Scipio didn't think there were flotillas so well guarded as the answer the Admiral had given. She held up a hand to show that his response would not be plunging anyone into war any time soon.

What the man really provided though, was a breather from the emotions that were gathering and building and the man's comment regarding his friend was just the right touch to put things back onto an even keel.

"I appreciate your opinion, Admiral. Sometimes it's nice to get a third party view even if unofficial. It helps us to stay objective."

"Madam Minister," towards Ramos, "I look forward to our official talks beginning tomorrow. Now, I think I shall mingle and enjoy the hospitality of this gathering."

Scipio had made the rounds talking to various individuals and what she sensed was a clear state of optimism about the future. Sure there was some short-term nervousness but for the most part, the people trusted their instincts and their leaders.

The problem was, these people also did not seem to be really a government in any real organized sense of the word.

There was a bit of rough edges about them... a sort of gunslinging, hard drinking, devil-may-care attitude. Agreements were made with a spit to the palm and a shake of the hands and a if someone pissed them off, they simply acted.

She wondered if they truly understood the diplomatic situation they were creating with the Coalition and if they truly understood the ramifications of joining the Commonwealth.

To join galactic politics at this level, they would have to realize that this wasn't some rounding up of some posse to go after some Tuskan Raiders after a hit on a moisture farm. No, one wrong move here and a fleet of planet killing Star Destroyers would hover over a world threatening certain mortal peril, if not actually carrying it out.

The game of what was official and unofficial... what a government could publicly acknowledge or privately hold in contempt were the secrets of negotiators and diplomats.

As she made her rounds, she ended up near Admiral Wilkar, who was at the moment lost in his thoughts and drinking aloud.

Her facade of joviality dropped for a moment as she neared the haven of the crusty Commonwealth military man. He might have all the manners of a wild bantha in a Caprician porcelain shop but the man was no fool. He was a rock of reliability and one she appreciated in the world of double-dealing and innuendo.

"So, Admiral. What is your take on this Lance Shipwright and Gestalt?"

She wondered if he realized that he might have to venture a trip to the Empire to smooth over the possible transition of Gestalt. Perhaps even the Coalition unless their own representative was sent.

Why they were not in attendance now was a big question but then again, with the problems the Coalition was facing right now, perhaps not that big a question after all.

Wilkar took a drag on his third cigarette in the last fifteen minutes, followed by a ‘sip’ of scotch, and then he looked at the women supported by a cane.

“My take? They want to join the Commonwealth? Big fucking deal…. That’s great actually, but I think what is more important is the terms of their membership. Do you want to know why the Coalition is so fucked?”

The Caprician ambassador nodded.

“Their name. I looked up the word Coalition in the dictionary the other week… It was defined as a temporary, let me emphasize that first part, a temporary alliance of various factions and or individuals. A short term solution to a problem? Yes… A system spanning governing body that is an alternative to the Empire's own spin on fascism? No. Better yet… Fuck no!”

Scipio’s face contorted into a confused and annoyed frown.

Wilkar continued. “This bastard child that Regrad is running will simply fall apart. The center will not hold Scipio. You’ve got a thousand and one factions all with separate agendas fused together, trying to run the galaxy… How the hell is that supposed to work?

“The Kashans just want someone to watch their backs while they expand. It's rather obvious. The Azguards want cannon fodder for a religious war or something. The Onyxians? Who the fuck knows? But you know that rat fuck Joren Logan was running some kind of angle.

“Separate agendas… and a farce of a unifying cause. God damn pathetic if you ask me.”

Wilkar finished his drink. “Hey you! Colonial! Get me something with some fucking backbone…” He turned again to Scipio. “Now for point. That Coalition style of government is fucked logic. If these Colonials want membership, it’s on our terms. Their can not be any of this, ‘you can do your own thing ‘cause we got your back.’ Full membership, full assimilation, or nothing at all.”

The waiter handed Wilkar a fresh drink, and he took a sip.

“What the fuck is this?”

There was one thing surprisingly refreshing about the foul-mouthed Admiral. He said what he meant and meant what he said.

"My thoughts exactly," she agreed as she began to run her mind forward in anticipation of the Official Meeting. Would the Kashan Officer be representing the Coalition here?

She did not like coincidences but had to concede that some things did happen by chance.

As the Admiral dressed down a Colonial server, she wondered if the Colonies truly knew what they were asking for?

"I may have to send you on an errand into the Empire. Informing the Empire of possible direct annexation before their fleets cross the Coalition border speaks to me of prudence." she thought out loud.

