artisans, planners and personnel needed for the installations would travel alongside the Noble Master Merchant, to prepare everything as soon as possible. Only a few weeks passed until the arrival of the Marquis was announced.

Although several military escort vessels indeed followed the main merchant ship through most of its travel, (given the reports of piracy in the outer limits of Sol system), when finally they reached Dominion space they gave space for the rather vast transport to approach the Machiavelli station, and dock properly.

After all the demanded procedures from the dock authorities were met, (and the aelosians didn't refuse to comply with anything), the figure of the Archduke finally came out of the shuttle and into the docking area, hoping to met the Dominion representatives needed for the official ceremony, meeting, or whatever it was called in this particular place.

The Marquis was, during his rise to power, perhaps one of the most capable administrators of his era, and that, alongside his uncanny ability to measure mercantile risks, helped him to come into a relatively powerful position inside the aelosian strict and complex social hierarchy. Yet however, after he arrived to the position of Master Merchant, head of the best trading Noble House of the aelosian empire, and the most powerful economically speaking, he didn't need to be an administrator anymore. He could then relax, and become a noble.

And that piece of background was said because, as any elf that is not an administrator or a professional military officer, specially if considered a noble, the Marquis was an extremely flamboyant fellow. As he sported the nominal title of Admiral, he had the right, (although he had actually never been in combat, or even held any practical command of his House's fleet assets), to wear a full suit of skin tight wraithbone armor at official meetings, and this visit to the Machiavelli station wasn't an exception to the "official meeting" rule. This suit of armor, however, was extremely golden and decorated, (so much that it was almost painful to look upon it in bright light conditions), extremely comfortable, extremely fit, and to be quite frank, quite bothersome and useless should the Master Merchant ever need body protection. Of course, the armor gave him the chance to cut a rather dashing figure, something the Marquis couldn't accomplish using unarmored garments. And as any normal flamboyant elf, to cut a dashing figure was quite important.

A cyberutopian rainbow silkcloak framed his shoulders, the colors of the fabric changing according to the angle and direction of the reflecting lights, and the menelmacari boots that covered his feet up to the knees were of the most exquisite and soft leather available on this side of Alpha Centauri. matching perfectly with the belt that contained his waist, that also sported a pure mithril buckle. All in all, the Prince of Merchants looking more like a fable's swashbuckler than the mercantile negotiator of a rather large Empire, but then again, that is supposed to happen when in said Empire some people, specifically nobles, have too much money to spend, and a tendency to read fantasy and adventure stories.

The Marquis' face was rather common as any other sindar elf, oval form, high cheekbones, large, elongated clear eyes, straight nose, and a small yet expressive mouth, all of it framed by a bright blonde hair really well groomed and taken care of. Although the overall expression of his features could be categorized as "bland", a little spark of intelligence was still present beneath the cover of his green pupils. After all, to remain as one of the aelosian noble heads kept demanding a sharp wit and a constant cunning.

Of course, no guards, (because that gave an intimidating appearance better avoided in negotiations where you wanted to be seen as a peer), and no direct companions, (because that could give the appearance of shared authority). Just several attendants to show that you were busy enough, and had enough wealth. For that, half a score of common, and rather efficient, Lórindel administrators stood behind the Marquis, dressed in rather simple mustard aelosian robes, and ready to take care of the details of any unexpected event. However, of course, noone was expecting many.

Smiling, the Marquis just tried to cut another dashing pose as the effete elf he should look alike, and searched the docks for his welcoming party.

[Scolopendra]

Nowhere Near As Fashionable As The Marquis Haralis

At first glance, you wouldn't take him for what he is, and it's really through no fault of his own.

The Federated Segments of Scolopendra have always been interested in whatever their allies were up to, and usually interested in helping. Machiavelli was a purely Dominion affair, however, so when the Scolopendrans did get around to asking, it was merely to tag along and have a minor presence on the station. Individual corporations, such as the Technology-Manufacturing-Engineering Industries megacorp (producers of the wildly successful Loki DropShip) and the Garage Industrialist Combine entrepreneur concern, negotiated their own presences and storefronts. The government, all it wants is a simple office staffed by a Diplomatic Officer, a handful of Civil Servants, and, since it's a consulate and Scolopendra gets along surprisingly well with the Dominion, three friendly neighborhood Mobile Infantrymen.

Back to the subject. Kurt Honnêteté is a decently handsome man with auburn hair parted with a slight 'wave' effect due to pomade (an unusual affectation amongst those in the Federal Service, but well within regulations), a clean-shaven jaw, keen brown eyes, and sufficiently rugged but not at all chiseled features. The fact of the matter is, he's a diplomat. The other fact of the matter is that he wears the standard service uniform of the Segments, which is shared with and is primarily driven by the aesthetic sense of the military. Thus, when he sits behind his desk, he is a man wearing a sky-blue shirt with hidden fasteners (actually a line of geckowebbing going up the closure line), a short Mandarin collar, a dark blue nametag and a silver centipede on his right breast, and dark blue shoulderboards. Only the crossed silver olive branches on his shoulderboards suggest that he is, actually, a diplomat.

Ignoring those, however, and considering his structured bearing, one could easily confuse him for nothing more than a very polite officer of some navy or air force. He really is neither, but that's not his fault.

