Vice Commodore Lance Shipwright studied the document at length before, with an aggravated exclamation, crumpling it into a ball and heaving it across the room into the waste bin. He cursed.

The small antechamber, something akin to a captain’s ready-room and currently occupied by three individuals, abutted the Colonial Ministers offices. Located in the heart of the Seven Cities the Colonial Legislature was mixture of prefabricated buildings and much larger structures that, while still under construction, had about them the distinct air of administration. A single prefabricated dome served as the meeting ground for the Colonial Electrets with a series of smaller octagonal buildings connected, via corridors, to the dome itself. The Colonial Minister kept her own offices within the dome, aptly named the Chamber of Colonial Representatives.

Admiral Mar-Veil was seated in a high backed chair of antiquated design while Minister Ramos occupied a position just behind and to the left of the aged navy man. Both wore the typical garb of their station and shared looks of confusion. It was the Colonial Minister who spoke first.

“Is this not what we wanted?” She asked in a cool, level voice. “This is good news, Lance.”

Lost to his own internal discourse, the Vice Commodore did not initially respond. His uniform hung open, loose around the collars and wrinkled. A mess of deep auburn hair, not combed by brush or fingers, sat atop his head and the early stubble of a man in need of a shave had begun to darken his features. The man had been confined in his own offices aboard the Uniform, doubtless devoted to yet another project, and had not bothered to attend his own appearance. In bad need of a shower and stinking thusly; the Admiral and Colonial Minister had wisely chosen to remain on the far side of the room.

“Yes, it’s great,” Lance sneered. Stirred from his thoughts, he turned an irritated eye towards the Minister. “It’s not the ‘what’ of the thing; it’s the ‘who’.”

Viryn Quell had been responsible for reprimanding Lance and his company for the development of the MC-170 ‘Krakana’. To his credit the Minister of Ethics was a ruthless, calculating man who had previously taken the opportunity to chide Mr. Shipwright for his over eager approach. Their first meeting had not gone well and indeed Viryn Quell maintained the upper hand through and through. Now he had been assigned to asses the validity of the Gestalt Colonies with the full authority of the Galactic Coalition to back him.

This complicated everything.

“Ah, yes,” the Admiral spoke in hushed tones. “Viryn Quell was the man who came down hard on Galactic Technologies regarding the development Project Final Word.”

The Admiral chuckled.

Shipwright shot him a nasty look. “You two can handle the meet and greet. Wow the man. Doubtless he is going to see right through the both of you and demand his way to me.” Lance scratched his chin and pushed off of the wall, “We’re going to have to adjust our bargaining strategy accordingly.”

“As you wish,” the Colonial Minister winked at her seated counterpart. It was something of an inside joke. “The Admiral can arrange an escorted tour of the Colonies upon arrival. Afterwards I will take it upon myself to make Minister Quell familiar with the structure of our government.”

Pausing at the door, the exit, Vice Commodore Shipwright threw a look over his shoulder. “All fluff information, don’t give him anything solid. I’m sure he knows enough already and will only pick up on more of the longer he is able to dilly dally around the Colonies. Regardless, leave the meat of the matter to me.”

He slammed a fist against the switch and stalked out of the room almost before the doors had time to whoosh open. Left to their own devices, the Colonial Minister and Admiral shared an amused bout of good natured laughter.

“He gets lost inside his own head,” Paula Ramos moved towards the wet bar. She poured two glasses of burgundy hued alcohol and, offering one to the Admiral, occupied a seat opposite the distinguished commander. “It’s a character flaw.”

“He is a brilliant man.” The Admiral, Ruben, countered. “You should trust him.”

“Oh, I trust him. I just don’t trust all the voices in his head.”

They laughed.

Colonial Task Force Alpha moved into position above the planet Gestalt. The Provincial, Colonial, Commonwealth and Tribal, the premier ships of their lines, arranged themselves in a long, broadside line. Ranging between around three hundred and nine hundred meters long, the starships all hung above the blue-green disk below in profile positions.

Two squadrons of starfighters, one of CF-105 Arrows and the other Avengers, shot between the brutish starships trailing smoke tails of blue, red and white. Their hulls were brightly adorned with paint schemes representative of the various branches of the Defense Fleet and the Seven Cities.

Captain d’Foose, aboard the Colonial, smiled at the display. Her people, though militaristic in their nature, were not inclined towards violence. This odd contradiction had created a sort of abstract culture based on displays of power such as parades and the like. They enjoyed the sensation of unity it provoked not to mention the reaffirmation of some sort of security from beyond.

“Portside Cannons, fire at will,” she ordered.

The deck echoed with the resounding thump a full, perfectly timed volley. In the black beyond, high above the planet Gestalt, a display of fireworks lit the sky like some ungodly celestial explosion. Continuing to pump their non-lethal ammunition, the line of ships lit the night-side of Gestalt, directly above the Seven Cities, as though the sun itself were shining down upon them.