The Admiral merely grunted as he began to give the Colonial server the ingredients to a drink that double as PodRacer fuel (and not that cheap Tatooine crap either).

"Make that two.." she called out after the Colonial had turned to leave. "But put a little umbrella and a fruit berry on top."

The Colonial frowned and Scipio batted her eyes in amusement, "..cause I'm a girl."

“Because,” repeated the elegantly composed Colonial woman, “I am a girl.”

The woman, as she repeated the words spoken only moments earlier by the Commonwealth Ambassador Scipio Arien, kept her features impassive displaying no sign of emotion one way or the other. She was dressed in a soft charcoal dress the likes of which were worn by the serving staff present at the nights earlier affairs and was otherwise totally indistinguishable from the dozens of orderlies who had been attending those in attendance. With one hand planted on her hip, the other balancing a tray of beverages precariously, she remained otherwise motionless save for those made by her lips as she spoke. It was a practiced expression that she, and many like her, employed in their duties throughout the Colonies but just now in this setting, standing before the Vice Commodores desk as she was, it looked totally out of place.

Lance Shipwright, a man of eager aspirations for those he perceived as 'his people', sat behind his desk, palms folded neatly in his lap, listening intently as the woman (of sorts) replayed portions of the seemingly private discussions between Arien and Wilkar. Though a shrewed negotiator and strategist the Vice Commodore had flat out refused the recommendations, supported though they were by Admiral Mar-Veil, that the Colonials would be well served in 'bugging' the quarters assigned to the Commonwealth emissaries. That refusal had not brokered well with those privy to the decision but, none the less, they had elected to accept it as the final choice was his own as was true of so many aspects of Colonial life. Appearances could be deceiving, however; and few men were such consummate masters of misdirection as Lance Story Shipwright. Doubtless the Commonwealth party would have their own methods of securing their privacy from the prying eyes (and ears) of the Colonial citizenry (or otherwise) and just as doubtlessly they would be none-too-pleased by the idea of Colonial observation should those 'bugs' be detected. This was after all a mission of good will. Fortunately for Shipwright the Commonwealth Admiral Wilkar was known to be something of a lush when it came to strong drink and so it had been exceedingly easy to keep an eye (and ear) on their guests.

Since the early days of Galactic Technologies, predating the Colonies themselves, Lance Shipwright had been utilizing human-replica androids throughout his projects. The subtle, synthetic humanoids had insinuated themselves throughout Galactic Technologies and, though not a well known fact, they were in truth the eyes and ears of Lance Shipwright, an ever present observer of the events for which, by and large, he was singularly responsible. With the advent of the Gestalt Colonies these Delta-Unit androids became more and more common until, eventually, they had become so pervasive that it was rumored, even joked at, that within the Colonies there were more machines then men. Eventually the paradigm was expanded to include not only synthetic female androids but even animals like canine, felines and even birds. For those in the know, the likes of the Admiralty and Colonial Government, the saying went that nothing happened within the Colonies without his knowledge. Whether truth or exaggeration, it certainly applied here.

The Vice Commodore was not alone in his eavesdropping. Present was one of the most elusive men within the Colonies, High Cardinal Umarlrich Oyzamndais. Despite the publicity of his position, the office of High Cardinal was one of the most dynamic positions in the Colonies. He, a staunch man well in to his life and possessed of a vitality that belied his age, was a key component of Colonial society for it was he, and he alone, who held high the responsibility to guide the spirits and souls of the Colonies in the Way of David. Draped in his flowing robes, dressed down to belie his impressive build, he stood a dark, oppressive figure at the edge of the Vice Commodores desk.

“They think us savages,” said the High Cardinal. He spoke in a deep timbre heavily influenced by his accented inflection. “It would seem clear that Ambassador Arien has little or no formal understanding of what we have done here, on Gestalt.”

Lance Shipwright simply shrugged, “One could excuse their trepidation as simple caution, or precaution...”

“One could,” agreed Oyzamndais. “But for comments the likes of which would paint us as anything but what we are. Was it not the Admiral Wilkar himself who declared that if, and I do stress the word if much as the membership of the Commonwealth delegation has since their arrival, it will be by their terms not ours. We must accept full assimilation or nothing, it would seem.”

Here, the Vice Commodore smiled. “Things, as they say, are rarely what they seem. I would advise that this is the case here, tonight.”