Today is a day like any other; Kurt sits behind his desk when there's nothing else planned or scheduled and waits for citizens to come in with issues or foreigners to come in with questions or concerns or plots or what have you. The Civil Servants in the anteoffice may be his staff, but they're not his secretaries, and the Mobile Infantrymen really don't do much except man the starship-grade sensor arch in the doorway of the consulate and react to people who bring in undeclared roscoes. It's a simple job, but one that Diplomatic Officer Honnêteté likes.

* - * - *

Probably Equivalently Fashionable As The Marquis Haralis, Albeit In A Different Business

Never avoid an opportunity.

When someone as clearly stylish, fashionable, and dutifully concerned about his public appearance as the Marquis arrives, that is definitely an opportunity. The organization, in the eyes of the regulars aboard the station, sat well above its baser connotations and practices, but one of the problems with the Scolopendran tendency towards clever structured acronyms is that it leads to people misconstruing the organization and imagining it to be just another band of ill repute, even if the name used is only reserved for particularly classy forms of the world's oldest profession. With this in mind, and with eyes on the goal of how the organization should be perceived, a simple missive is penned in fine ink with a very sharp pen and an artistic, calligraphic flair. This letter is then delivered, by a friendly high-class courier well known to the people of breeding aboard the station, to the Marquis.

Dear Lord Lórindel,

I hope this letter finds you in good health and high spirits as you acclimate to our humble station. While I am certain that you could find your way in Machiavelli's culture perfectly well alone, I would like to offer my assistance as a courtesy from one cultured soul to another. I have what would perhaps be known colloquially as 'connections' throughout the station and am therefore uniquely situated to assist in this matter, and I consider it a duty of respect to at least offer my services in facilitating a smooth and comfortable transition to station life.

If you could give me the honor of a personal audience, Your Lordship, I would be most appreciative and, one can hope, most helpful in private should you take me into your confidence. There may, most reasonably, be some question as to my motives and whether or not they are particularly mercenary; while I am certainly a businesswoman--I tell you this 'up front' as it were in the interest of full disclosure--I assure you that you will not have to suffer some sort of crass sales pitch. If at some point in the future we can pursue mutually equitable business arrangements I would be most happy, but truly making your acquaintance and perhaps being of some assistance is more than enough payment for the time being.

Sincerely,

Mme. Tskra-Prret

The letter is suffused with a subtle scent of of cinnamon.

[Solar Communes]

There was not much time, maybe enough to take a stroll through the gigantic decks of the torchship, maybe not. Their spacecraft was larger than many skyscrapers of the past, and the layout of the decks made them look like floors, and conveniently generated artificial gravity from its acceleration alone. The ceiling would probably force a six inches tall individual to walk hunched or crouch, but most of the crew was of short stature for a reason, and saving unnecessary mass to exert thrust over required sacrifices. Not as dire as the sacrifices of comfort a naval submarine would have, and as the Sage was supposed to be a diplomatic vessel, there were certainly dining rooms, comfortable and stylish beds, space for a Paintball Arena, because Deathmatches would not be seen well by anyone, and many recreational facilities, including of course private chambers with... suggestive devices inside.

Wasting not time, Ian began to walk towards the elevator, deciding to switch his perception, as suddenly the entire cold metal shifted into the luxurious wooden frame of a cruise ship, and his mechanical counter-pressure suit became a naval officer uniform from the nineteen century. The boundaries between real and digital have been long blurred among Solarians, whose unmarked corridors of their vessels had orientations only them could see through the navigation data in their minds, arrows and words, or voices for the illiterate, indicating where each place was, from crew lounge to communications, astrogation and its bridge buried in its very core, rather than extruding outside its conical hull like a gigantic bullseye.

There was a certain anachronism in a ship-like multi-layered mezzanine filled with cryo-pods, and thus Ian decided to get the elevator to one of the flight decks, as he would go through the station... alone just in case crap hits the fan, and should everything go all right, then half-dozen of shuttles would come back and forth to unload the entire crew, leaving only the many robots who tended to the vessel's security and maintenance. Besides, he was the most average looking from all of them: a re-born man of the millions whose bodies were cryonically frozen during the 21st century to be revived once medical technology would allow for them to be brought back. For most of them the new world seemed alien, foreign, and in many ways unacceptable. Everything has changed, and he could still remind of his life in the 2030s, of how things were entirely different back them. The fact that Internet Memes have lasted for thousands of years was a testament to humanity's unfailing capacity... of something better left at that.

He listened again, as the elevator descended through the decks, the answer to his message, and he would not like what he, and everyone else, would hear, for their ideals considered lease a form of capitalistic parasitism, and to accept paying monthly or in any other period for it would crash straight against the ideals their civilization stood for since the twenty-first century.

"First, let us welcome you to Machiavelli, and the Dominion-controlled space around it. Second, we must clarify that space aboard the station is available for lease only, not for sale. Thirdly, we regret that at this time commercial business opportunities are not available to your group, until such time as we can further assess your background, and natures, though we are more than willing to allow you docking privileges, and the freedom to enjoy the station as any other visitors would.

Please make yourself, and your passengers aware of station rules and regulations prior to boarding ? said information to follow this message. We hope you enjoy your time here ? any and all questions can be addressed by any of the station liaisons at each of the docking areas."

