A SALIENT TOPIC
The Grave Discourse
Above Ajito, Cinoth
The helicopters hurtled low over the verdant Cinothian countryside, their rotors pounding into the forests a flat, thin, low, erratic drumbeat. The sky above was overcast, filtering the sunlight through a lens as gray and bleak as the international situation. It was good weather for flying kites in, but Alexander Sterling wasn’t in Cinoth to fly kites.
Over the horizon, the impossible peak of the Axia Tower appeared over the horizon like a knife stabbing up through the earth. Around it, the gray rooftops of Ajito lay scattered, like the ejecta from the massive architectural incision that was the Tower. The Cinothian people went about their day in the shadow of the citadel. To them, it was just another fact of life: the imposing structure that symbolized the might of the Cinothian matriarchy. The people below, dispersed in a Pollockesque melange of hats and hairs and shirts and shorts, paid little attention to the helicopter. Perhaps they didn’t see its armed escorts.
The helicopters slowly lifted. The tower, one of the tallest in Atlas, towered a dizzying half-mile above the ground. The building, constructed at great expense by the Cinothian royal family, housed the Cinothian government and most of its offices. On the outside, the great spire was quite bland: its massive facade of glass and steel reflected warpedly the Ajito skyline and the darkened skyline. On the inside, however, its furnishings were a mixture of lavish and modern, a clash of minimal and baroque. The Cinothians had provided for them a small conference room adjoined to two larger rooms where their security details would wait. Under the terms of the meeting, only two guards were to be present in the room at all times: one from the Valdian side and one from the Grozyar side.
Sterling looked solemnly at the massive spire that loomed ever closer. “ETA five mikes, sir,” said the pilot. The helicopters were rapidly climbing now, and below, the rat race turned to an ant farm as the vertical separation greatened. “Thank you,” said the President to his pilot. He was growing anxious. The fate of the world and thousands of lives rested upon the discourse that would happen within the lofted and lofty halls of Axia Tower. He opened his brown leather briefcase and rifled through the sheaf inside once more. This was his lifeblood in this discussion: intelligence reports and a list of demands. In the briefcase also sat a Mk. 44 Service Pistol. He had no intention of using it.
The helicopters approached the helipad. Their movements turned from sweeping and authoritative to delicate and ginger; here, in the terminal stages of the voyage, was where the skills of the pilots shone. The helicopter sidled up to the massive glass veneer that skinned the tower as a gentle whirr signaled the readiness of the helicopter to land. From behind the door finished with white leather, Sterling watched as the white, crimson and gold blob that was his chariot slowly fluttered gently onto the precarious promontory half a kilometer above the ground.
Bidding the pilots a simple thank you, Sterling opened the door and dropped his polished black shoes onto the pavement, his clothes flailing wildly in the downwash. Sterling approached the door, flanked by his guards, whom Sterling had drawn from RIA. His black jacket and blue-striped tie whipped about wildly as the other helicopter containing his support team approached. Remarkably, his graying auburn hair remained kempt and the Crimson Aegis lapel pin remained stuck firmly in its place.
As the winds subsided, Sterling stepped inside the massive building, hit by a wave of heat in stark contrast to the cold, thin air outside. The halls were dimly lit by wallchieres in a tasteful fashion. The taupe wallpaper tapered into the crimson-flanked-by-taupe carpet as a young, short Cinothian lady in a smart blue blouse smiled at Sterling and approached - to the dismay of the guards, who tensed up reflexively. Sensing their disapproval, the lady stopped, a bit offput, but spoke anyhow. “President Sterling, hello; my name is Izumi Yorukotai, and I’ll be your liaison today. Mr. Balan is just down the hall; follow me.”
The lady began walking down the hall, Sterling and his cadre in tow, leading them into a large conference room whose central feature was a large oaken table arranged around which were large oak and leather chairs. The room was surprisingly warm; in stark contrast to the hallway, this room was sleek and modern, with brushed nickel handles on faux ebony fixings, a bluish-gray paint scheme with black trim, and a massive window that overlooked the sea. In this room stood, musing at a large painting on the wall, Petre Balan, the magnate-cum-president of Grozav Inima.
Balan was a baggy man with recessed eyes, prominent lips, and high, arching eyebrows. His face was wrinkled with stress from God-knows-what. He too was wearing a black business suit, but with a red tie instead of blue. He was staring at a painting of fruit on the wall, mumbling idly about sticks and hunger, when the door swung open with an empty woosh. He turned around to see his enemy, the Valdian president, walking into the room, flanked by two guards, one of whom quickly excused himself to one of the wing rooms. Balan instinctively extended his hand as a courtesy, which Sterling quickly took.