All the same, in spite of his efforts to assuage the concerns of his counterpart, Lance Shipwright could understand the aggravation that gripped the High Cardinal even if he would not allow himself to be subject to the doubts that seemed to plague Oyzamndais. The fact was simply that the citizens of the Colonies had traversed great distances, both physical and metaphorical, on the road to civilization and their progress was evident in every facet of their society so it had struck the High Cardinal as something of an oddity that the Commonwealth party should handle the event with such kid gloves. It was clearly evident that Scipio Arien had reservations of her own and, to the eye of Oyzamndais, it was as though she was purposely striving to misunderstand the Colonials. An unparalleled master of the human condition, Oyzamndais had risen to his position because of his ability not only to read people but also his talents of manipulation exemplified in the manifestation of the Colonial faith, the Way of David, which was created and inspired by him and him alone.

“All the same Lance, I do not appreciate being regarded as though I were some sort of,” he trailed off.

“Aliens?” Shipwright finished the thought.

“Whatever,” snapped Oyzamndais.

Even the Vice Commodore had to admit a sympathetic understanding of the Commonwealth perspective. In the short history of the Gestalt Colonies the people of Gestalt had created a regimented society dedicated to the betterment of mankind, to the development of a society in which humanity could be assured of its own survival. They had instituted social reforms that, during the height of the Coalition, had been compared to the societal templates enforced by the Empire, by the New Order. Schools were everywhere; the average citizen far more highly educated then the galactic average. Health care was an omnipresent concern and to that end they had built hospitals dedicated to the well-being of every soul without discrimination based on creed, race, income or any other mitigating factors. Massive construction projects had been the earmark of Colonial expansion and the root cause of their unbridled success but even these gargantuan projects had been carried out with attention paid to the safety of the workers involved and indeed considerable portions of the expenses involved were alloted to pay the wages of the construction workers. Crime and poverty were practically unknown in the Colonies, the people enjoyed the benefits of secure and stable economy. The idea that the Colonies were anything but a Galactic level society however, left a foul taste on the tongue.

“People will always choose to see what they want to see,” concluded Lance Shipwright. “Though it pains me to admit simple species connection is not enough in these days of galactic unrest. We may be humans, but know this; we are just as much aliens to them.”

Oyzamndais parted his lips to object but Shipwright raised a hand to silence him. He knew well enough what the High Cardinal was going to say and had no desire to hear it. “I have a clever plan,” declared the Vice Commodore, resolute. “I have a clever and witty plan and it involves you, dear friend.”

His curiosity perked, the High Cardinal cocked an eyebrow. “Oh, I simply must sit for this.”

He did.

“Let me first ask you; historically what do all Colonies have in common?”

Not a man to speak without forethought, Oyzamndais was silent for a long moment before he responded. In the lull Shipwright motioned that the android was dismissed.

“They all have existed to expand the power of nations,” ventured Oyzamndais reluctantly. He disliked providing such an uncertian answer but there was simply nothing for it as the question lacked the proper definition to have any uniform, concrete response. All the same he felt confident that he had provided the answer the Vice Commodore was fishing for but all the same, he added, “Historically all Colonial expansion has been carried out by nations seeking to expand their holdings, economically or otherwise.”

“Indeed,” replied Lance Shipwright knowingly. Their conversations tended to carry on according to a formula that was not unlike tennis. “If colonial expansion lends itself to national expansion, to whom were we beholden?”

“Ah,” supplied Oyzamndais. “I think I see where you are going with this. The answer, obviously, would be the New Galactic Coalition of Planets.”

“It would.” He indicated that Oyzamndais should continue. “But what now?”

“Now we find ourselves looking outside the Coalition for... patronage.” Oyzamndais pressed his thumb against his lip. “Now I am glad I sat down.”

“Can we do it?” The Vice Commodore asked, rising from his chair and moving towards the holographic receiver. Tapping in a few commands he opened a secure line between his office and the office of Corise Lucerne aboard the personal conveyance that had ferried him to the planet. “It will have to begin with your people.”

“Assuming that we are on the same page, without saying anything directly... seditious,” he chuckled, “I can work something in to tomorrow's mass. How 'to the point' shall I be?”

The Vice Commodore waved a hand dismissively, “The media campaign is in full swing. Be as direct as you feel there is a need to be.”

A moment later the holographic communicator beeped inspiring the Vice Commodore raise a finger to the High Cardinal, an unspoken silence fell between them. The image of Corise Lucerne, painted in dull grays, sprang to life, a ghostly bust floating in the recirculated air of the Commodores office.

“Lance,” spoke the hologram. Something in his tone told the Vice Commodore that his Kashan friend was not too pleased. “What can I do for you?'