The elevator opened, and thus Ian activated the thrusters from his jetpack, as he knew they would be needed for now. Ahead there was as another quite large area, where three long spaceplanes shaped with the same aerodynamics of old waverider prototypes, one above the other, floating at the moment as the torchship engines stopped accelerating, stood with one of their sides facing up, and their fronts facing massive transversal docking doors each, that would allow for them to leave into the outer space, all currently closed. Ladder ways and catwalks going down and further down connected everyone of them to be accessed by their passengers when gravity existed. Considering they way such spaceplanes were docked, normally it was simpler to get inside them without gravity, and thus he made his way through thrust to its belly, as a ramp emerged. Inside it, he made his way through the seemingly window-less cockpit, and fastening himself over one of the chairs, he began to issue mental commands for it to start its launch. Like all Solarian vessels, it had no visible interface, as they interfaced directly with the pilot's mind, making him, for a time, feel and have the vessel as his second body, controlling it with the same normalcy of moving a leg, walking and moving an arm. For those who never experienced it however, the experience would be disorientating at first, to have one's vision replaced by the sight of sensors and one's control over his body replaced by control over a spacecraft.

It was time to give a reply, and thus he simply though about it as it was transmitted through radio waves towards the far away station:

"Thank you for the information, Machiavelli Station personell. I will be arriving by spaceplane to negotiate how such lease could be adapted to our needs, for our culture has certain limitations regarding the acceptance of paying for a lease rather than for the acquisition of a location, and to also ask whether you have access to metallic hydrogen and helium-3 supplies we will be requiring. No worries about my people," he then said in a joking manner, "hopefully the fact some of our home appliances are powered by micro-fusion power won't make them be filled under weapons of mass destruction category, because they are very safe... we have refined fusion technology for thousands of years after all. And I will be there soon to give further information personally." meanwhile a human-like robot into the bottom of the uncanny valley with his human exterior, but mindless glance and lidless eyes, began to offload bags with his personal belongings into the spaceplane. As the robot finished, through jetpack nozzles buried into her flesh, she made her way out of that one of the two flight decks located in their vessel.

The door of the docking bay began to open as its bisected parts moved away, and Ian saw the station at the long distance, his sight amplified by a very powerful telescope which feed came directly into his mind. Then, he simply... piloted his spaceplane like if he was controlling his body, as its fusion aerospike engines began to accelerate it. Now he would really get to see where this would go. The idea of finding a straight woman there actually enticed him, considering every female member of his crew was a lesbian and most males there were gays who would seem like a gigantic boys band, he certainly thrived for a more fitting company, not that he had prejudices, just that he would rather stick to those of similar preferences.

A long time later, because slower-than-light travel is slow

Drugs, sex and metal were the order of the day to cut the boredom of awaiting the results of Ian's meeting with the owners of that place. Perhaps he would strike a good deal, perhaps not. Perhaps, considering how unlikely it was for them to find their way back, accepting a lease would be a matter of survival. But for their sadness, the orgies and weird fetishes like those involving Otaku Jedis would have to end as it was announced that at last, Ian have arrived. The station was big, but not truly impressive compared to things like the massive Dyson swarm built across their home system, or the artificial moon orbiting Gliese 581d, but regardless, perhaps the time lines would not match, perhaps in such universe it was not yet the 6th millenium according to the human calendar.

And perhaps there were more than just humans inside, perhaps there were... undesirables, however unlike Solarians, Ian never experienced the circumstances that led them to hate aliens so much himself, being only told that "all non humans are a threat to our survival" with explanations given ranging from millennium old sources to modern treatises on Darwinism, despite the unpopularity of the same when dealing with relations between humans. Maneuvering slightly his spaceplane, Ian slowly matched its docking clamps to one of the external docking bays of the station, and thus it was extended as a cylindrical tube with a short corridor, packing also a reinforced pump for fueling it with metallic hydrogen and helium-3. Although it could not necessarily be compatible, its clamp shape slowly adapted to the standards of the station, and soon a silent sound of a click in outer space propagated through the solid matter of the vessel and of the station. Ian immediately went to the storage of the spaceplane, and there he grabbed one of his bags, opening it to get a spare set of clothing. Definitively not gaudy, Solarian fashion was practical for the harsh climates of their home worlds, and also heavily inspired by a post-apocalyptic aesthetic. Boots, nylon pants, a bulletproof nano-composite vest and a long coat that made him look bigger than he really is, lined with anti EMP materials, with wires from a datajack visible across it, screaming "Cyberpunk", plus his entire attire was colored in blackest than black plus infinite.

Of course, wearing sunglasses in an orbital station was not out of place for him either. Hopefully they would not think he was the leader of a space biker gang or of a group of space pirates though, but considering how he did not had to rough, hostile look of those types, it wouldn't be likely they would mistaken him for one. As the cylindrical door of his docking clamp opened, his sight immediately turned to the station liaison, although any non-human passerby would likely draw his attention as well. Regardless of whether the liaison was human or not, he approached and immediately asked, trying his best to be friendly and hide the xenophobia of his people:

"Good day, I am Ian Gutierrez, representing the ACS Sage. If I may, I would like to be given temporary access to a temporary storage server. We will download all the background of ours through it if we are allowed to do so, which I believe thata would be far more efficient than filling paperwork or typing it by hand. Also, for later, who should I look for regarding leasing a part of this station?"