“Mr. Balan,” said Sterling, shaking his hand and smiling warmly. “I’m Alexander Sterling, President and Plenipotentiary Supreme of the Republic of Valdiu. I don’t believe we’ve been acquainted, yet; how are you?”
Over the horizon, the impossible peak of the Axia Tower appeared over the horizon like a knife stabbing up through the earth. Around it, the gray rooftops of Ajito lay scattered, like the ejecta from the massive architectural incision that was the Tower. The Cinothian people went about their day in the shadow of the citadel. To them, it was just another fact of life: the imposing structure that symbolized the might of the Cinothian matriarchy. The people below, dispersed in a Pollockesque melange of hats and hairs and shirts and shorts, paid little attention to the helicopter. Perhaps they didn’t see its armed escorts.
The helicopters slowly lifted. The tower, one of the tallest in Atlas, towered a dizzying half-mile above the ground. The building, constructed at great expense by the Cinothian royal family, housed the Cinothian government and most of its offices. On the outside, the great spire was quite bland: its massive facade of glass and steel reflected warpedly the Ajito skyline and the darkened skyline. On the inside, however, its furnishings were a mixture of lavish and modern, a clash of minimal and baroque. The Cinothians had provided for them a small conference room adjoined to two larger rooms where their security details would wait. Under the terms of the meeting, only two guards were to be present in the room at all times: one from the Valdian side and one from the Grozyar side.
Sterling looked solemnly at the massive spire that loomed ever closer. “ETA five mikes, sir,” said the pilot. The helicopters were rapidly climbing now, and below, the rat race turned to an ant farm as the vertical separation greatened. “Thank you,” said the President to his pilot. He was growing anxious. The fate of the world and thousands of lives rested upon the discourse that would happen within the lofted and lofty halls of Axia Tower. He opened his brown leather briefcase and rifled through the sheaf inside once more. This was his lifeblood in this discussion: intelligence reports and a list of demands. In the briefcase also sat a Mk. 44 Service Pistol. He had no intention of using it.
The helicopters approached the helipad. Their movements turned from sweeping and authoritative to delicate and ginger; here, in the terminal stages of the voyage, was where the skills of the pilots shone. The helicopter sidled up to the massive glass veneer that skinned the tower as a gentle whirr signaled the readiness of the helicopter to land. From behind the door finished with white leather, Sterling watched as the white, crimson and gold blob that was his chariot slowly fluttered gently onto the precarious promontory half a kilometer above the ground.
Bidding the pilots a simple thank you, Sterling opened the door and dropped his polished black shoes onto the pavement, his clothes flailing wildly in the downwash. Sterling approached the door, flanked by his guards, whom Sterling had drawn from RIA. His black jacket and blue-striped tie whipped about wildly as the other helicopter containing his support team approached. Remarkably, his graying auburn hair remained kempt and the Crimson Aegis lapel pin remained stuck firmly in its place.
As the winds subsided, Sterling stepped inside the massive building, hit by a wave of heat in stark contrast to the cold, thin air outside. The halls were dimly lit by wallchieres in a tasteful fashion. The taupe wallpaper tapered into the crimson-flanked-by-taupe carpet as a young, short Cinothian lady in a smart blue blouse smiled at Sterling and approached - to the dismay of the guards, who tensed up reflexively. Sensing their disapproval, the lady stopped, a bit offput, but spoke anyhow. “President Sterling, hello; my name is Izumi Yorukotai, and I’ll be your liaison today. Mr. Balan is just down the hall; follow me.”
The lady began walking down the hall, Sterling and his cadre in tow, leading them into a large conference room whose central feature was a large oaken table arranged around which were large oak and leather chairs. The room was surprisingly warm; in stark contrast to the hallway, this room was sleek and modern, with brushed nickel handles on faux ebony fixings, a bluish-gray paint scheme with black trim, and a massive window that overlooked the sea. In this room stood, musing at a large painting on the wall, Petre Balan, the magnate-cum-president of Grozav Inima.
Balan was a baggy man with recessed eyes, prominent lips, and high, arching eyebrows. His face was wrinkled with stress from God-knows-what. He too was wearing a black business suit, but with a red tie instead of blue. He was staring at a painting of fruit on the wall, mumbling idly about sticks and hunger, when the door swung open with an empty woosh. He turned around to see his enemy, the Valdian president, walking into the room, flanked by two guards, one of whom quickly excused himself to one of the wing rooms. Balan instinctively extended his hand as a courtesy, which Sterling quickly took.
“Mr. Balan,” said Sterling, shaking his hand and smiling warmly. “I’m Alexander Sterling, President and Plenipotentiary Supreme of the Republic of Valdiu. I don’t believe we’ve been acquainted, yet; how are you?”