“First off, I have to apologize for bringing you in to this. I had virtually no inclination that todays events would unfold... today. I promise you, my friend, that all will be explained as soon as I possibly can.” He said with all sincerity. “I just ask that you endure but a short time.”

“I trust you, Lance,” offered the Kashan Admiral. “But I thought we were supposed to oversee the installation of the Gencore units our people are constructing for you...”

“We will. That is part of what I wanted to talk to you about,” he imagined his own holographic disembodied bust floating, detached, in front of Corise. There was so much more that he wanted to say but even now he knew that what he had to say could not be told over a digital medium, even one so secure as the line shared between Corise and Lance exclusively. “Tomorrow we begin the first of what will probably be many days of formal negotiatons regarding Commonwealth membership. I know, that in itself probably has you all kinds of curious and I will explain it all as soon as time permits. I wanted to ask you, formally, to attend those negotiations as an informal observer. Then, following, I'd like to do our tour of the Gencore installations... but, if you don't mind I would like to allow the Commonwealth delegation to accompany us.”

“I cannot make any promises, Lance. I am sorry.” The Kashan Admiral sounded sincere and Shipwright had no reason to doubt that.

“I understand. Think on it and if we see you tomorrow, all the better. That's all I can ask.”

Corise nodded, virtually, “It's all I can offer at the moment.”

After a brief exchange of pleasantries less directed to the issues at hand the channel was closed. The line went dead leaving Shipwright and Oyzamndais to contemplate the next day.

They both hoped that tomorrow would bring a new and bright future to the peoples of the Colonies and as Oyzamndais prepared to leave he paused in the door and turned to Shipwright. He said, “Besides, if the Commonwealth lovers don't want us, there's always the League of Nations.”

He was only half joking.


*


The dawning of the new day was met with bird song.

Soon, the Commonwealth delegation would arrive. Shipwright had made a point of arriving early. The negotiations were to be held in the oak-room, an opulent meeting room in the high tower of the Government spire. Dominating the center of the room was a conference table cut from a single piece of wood that spanned the length of the room and was beset by chairs on either side. Off to the sides had been placed chairs of a far less impressive nature which were placed to accommodate any aides that the delegates might bring in tow while a buffet cart fit with light snacks sat off to one side.

Attendants were at a minimum and save for a few page-level workers the Colonial and Commonwealth parties would be alone for the duration of their discussions, formally. Digital projectors and interface key-pads had been placed at every second seat with open data input devices should either party require visual aides or otherwise.

Lance Shipwright was present, as would be Colonial Minister Ramos. The military would be sending Admiral Mar-Veil leaving the Vice Commodore hoping beyond hope that his friend Corise Lucerne would show but he knew that there remained a good chance that he would not.

He sighed. Everything was almost prepared…

“Lance!”

Storming through the doors came Paula Ramos. He had no expected her arrival so soon but the rushed nature of her arrival, her shirt still akimbo and hair slightly out of place told him that this was no ordinary entry.

“I’ve just heard. I don’t know how but the Coalition is sending Viryn Quell!”

“What?” Lance was both shocked and outraged. “How could they know?”

Paula simply shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“Well, fuck,” was all Lance could muster in response.

This was most unexpected.

Scipio Arien, Ambassador at Large to the Gestalt Colonies sat on the bed of her private room engrossed in scrolling data moving across her datapad wilst what passed for Gestalt Video Entertainment fulfilled the duty of providing inane background noise.


Whatcha gonna do...


She stopped the scroll and thumbed back down to digest a bit of written prose when some sixth sense told her something was amiss.

The soft air circulators blew in the background but for a room with no other exit save the front entrance, she felt a presence.

And that was when her eyes fell upon the tangible proof of her feeling.

One of the five yellow indicator lights on the front entrance panel that declared her room secure from violation began to blink.

Then changed color from yellow to blue... and then to green.



Whatcha gonna do...



Her eyes crinkled in amusement as the soft ping that would normally have signaled the change in door status did not sound out.

She began to scan her surroundings in search of options as the next indicator light began to blink.



Whatcha gonna do...


Her left hand slid open a drawer near her bed and as he stuck her hand in she felt something metallic and hard.

And square?

She drew it out as the middle indicator light went from blue to green.

It was the New Testament of Grethor, generously provided by something called a Gideonite.

"What happened to the Old Testament?" she murmured gripping the electronic book impressed by it's balance and weight.

It's sharp corners would make a handy weapon of choice..

The final light was blinking...


...when they come for you!


Her right hand flickered to a switch nearby and she was suddenly bathed in pure, pitch black.

The door slid open and the outside lights cast the person standing in her doorway as a shadow. She knew it was a trick of the lights as her eyes slowly began to adjust.