[Aelosia]

Right after entering his provisional office, the Marquis opened the envelope presented to him by an impeccable messenger dressed in a flawless manner. That was of course a great way to start a relationship with an aelosian. Well, a classic aelosian, of course, a classic aelosian as the Marquis Lórindel, who thought that traditions were an awesome way to feel superior than others most of the time, even if they were a tool a little bit too heavy to carry all the times, specially when traditions could turn to be non-profitable.

In the world of the Marquis, of course, those who demonstrate sophistication, style and high manners were demonstrating wealth. That is why beings as himself were attracted to those qualities as moths are attracted to flame. Good inversions and mercantile opportunities were close of the filthy rich, of course. Petty business with low capitals were already out of sight for a macroeconomic actor as himself. And if someone was sophisticated, stylish and mannered, that someone was filthy rich. Simple reasoning.

However, even that masterful social application of Occam's Razor had its flaws. Of course that not everything golden is made of gold, but that is why Master Merchants practice to separate grain from straw. So far, this was good grain.

Cinnamon, so stylish, the elf said to himself as he took the letter to his nose and enjoy the smell, right before opening it and reading the text, his eyes slowly taking the trip over the carefully arranged callygraphy. Earning points each second. So interesting. Even being a fast Erthadrin reader, (Gestalt mind reader), the Marquis took his time as to feel the synesthesic pleasure of the flavor of the letter.

"Completely adorable", the elf noble said out loud, as soon as he finished.

"Anything fit your taste here, Sire?", asked the attendant placed right in the limit of the safe distance of twelve paces from the recently placed pineplas desk of the Duke.

"Indeed it does. Find me a piece of silkarchment please. I have a letter to write. Oh, and do not forget my mithril burnfeather", added the elven lord as soon as the attendant started moving, right before moving the message near his nose. Cinnamon, eh? completely classy.

The message that had to circulate for a while before reaching Madame Tskra-Prret was written in a clear sheet of mother of pearl silk, the most expensive paper available in Aelosia, using a tool that left microscopic burn marks in the fabric at a set temperature as to not open hole in the thin layer of fabric. Said burns could vary in color by just applying the right reactives. In this case, the bright green was achieved using copper oxide. The silk parchment was held between two cylinders of clear silver, and slightly parfumed with traditional agarwood.

Dear Madame Tskra-Prret

Your offer is, to resume my feelings in simple words, fantastic. Connections are valued amongst my people as a good and service hard to come by, and expensive when traded. The honor of having an audience with you is mine, I have to add, so let's be clear that I am awaiting for meeting you, while I enjoy the rest I earned through a hundred hard enough deals, and the idle time reserved frankly for any succesful living entity this side of the universe after a good journey.

I would invite you to my lodgings and installations, but sadly my relatively efficient subordinates didn't have enough time as to set everything properly, and I wouldn't spend time with a Lady of proper stature and distinction in a disorganized den. So I think our options are open as to let you show me a special place in this station? I am sure you are familiar enough with the facilities available as to choose an exquisite place. Just let me know about your choice so I can be there on time.

Regarding your motives, well, I am happy that we don't have to try to fool around during the beginning. I guess you have your own agenda by hoping to meet me, but that doesn't have to create any kind of prevention, bias, or partiality in my mind. Existence is a web of encounters in which agendas clash, and we are trapped in this existence for the time being, using your same expression. I recognize favors and larguesse when I see it, and I know how to correspond properly to them.

Marquis Haralis.

[The Garbage Men]

"That is what's left to be decided, really," Roscuro Vanetti, the maintenance representative who was leading the tour replied. "We wanted to give you an overall idea of the scope of operations here, then we could sit down and discuss what your corporation would be willing to take on. The sub-depot is located just under the fourth ring, about midway down the central axis. As you've indicated, there are a few areas we would prefer to maintain in-house, the Spook offices being one of them, as well as sections of the main station control where security might be an issue - in the grand scheme of things, rather small areas."

"We are able to take on literally anything you wish to through our way. We have advanced environmental systems to create any desired environment with detail so that any room can have it's own settings. We can literally do anything that is remotely in that area. As for the Spooks and and sections of the main station control. Yes, usually for those areas it's just floor and consoles that need to be dealt with." Thom replied.

"I have everythng we need on capacity requirements, it would be logical now for a final deal to be made." Aryrad added in as way of a comment.

[Solont]

——Solont General Resources Deep Mining Ship Trade Surplus, Planet D-99, Upper Mesosphere. 3 years ago.——

Captain Matthias Isolda chewed on what little remained of his fingernails. An unfortunate habit, but desperate circumstances called for nervous habits. Planet D-99 was a lost cause. Most of that blasted, godless, inhospitable, waterless hellscape of a rock had been infested by the QB infection. All civilian installations had long been evacuated. All of the Solont Space Force bases had been overrun, save for the Pershing Alderton Supply Depot, and that looked sure to be lost in the next few minutes to come. The Space Force was in full retreat, QB vessels were streaming into the system by the dozens, and the Trade Suprlus had just eaten a missile in the engines and was falling towards the planet like a particularly slow rock.

“James... just how much longer can we keep this ship airborne?” Matthias addressed his helmsman. The young flight officer turned from his console and gave a single, desperate shrug, saying, “Depends on how much power engineering can coax out of engine #3. At our current rate of descent... 25, maybe 30 minutes? Give or take,”

Matthias frowned. 30 minutes was not enough time. He knew, when the Space Force reassigned his vessel to assist with the evacuation of the planet, that it was not going to be an easy mission, but he'd still had hope. But with the recent damage sustained by the Surplus, and with every space force vessel engaged, it would take a miracle to pull everyone off the planet safely. Calmly, Matthias stepped over the windows of the bridge, staring down at the planet's surface. Grey rock. Brown rock. Splotches of red where the insidious biological infection had grown over the otherwise barren landscape. And the tiny, sporadic, intermittent flashes of light, indicating the battle in and around Pershing Alderton supply depot, where the last of the Solont Space Force Planetary Marine contingent held back the advancing QB monstrosities, anxiously awaiting an evacuation which may now prove impossible.

“One more shuttle run,” Matthias stated to his officers. “One more shuttle run, then we leave. Alex? Put us in touch with the Depot,” he ordered to his communications officer. “I don't want to spend any more time in system than absolutely necessary. Make sure those evacuees are standing by and ready on the pad,” The communications officer, a lanky and underweight Tanukune, simply nodded, acknowledging his captain's order.

“Attention, GRS Trade Surplus to Alderton Depot. We've sustained damage and must retreat from the engagement area. This'll be our final run, so make sure you're ready!” Alex spoke. Matthias simply stood silently, noting the subtle vibration in the bridge deck as their last transport shuttle dropped from the Surplus's tiny hangar and streaked off, descending to the beleaguered base. No fighter cover could be spared, and what few weapons the Trade Surplus had wouldn't cover the shuttle for the large majority of its run. After all, the fleet was in complete shambles, and the Surplus was just a mining vessel. They weren't equipped to defend themselves, much less participate in a major engagement. But, aside from the few randoms potshots on their way in, the enemy fleet had largely ignored Matthias and his vessel. He only prayed that his luck would continue...

“Acknowledged, Surplus!” The reply was swift and the transmission clear, yet, still, the marines at the depot were difficult to understand over the din of crackling gunfire and rippling explosions. “We're standing by! Auto-destruct protocols are engaged, and the automated defenses are holding back the enemy for now. There's only fourteen of us left, though, so for the love of God, please hurry!”

A sudden, blaring alarm snapped Matthias out of his intense concentration. “Status report!” He barked, turning back to his crewmen. “I-I dunno! We've got sudden G-quakes all around us! Something's jumping in! No IFF!” a panicked sensor's officer shouted. Matthias frowned. No IFF almost universally meant “Hostile,” in this war, and this circumstance would be no different. All around the crippled mining vessel, motes of brilliant white light coalesced into planes of ruptured space, from which emerged over a dozen light attack craft belonging to the alien parasite, formally christened “Quasi-Biological Interstellar Entity of a Hostile Nature,” or “QB.” Subverted vessels, steel hulls melded with hardened carapaces, a disgusting smattering of oversized and jagged teeth and claws, and fleshy, veiny growths, dropped out of subspace, and hundreds of eyes, both electronic and bulbous, blinking, and bloodshot, turned on the stricken Solontian vessel.

“Damn. So they're making a play for the Surplus...” Matthias spoke, sounding entirely too calm for the situation at hand. “Helm! Change course, 70 degrees to starboard! Put our glide path over over the depot, and divert maximum power to the engines!” He barked as he returned to his command console. “Engineering, flash charge the hyperspace core. We're jumping out the second the shuttle is secured!”

The deck tilted and a loud grown of overstressed steel rumbled through the mining ship as it changed course, a billowing plume of smoke leaving an arcing crescent through the gray skies of D-99 as the Surplus changed its course. It's CIWS flared to life, illuminating the evening sky as the lightly armed mining vessel tried to fend off the pursuing techno-organic hunting pack. It was somewhat lucky, in a grisly sort of way, that the QB had decided to try to subvert the Trade Surplus rather than destroy it outright. Matthias knew that a few missiles, several seconds of sustained laser fire, or even a single mass driver in the right place could send the mining ship plummeting to earth in a hail of fire and fuel, but infecting the vessel meant latching on, killing the crew, and seizing control of both the bridge and engineering decks, a considerably more careful and difficult task. Perhaps, just maybe, if the Surplus could hold them off long enough to complete their evacuation run, they could rescue their trapped friends and make a clean escape, no matter how improbable.

“Captain! Two ships have broken off from the main group!” The radar officer shouted! “They're vectoring on the shuttle!”

“What?! NO! Fire control, take them down!” Matthias barked! Their entire, desperate plan hinged on keeping the shuttle and its crew alive. Without it, there would be no rescue for their friends on the surface. A dozen laser modules and auto-cannon turrets swung from their current targets and opened fire on the two pursuant QB vessels, but it was for naught; they were already out of the mining vessel's effective engagement radius. There was nothing they could do. Matthias could only watch as the tragedy unfolded before his eyes.