"You going to read me to death?" an amused voice split the darkness and Scipio smirked in the night.


GPD is shot on location. All suspects are guilty until proven innocent!


The lights came back on and Joine entered the room allowing the door to slide closed. Scipio toss the book onto the nightstand going back to her datapad. "You could have knocked. I would have had Room Services come up with a key to let you in."

Joine grinned at Scipio's 'I'm doing something so important that I cannot get out of bed to let you in' mood and looked over at the book.

"Who's Grethor?"

"Someone who knows more about violence than he originally thought." Scipio remarked absently. "You know, Joine, these Colonials are something of an enigma. They act as if they have a trump card with the Coalition..."


The Caprician man removed a device from his pocket and activated it. "You know you are sitting in a room that could double as a transmitter..there are so many devices here.."

"Can they hear me?"

"Not anymore.."

"What do I have to hide?"

"It's not what you have to hide but what they fear that worries me." Joine remarked. "Their government censors just about everything.."

"Not nearly enough.." Scipio quipped flicking a hand towards the entertainment suite.


Feminine itching got you down?


"Well, I do not think the Coalition will do anything about the Colonials."

"What makes you so sure?" she asked curious.

"These.." and the Caprician Man linked her datapad with a data-collection device he carried on his person and an image of a warship appeared on her screen.

"Scary."

"They have more than one and they are cleverly hidden in-system. They could easily overpower us and crush our little force here."

Scipio raised her eyebrows. "And the Empire could swat us if they wanted too. That is the key, Joine. What do they want? We do not give the Empire reason and so they leave us alone. For how long depends on the quality of their reasoning.

Same principle applies here. Are these Colonials mad, or simple ready for the next step."

"Are WE, Scipio? Is the Commonwealth that next step?"

"That's for them to decide. It's always been their choice but I will not go to war with the Coalition over them. If they feel they have the right to do what they are doing, then that is between the Colonies and the Coalition. We can offer to mediate but their politics are their own."


"I overheard some Colonials talking. Apparently, Viryn Quell arrived an hour ago and is being shown a room. I don't think Mr. Shipwright has been informed. Very unexpected this is."

Scipio felt a twitch. "Joine, there are three people in this galaxy that if they died right now, it would be a much more polite place to be. Imperial Grand Moff Zell, our own Admiral Wilkar and the Coalition Minister of Ethics Viryn Quell."

Joine laughed out loud. "Have you met him?"

"I haven't had the pleasure. But his reputation moves about before him battering opponents to pulp before they can raise an objection.."

"Interesting tactic for a Minister of Ethics.."

"Funny thing about ethics oversight, Joine. You are usually looking at someone else's ethics. Not your own."

"I hear he has a thing for droids. You two should get along smashingly.."

"Joine," Scipio growled.



~


The dawning of the new day was met with bird song.


The sweet, annoying, chirpy bird squawking 'pebble-stuck-in-throat' composition that passed as 'bird song' in the Colonies.

If Scipio had a gun she would have put the poor creatures out of their misery as she walked from her room to the meeting place. She was flanked by Commonwealth people and led by Colonials.

They were, if nothing else, organized and it appealed to her sense of 'what was what' in the galaxy and gave her hope.

She reflected over the image of the warship she had seen the night before and ran the name around in her head.

Gestalitica

Sounded like a clearing of the throat or a spice put on lumpy meat.

But she wasn't interested in what it sounded like.

That ship could take out the Ressario in nothing flat..


Why do they assign inferior ships to diplomats!?


She was glad she had come on the Rapier... That Wilkar was here..


To what? Keep you company as we both are blasted out of space?


She frowned to herself. Time to shine and think positive.


Like I am going to positively wring someone's neck if I don't get a cup of caff.

“Here’s to a sure thing: getting fucked when times are so… unsure,” toasted Wilkar, raising his glass in the air.

The selection of suits that members of the Commonwealth delegation had been given by the Colonials were elegantly decorated but offered few distractions.

“I’ll drink to that,” nodded Tarn, lifting the glass of rotgut to his lips. The liquor burned its way down his throat. He almost winced at the revoltingness of the drink, but the former infantryman, a veteran of many battles, kept his composure.

Mark Rubino, on the other hand, did not have the same composure as Captain Sarno, spilling the remainder of his drink down his bright yellow shirt. “Dear gods Admiral, what’s in this? Broken Glass and ground up blaster packs?”

Wilkar ignored the ambassador and poured himself another glass of repulsive concoction.

Rubino continued on his tirade. “Here I am having a few drinks with one of the wealthiest officers in the Commonwealth Armed Forces and we’re drinking this broke Corellian shit? I mean—“

Wilkar interrupted. “Tarn if you weren’t here with us on the ass end of the galaxy as we endeavor to try to determine if Colonial shit kickers have a crush on the Commonwealth?”

The admiral’s Death Watch bodyguard paused with an expression of feigned thought.

“Shit… I don’t know. Probably in some ditch on an alien planet that I don’t give a flying fuck about, watching my former unit get shot to pieces because we are outnumbered and out of bullets… or something like that…” shrugged Tarn as he loosened the straps of his black, gold skull emblazoned blast proof vest. The infantry officer poured himself another glass of the rotgut. “You could fuel a scout bike on this shit, Admiral.”

“Nothing but the best for burned out Kuati shipping heirs…” said Wilkar, with a toothy smile. “Rubino, I think you’re worthless. Scipio sings your praises, but she can fucking blow me. You get to talk sweet to dignitaries and travel the galaxy courtesy of Commonwealth. You’re not good enough to lick the sweat off of Captain Sarno’s boots. But… I might give you a chance to redeem yourself. Use your dearly purchased, your dearly expensive ambassadorial education to enlighten Tarn and myself with all you know about this Viryn Quell character that has just arrived.”

Mark took a moment to collect his thoughts.

“Well… He’s an asshole.”

Wilkar looked a Mark, waiting for him to continue.

“Get on with it Rubino,” ordered Wilkar, impatiently.

“He’s a bigger asshole than you are…?” elaborated the ambassador.

It was instantly apparent to Tarn that cigarette in his left hand and the glass of low quality, high potency liquor in his right hand was the only impediment to Wilkar knocking Rubino the fuck out.

“Fucking public education system…” muttered the admiral. “Raising up a bunch of insolent swine…” he continued to mumble as he ground the butt of his cigarette into an expensive looking piece of Colonial pottery. “Sarno!”

“Yes sir.”

“You went to private school, correct?” questioned Wilkar.

“Fuck no… sir,” adding the formality almost as an afterthought.

Wilkar’s annoyance began to intensify. “Oh yeah, I forgot you did get kicked out of the infantry. I forgot what a fuck up you were before you started working for me…”

Tarn ignored the jab.

“Kicked out of infantry? How’d you manage that Captain Sarno?” inquired Mark, wildly, not thinking where such a question might lead.

Tarn did not hesitate in his answer.

Looking Rubino square in the eye he explained. “I used to get juiced up before battles and do all kinds of crazy shit. This on time—“

“Never mind Captain,” interjected Mark, coming to his senses. “I can see myself going to far keeping this kind of company. You two—“

Another sip of rotgut by Mark put him into a violent fit of coughing lasting for a solid minute.

“Pussy,” said Tarn and Wilkar together.

“Fuck ups,” returned Mark.

These were difficult times for the Coalition - but then again, just when wasn't it? Even in an age of galactic-level communications and nations that spanned lightyears, things were happening (and going wrong) every day in the Coalition at such a prodigious speed that knowing exactly what was going on was more or less impossible. In such a morass, where law and procedure gave way to necessity and dictatorship, a nation could easily slip the entirely voluntary bonds of the Coalition without so much as a formal word.

There was one, however, for whom the Colonies held a special place of distaste in his heart. Even in the chaos of war, revolt, and secession, his vision cut through coverups and 'off the record' mumbo-jumbo. That man was Viryn Quell, intractible Minister of Ethics for the Galactic Coalition.

That man was unable to tie a tie.

"Fuck..." Viryn growled, pulling at the frustrating strip of fabric. "There are aliens in the Coalition who get away with being next to naked, but I've got to put up with this shit?" After catching his fingers in yet another knot, Viryn yanked the tie from around his neck an threw it into the corner of his room.

Any who saw him would have difficulty placing his age - he could have been a stressed, burnt-out twenty five or a fresh-faced fifty. Being that little about his life was fresh or energetic any more, an observer would be inclined to the former. Tufts of black hair shot out at odd angles, and thick glasses were perched on his brow. Viryn was wirey and slim, but his complexion was pale and he seemed constantly agitated.

Still, he had managed to get most of his suit on. It was archaic by galactic standards, but fashion moved slowly over a million-planet culture. It was, he reasoned, almost certainly in fashion somewhere. Casting about his temporary quarters for his shoes, it occured to the minister he hadn't seen them since their arrival at the government spire. "Miette!" he bellowed, looking under the bed. "Miette! Where are my shoes?"