The shuttle juked and dived away from the pursuing attack craft, but to no avail. A single salvo of gunfire, and the tiny vessel's engines exploded. The shuttle folded in half and plummeted out of the sky, leaving a trail of fire, debris, and smoke as it began its long vertical descent to the planet's jagged surface. The pilot never even had time to scream...

“... Trade Surplus to Alderton Depot...” Matthias opened the communications channel himself, after a few seconds hesitation.

“We saw,” was the short and succinct reply. Matthias didn't know what to say. Nothing could be done to save those fourteen men on the surface. Over one hundred QB capital ships were swarming the D-99 orbital zone. The Solont Space Force numbered less than 10 and was in full retreat. His own vessel couldn't even maintain level flight, let alone reach orbit. Soon, those 14 men would be stranded, alone on a planet and surrounded by hundreds of thousands of parasitic alien monstrosities. Survival was a pipe dream, and Matthias wanted to throw up.

“We'll come back for you,” He said, his voice wavering. He knew it was an empty gesture, but what else could he do? “We'll come back for you, I swear it.”

“Good luck, Surplus...” were the last words of the men at the Pershing Alderton Supply Depot before the transmission cut out.

“Helm...” Matthias spoke quietly. “Engage subspace drive.”

A single flash of light illuminated the dreary skies of Planet D-99, and the Trade Surplus vanished.

——Solont Executive Transport Laeret, Saturn Periphery Zone. Present Day——

Matthias Isolda, no longer a captain, stirred awake in his seat, finding himself staring at the rings of a planet he'd never seen before, and he wondered how long he'd been asleep.

“Another bad dream, Papa?” the girl sitting across from him asked. He simply responded with a nod. He'd learned quickly that there was no use sugar-coating anything for her benefit; she could always see through his white lies and thin facades, and she could always tell when he was bothered or distressed.

“Yeah, another bad dream. But it's gone now,” he said with a smile. Many nights, he'd been troubled by the memory of the Evacuation of D-99. The planet had eventually been retaken, and at the war's end, the infestation on the surface had been cleared save for a few isolated pockets, but men left behind at the Pershing Alderton Supply Depot had never been found. They had almost certainly been killed, but no bodies had ever been found, and no one ever expected that to change.

Still, ever since Matthias had adopted his daughter, his troubled mind had been calmed, mostly thanks to the full time effort he'd had to exert into parenthood. Silke Isolda, who had been given no last name prior to her adoption, was a quiet, inquisitive, and remarkably sensitive girl. She'd spent the first five years of her life in cryogenic stasis, and a further 10 in a government-run orphanage before Matthias had taken her home, just prior to the war's end. Thus, despite an inquisitive and intelligent mind, and remarkable mature outlook, she still maintained a sort of childlike innocence that belied her true physical age.

Although a mixed species family wasn't unusual-- several humanoid sentient species existed on Solont in roughly even proportions-- Matthias and Silke were a special case, as would be readily apparent to anyone familiar with Solont's demographics. Matthias was a human, tall and lean, middle-aged, and sporting a carefully trimmed beard and a silver streak through his brown hair that gave him an air of wisdom and a commanding presence. Silke, however, was a kitsuite, one of only 13 in the universe, and one of only 3 that were public knowledge on Solont. Her species, a product of cloning, genetic tweaking, and outright genetic fabrication, bore a strong resemblance to human beings, save for two notable differences: The large and pointed ears upon her head, and the long and thick tail that curled and swayed behind her back, both of which were covered in a smooth layer of silky, white fur. The lack of pigmentation in her fur and long, straight white hair were not a product of her genetics, however, but rather the result of extended sleep in cryostasis, and after 11 years the color still hadn't returned.

“Nervous, Silke?” Matthias asked, looking out the window. They were well into Dominion space by now, and unfortunately, their escort, the fast attack cruiser Naiad, had opted to keep station at the edge of Dominion space, rather than go through the lengthy hassle of disarming and storing their nuclear ordnance.

Silke shook her head quickly, also staring out the window at the ever-nearing Machiavelli Station. In her own quiet and reserved way, she had been as excited as ever when her father had announced that he was bringing her on this trip. Matthias, however, was significantly more anxious about the whole affair. He'd stepped down as captain of the Trade Surplus after the ship had been decommissioned, having taken irreparable damage during the Siege of Solont, and he'd accepted a position as negotiator with SGR's corporate offices. He was good at his job, though not spectacular, and he'd never considered himself to be someone of great importance. Thus, it came as a tremendous surprise when he'd discovered that he'd been appointed as acting Ambassador to Machiavelli Station and the Dominion of Dread Lady Nathicana, despite his protests. Still, there was no getting out of it. This was an important assignment, not only for SGR but for the people of Solont as well, and if the corporate executives and the planetary federal government felt he was the best man for the job... well, then who was he to argue?



Less than an hour later, the Laeret had navigated the heavy traffic around Machiavelli Station, docked, and the Ambassador and his daughter disembarked, taking their first tentative steps into the arms of a truly alien culture and civilization. Thanks to a crash course in English and Italian, delivered personally by the AI Million, Matthias spoke enough of the common language to expedite visitor processing. Security was made aware of his personal sidearm, a compact and folding automatic pistol, and of his cybernetic implants, an interface device and integrated personal PDA. Silke would have been much easier to process; no implants, no weapons, and no speaking. She was only fluent in Solontian Basic, and had no knowledge of Italian or English. Thus, she simply smiled bashfully to the security personnel whenever she was addressed, and let her father handle everything.

All that was left was to meet the Dominion's representative. Matthias adjusted his tie, and hoped things would continue to go as smoothly as they had...

[Dread Lady Nathicana]

Aelosia

A diminutive woman with deep auburn hair and grey-green eyes, dressed in the standard Machiavelli personnel uniform of red, black and grey, had approached the Marquis. With a respectful bow and a pleasant smile, she tucked the envelope she is carrying under one arm and offered her greetings.

“Marquis Haralis Lórindel, Leda Cortesini, Machiavelli Liaison. Welcome to the station. I understand that everything is in order as per specifications, and your quarters are ready to receive you. I’m here to offer you any assistance you may require, and to deliver the final papers for signing – a copy of which we have provided both in hard and electronic versions for yourself and your offices,” she said, offering the folder to him with a graceful motion of her hand.

All the appropriate identing and sundry had been taken care of in a timely manner, and the Marquis had been free to carry on as needed with his business, knowing that the paperwork would be returned to the proper hands when he had finished perusing.

ooc: apologies for the delays here, just want to make it clear all’s well and legal.

[Dread Lady Nathicana]

Solar Communes

“I don’t think they get it,” Tozzi commented idly, replaying the return message again.

“Eh, foreigners. Some think everything is up to ‘negotiation’, regardless of what they’ve been told,” Delogu replied with a shrug. “We’ll relay the answers, and see how this all pans. Anything else can be taken care of on debarkation. Let security handle it. As for the supplies they’re asking for, hell. We’ve got mining ops on Saturn. Of course we’ve got what they need.”

“Well yeah, but … nevermind,” Tozzi said. “Just what sort of ‘home appliances’ do they think they’ll need for a vacation here anyway? I mean, the rooms come with all the amenities, and I can’t imagine what they’d need with portable generators or the like. I mean, micro-fusion isn’t anything new, its just that …”

“Sex-peddlers, right? Maybe they’ve got some high-powered—“ Delogu began, only to be interrupted.

“Don’t even go there, my friend. Seriously, do not go there. Please. My sanity begs you.” Tozzi shuddered, closing his eyes for a moment as if to clear his mind of unbidden images.

“Right then. A reply.”

To Ian Gutierrez of the Sage:

Again, leasing is not an option at this time, though you are free to discuss the matter with the Machiavelli Trade Offices.

Any appliances will of course need to pass inspection. Bear in mind, it would serve you best to board only with those things you need to enjoy your visit if and until such time as residency can be approved. Fusion power is not a problem – we’ve had it implemented for some time ourselves, and are quite familiar with the concept.

The supplies you seem to be in need of can be arranged, also via the Trade Offices. Enjoy your trip, we will be looking forward to your arrival.

On Said Arrival …

Ian is met by a gentleman, quite human, who looks to be in his middle years, hale and fit with salt and peppered hair trimmed nice and neat. He of course wears the standard Machiavelli uniform seen all over the station, aside from the simple black of the soldati, black boots polished to a glossy sheen.

“Albert Caccini at your service,” the man replies with a respectful nod and pleasant, neutral smile. “A request for such an arrangement will be passed on to our Public Relations department, Signore Gutierrez. As for your other request, that would be handled via our Trade Offices, though I have been instructed to alert you that at this time, the option of leasing is not currently available. Perhaps if you would care to step this way, receive your ident card, and then discover what else our station might provide you?”

[Dread Lady Nathicana]

The Garbage Men

“Well then, that is rather good news. It was hoped in the initial briefings that you were the right people to work with on this, up to and including any improvements that could be made in the systems we have,” Roscuro replied confidently. “If that’s the case, we should adjourn to the offices proper and make certain all the paperwork is in order. If you will accompany me?”

ooc: TGM – we can handle this any way you’d like. Can RP it all out, or assume all gets finalized as it should, or whatever. Just let me know.

[Scolopendra]

Tskra-Prret thanks the courier for his hard work, and asks him to stand by for a minute as she writes up a response. Truly one with style, she considers as she looks over the parchment and the beautiful Aelosian metalwork; this marks her as a particularly unique Scolopendran, since the national stereotype would consider such things overdone in the extreme. She dips one claw into a vial of ink on her writing desk--a carefully poked hole just underneath the tip providing a sort of reservoir--and scribes her response on a bit of fine paper she keeps for her most important letters.

Dear Lord Lórindel,

Your response gives me the utmost pleasure and honor, as I am most gladdened that I may be of service. I do not mean to boast unjustifiably, but I do operate a salon in the traditional sense which is considered to be one of the high points of culture aboard Machiavelli. Whilst there I can introduce you to the local scholars, artists, and high society, as it were, and we can discuss further ways I can assist in private. Civility is of course strictly enforced, so despite the public setting I thoroughly expect my friends and associates to act with the utmost politeness--this simply cannot be guaranteed anywhere else, which is why I make the suggestion.

We commonly have a social hour before dinner, so if you could arrive at 1715 station time I would be much obliged. My parlor does not enforce a dress code, but simply requests that all take care to their appearance and follow the same rules of courtesy that I enforce in discussion--my own standards of dress could be offensive to the prudish, so as long as offense is unintentional, it would be hypocritical of me to do anything but forgive it. I only inform you of this so you may know what to expect; I have no doubt that however you choose to attend, your fashion and taste will be exemplary.