A woman entered the room - stunningly beautiful, yet noticeably artificial. Smiling with practiced ease, Miette tiptoed over to the grumbling Viryn and offered a pair of worn traveller's shoes. "Here you are, honourable minister."

Viryn glanced up at the shoes and frowned, turning back to his open suitcase. "No, not those ones, my dress shoes. I'll be tearing Lance 'Oh what a big ship I've got' a new one all day, and it's hard to look a world leader in the face with cruddy running shoes - luckily I'll only be talking to Lance, and not some actual world leader."

Miette, not at all discouraged, continued to offer the battered running shoes. "Did you forget to pack your dress shoes?"

Viryn paused, dropping a stack of intelligence reports on his bed. "What, didn't you pack them?"

"You specifically instructed me not to go through your things any more, remember? After the office party thing?"

"Yeah, well," grumbled Viryn as he snatched the shoes from Miette's hand. "If we'd just both died in that office fire then we wouldn't have this problem, would we?" He pulled the battered old footwear on with a sigh. "This is exactly why no one takes me seriously. Fuck 'em."



It hadn't been hard for Viryn to gain access to the government spire, nor find out about the meeting with the Commonwealth and where it was scheduled. He had a knack for asking questions people didn't want to answer, and the ministerial power to squeeze the answer out. So long as the Colonies were part of the Coalition, they were subject to his authority - a fact he would make use of as long as possible.

Viryn's own dislike of the Colonies and Lance in particular was mostly personal. Viryn saw Lance as an opportunist who had abused the Coalition's trust, misused its' funds, and set himself up as tyrant of his own private kingdom. The Colonies was not a naturally formed nation, nor did it even make much sense to Viryn - it didn't exist for a purpose, like defeating an empire, nor did it have an underlying cultural connection of some kind. It had just sort of sprung up around Lance, insulating him from the justice he so richly deserved.

Regrad was a busy being, and these were indeed difficult times, but the moment word had slipped in that the Colonies were considering to jump ship, Viryn had sworn he would flay justice from Lance's hide if necessary.

As he marched through the halls of the Government spire, sans entourage except for his assistant Miette, his expression clearly befitted a flaying mood.

Shipwright and his assembly of Colonial effectives studied the arrangement with mixed impressions evident upon their weary faces. One prevailed as common to all present; concern. They were worried and had good reason to be.

Viryn Quell had, in his very short time among the Colonies, made quite an impression on the peoples of Gestalt. The local media had not painted a pretty picture of the events adding their own nefarious spin to the release and casting Quell as a marauding, self-empowered hammer-head. In truth, they weren’t far from home in their estimation of the man but, regardless had scoured the intra-galactic networks piecing together his history as best they could. Much of their material had been gleaned by way of the Empire, which both amused and shocked, but it seemed they had just as much reason to despise the man as they, of Gestalt.

From imprisoning their elected leader, the Vice Commodore, to threatening to levy embargoes against them, Viryn Quell had tried to bully his way through the Colonies sense of self. It had all gone very badly, getting out of hand very quickly. This was hardly uncommon for the insular peoples of the Colonies and had in fact happened once before regarding another Coalition ambassador, Jedi Irtar Mal’Gro.

Upon learning of the Ethics Ministers immanent return Lance Shipwright had gone in to emergency mode.

An hour earlier he had summoned the power elite to his offices and discussed, at length, how to handle the Quell affair. It had not started on a high note.

“It is hardly going well,” remarked Admiral Mar-Veil over the rim of his glass, sipping the amber liquid patiently. He was propped up against the wall, his shoulder put to it, while the early morning rays glistened in his glass. “Last night was…”

“Drinking already,” snipped Ramos behind an off hand yawn. She was as handsome as ever and how she had managed to put herself together so early, earlier still with Shipwrights summons, was a mystery to all.

“Hardly,” put Mar-Veil flatly. “I haven’t stopped.”

This elicited a chuckle from Oyzamndais, present only via hologram. “Good morning, isn’t it?”

Lance Shipwright, easily the youngest among those gathered, nearer in age to d'Foose who, also, was present and accounted for, sighed. “The arrival of Quell only makes things worse. I’d wager on his confidence, he’s holding something.”

Captain d'Foose nodded, adding, “He was fuming when he arrived. Our people stalled him but he was darn adamant about seeing Lance straight away. It was a miracle we managed to stall him off until morning. He arrived late. Seems local time isn’t one of his ethical concerns.”

“Which did not help things,” completed Lance. “He will have had all night to build a head full of steam. He could fuck everything up.”

“So what do we do?” Paula asked.

For a moment they had been silent only to have their reverie broken by the Admiral, quite soused in truth.

“What about Wilkar?”

Everyone turned towards the Admiral, curious.

“Our information says, if anything, he’s as much of a mouth as Quell. Why not try and sic’ ‘em on each other?”

It was a sound strategy and the more they discussed it the better it sounded until, gathered among a handful of their peers in power and capacity, Shipwright moved to put the plan in motion.

The room was auspicious, an open-air garden cut in to sections by a series of paths and squares which themselves were beset by benches of various type. Designed to encourage conversations on a more personal level, it backed on to the conference room.

Scipio Arien was first to arrive though the rest of the Commonwealth delegation soon arrived. The Colonial Admiral, sharp enough to catch the arrival of Wilkar, set off towards the military man, hoping to continue their discussion from the previous night, naval commander to naval commander.

Though Shipwrights people had been instructed to way-lay the arrival of the Coalition minister, Quell was obviously inside the loop. Their hour delay, telling Quell that proceedings would not start until after the noon hour, failed. Viryn arrived shortly there-after. Eyes like razors, he cut through the crowd searching out Lance Shipwright.

Having engaged Arien in conversation, the Vice Commodore was seated on one of the benches alongside the Ambassador and so not immediately visible. Quell however was uncanny in such formal settings.


“… what you want?” Scipio was asking, her tone decidedly even and unrevealing.

And then, quite abruptly, they were interrupted.

“Lance Shipwright,” the voice of Viryn Quell cut through their discussion like a knife through warm butter. “You have a lot to answer for…”

The timing was almost flawless. Standing, turning to address the new intrusion, Shipwright was saved, in very short order, by his Admiralty who, having roped Wilkar in, arrived to make introductions. The introductions were brief, a simple matter of making Quell known to the rest, but effective, and as Mar-Veil dispensed with them, Shipwright motioned Arien towards the conference room proper.

Ruben Mar-Veil turned towards Quell, “Minister Quell, I don’t believe you have met Admiral Wilkar…”

Mark toasted to himself as he knocked back the double provided by the droid attendant. He considered himself deserving of the drink. He had managed to keep Admiral Wilkar out of trouble thus far. This duty was no dream for a diplomat who attended the Commonwealth’s top schools, but it was one entirely necessary. A galactic nation had an obligation to its denizens to maintain face after all.

“A little early in the day for liquor isn’t it Mark?” quipped the admiral in his habitually obnoxious manner as the two made their way into the gardens.

“When it comes to drinking, you’re in no place to make jokes. I see you omitted your usual Whyren’s Reserve cologne this morning. An out of character move for you Admiral. I most say… I’m disappointed,” jibed the ambassador.

He had quickly learned from his own experiences that the best way to deal with the admiral was to not take him seriously. At that comment, Wilkar took his place in the garden just in front of his ever present bodyguard Captain Sarno. The fact that the admiral associated with the former infantry captain puzzled Mark. Surely an ex-member of the Kuati gentry would have a higher caliber of friends.

Must be a story there…

Given the captain’s questionable past, Mark hoped that some stories were left untold.

Mark scanned the faces of the Colonial delegation. It was the same cast of characters as the previous day except for a few. Mark did notice a new addition to crowd with the Coalition Minister of Ethics Viryn Quell now among them, clearly dispatched to the colonies by Regrad to throw a hydrospanner into any proceedings between the Commonwealth and the Colonies.

Mark’s heart sank when he noticed the course that Admiral Mar-Veil was leading the minister through the garden’s paths. Wilkar and the Quell seemed to be on a collision course. Thoughts raced through Mark’s head. Was this some kind Colonial strategy to neutralize the two firebrands? Should he sacrifice his body and throw himself between the two? But then he realized that all of those points were moot. He was too late.

“Minister Quell, I don’t believe you have met Admiral Wilkar…”

At first, the admiral said nothing, keeping his lips pursed together, looking the minister up and down.

Then after twelve eternities in a Yuuzhan Vong Embrace of Pain, the Admiral spoke.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you Minister Quell,” greeted the Admiral as if he was not the complete physco that Mark believed Wilkar to be.

Mark’s mouth visibly dropped in a very undiplomatic way. No cracks about the Coalition defeat at Bilbringi? No gibes about the secession of the Kashans? Not even that joke about Coalition checks bouncing. Mark was astonished. Did he get spiced this morning? Was the admiral actually sleeping again?

Mark had no answers to any of the questions quickly filling his mind. All he knew was he need another drink.