Sincerely,

Mme. Tskra-Prret

Holding it well above the lit candle on her desk in order to dry the ink with its heat--and scent the letter, this time with lavender--she folds it over and seals it with a few drops of wax from the candle, which she then impresses with the side of her claw. Smiling with winking ears, she hands her missive to the courier and shows her gratitude with a few sovereigns before escorting the man out. Her polite duties done, she returns to her chaise and ponders, idly smelling the agarwood as she plans how to set up her salon for tonight...

* - * - *

The Salon of Madam Tskra-Prret

Situated on the main hub where the upper-class penthouses and quarters begin to abut on the higher-end economic establishments, the exterior of Madam Tskra-Prret's salon--which is, of course, part of her quarters--isn't much different from anywhere else in the tony part of the station. The big difference is that everyone seems to know where it is, and the station authorities have gone so far as to allow a small bronze plaque identifying it as Tskra-Prret's digs in several different languages to the right of the three-meter double doors decorated with the heraldry of a tiger rampant Gules on the division of a field party per chevron Sable and Or (or, for those who don't speak heraldry, a red roaring tiger on its hind legs with its front paws in the air centered on the point of a yellow triangle--point up and base on the floor--on a black background). These open up into a simple anteroom that serves as a cloakroom; the walls are decorated with landscape paintings of various worlds, their organic lines contrasting with the moderne geometry that embellish the architecture. While not quite utilitarian and not quite antiseptic, it certainly does follow the typical Scolopendran conventions of simple, robust patterns and a cleanliness of design. A wooden podium with a leatherbound guest list stands next to the door; a thin door to one side leads to the proper cloakroom, and another set of double-doors blazoned with the same heraldry as the entry doors (whose exit side is covered with silver stars sprinkled artistically on a velvet-black background). Normally, this room would be staffed by a servant greeting guests but, as tonight is a special case with a new visitor, Tskra-Prret is there to personally greet people and inform them that someone new will be joining them tonight.

Tskra-Prret is a sight unto herself. While dressed similarly to how she was when she greeted the FUSsies, her current dress has a blue tincture to contrast with her orange fur and has billowy translucent sleeves and legs clamped at the end by leather-backed bracelets of filigree in imitation of traditional Middle Eastern dress. She sees each guest into the salon, then returns to her station... except for when the Marquis arrives. The time she gave him was actually fashionably late; most visitors to Tskra's salon understand that fifteen minutes early is on time and so there has been opportunity for rumor and curiosity to go around the room a few times before she escorts the Marquis in.

The architecture of the salon itself borrows heavily from the palaces of Persia and Turkey, with the geometry rationalized somewhat to conform to Scolopendran tastes. The walls, lined with low red velvet couches with golden trim, are decorated up to wainscoting height with geometric patterns of blue, red, and silver that elicit the thought of stars. Above those mosaics are small niches resembling twin arches surmounted by circular cutouts, all inside an arcade of pointed arches; inside these niches are either paintings or screens that display news feeds, views from outside, or cycle through landscapes or works of art. The line between the wainscoting and the arches is filled with tiles that display white Arabic on a blue background; but to anyone who can read the language the Qu'ran is certainly not what's being quoted.* The salon is naturally split into nine parts by four brazen winding columns in the middle of the room, their bases making them seem as if they grow from the backs of Art Deco lions whose bronze features have been allowed to age artistically in the seams while their outlines are highlighted in plated silver and gold. The cornices of the columns flow naturally into simple brass arches decorated with blue arcs, and the areas between these arches are covered with red and gold tapestries pinned at the ceiling, forming cloth vaults that move gently with the motion of air in the room. The silver fringe of the tapestries offers some visual interference with the scalloped embattlements of polished brass along the top of the walls. In one of the corner 'squares' of the room is a circular bar where a man inside the small kiosk prepares drinks; the opposite corner is curtained off with partitions that, despite the fact that they can clearly fold up, are modeled to flow organically from one panel to the next. The rest of the 'squares' are filled with elegant but simple card tables and chairs, and on each card table Turkish tea sets are available for the guests. The middle square is left open for people to mill about and converse politely.

* One quote would happen to look like:
شر الخاصة إسكات التعبير عن الرأي هو أنه سرقة الجنس البشري ؛ الأجيال ، فضلا عن الجيل الحالي ؛ المعارضين للرأي ، لا يزال أكثر من أولئك الذين يسيطرون عليها. إذا كان الرأي الصواب ، وكانوا محرومين من فرصة لتبادل خطأ عن الحقيقة : إذا كان من الخطأ ، فإنها تفقد ما يقرب من فائدة كبيرة ، وتصور أوضح وأكثر حيوية الانطباع الحقيقة ، وأنتج من قبل الاصطدام الخطأ.
(Translation: "The peculiar evil of silencing the expression of an opinion is, that it is robbing the human race; posterity as well as the existing generation; those who dissent from the opinion, still more than those who hold it. If the opinion is right, they are deprived of the opportunity of exchanging error for truth: if wrong, they lose, what is almost as great a benefit, the clearer perception and livelier impression of truth, produced by its collision with error.")