“Right now, down there,” she declined her chin toward the disc below. “Everyone is celebrating and I can’t help thinking it’s a little premature.”

Her Executive Officer, a handsome man of perhaps thirty, appeared at her side. “Pardon me?”

“I wonder if our guests are enjoying the show as much.”

The envoy and its escort had reverted to real space on the edge of the Gestalt star system. With only one known route in our out, they had little choice. Even the Defense Fleet, though they rarely went beyond half a light-year from their own system, had to pause upon re-entry and reorient themselves for a micro-jump to Gestalt I or one of the other Colonies. They had entered visual range only moments earlier.

With a quick look at the Communication station, and the officer attending, the XO confirmed, “Admiral Mar-Veil is sending his welcome from aboard the Provincial.”

“Put it up.”

“… would like to formally welcome you to the Gestalt Colonies, Admiral Ruben Mar-Veil commanding the Colonial Starship Provincial…”

Captain d’Foose tuned out. It was all too typical, too political for her. The Admiral would proffer his salutations and attempt to impress the Ethics Minister with his own superfluous, personal greeting. Parade Wing, the twenty four brightly painted starfighters, would escort the Minister aboard the Provincial where, naturally, he would be taken on a meandering tour of the carrier with Admiral Mar-Veil as his personal guide. And then, assuming the Minister approved the interary, Task Force Alpha would accompany the Provincial on a quick series of jumps through the system; time enough to introduce the four colonies before being conducted to the surface where yet another parade would doubtless welcome his arrival.

Then off to meet the Colonial Minister and Vice Commodore Shipwright following that. A full tour of the Gestalt Colonies, top personalities inclusive…

“Well, here’s to the future.”

Viryn looked out the viewport of his shuttle at the gratuitous explosions that lit up what should have been a planet's tranquil night. He frowned at the garish whites, reds, and blues - where was the somber black he'd grown accustomed to in Coalition service? To him, the ships looked like delicate origami birds, especially after having seen images of the horrid slugfest still unfolding in the Eastern Provinces. How long would these dancing parade ships hold up against PIM missiles, he wondered?

"Minister, the pilot's told me we're on our final approach to the Colony ship 'Provincial'." Miette appeared at the door to his small private cabin. "They've sent an honour guard to escort us in."

"I noticed," grumbled Viryn. He sighed, and turned away from the viewport. "Remember when we lived in the pits of Coruscant? Back then if we showed up in a system and people knew who we were, we'd get shot at. Now all of a sudden a visit from the honourable Minister Quell is worth waking people up in the middle of the night with explosions. I hate this pomp and circumstance, Miette."

With a cheeky grin, Miette said "Yes, but be fair - you hate everything."

Viryn laughed, a lopsided grin breaking through his glum features. "All right, you got me. I'll can the whole curmudgeon thing. If these guys try to sweet-talk me through this deal, however, you're going to see the old-fashioned Viryn come burning back from his hole in a Coruscant shithouse." He rubbed his face in exasperation and looked off into space. "Have we got anything else on this trip? Information, who we're meeting, that stuff?"

"The admiral Mar-Veil greeted us, I think he'll be our tour guide. Then there's the Colonial Minister Paula Ramos, who operates as their civilian leader."

"Wait, where does Lance fit in in all this this again?"

Miette lifted a datapad where a branching guide to Colonial organization could be found, and saw that both branches led to the man at the top. "I'm not sure. He seems just to be... in charge. No elected position per se, I guess Vice Commodore is a military rank but he seems over the admirals so I don't know if that's official."

"So he's basically their boss?"

"Well, he does sign everyone's checks."

Viryn snorted "Yeah, our checks. I'm looking forwards to meeting the man. Commodore's one of those titles that paramilitary whackjobs with delusions of gradure like to give themselves, no one knows where they're supposed to be but it sounds high up. Are you sure about this information?"

Miette rolled her eyes and crossed her legs - motions she'd perfected in her 'younger' days to be as fluent as possible. "As sure as I can be. It's not like we have spies running surveillance, beyond that all we know is that their company research ship RDS Uniform is still the joining link between the different branches of the colonies, and that Lance runs the show from there."

"Wait..." Viryn frowned, and started to lean forwards in his seat. "If the Uniform is their capital ship then why isn't Lance meeting us there?"

"As far as I know he isn't meeting us right away, I think they want to give us a tour before any-"

"Oh no!" said Viryn, who began firing up again. "I'm not letting Lance off the hook that easy." He got to his feet and strode to the pilot. "Pilot? Replot our entry, we're going to the Uniform."

Slightly surprised the pilot nodded "Uh, sure... what should I tell the admiral?"

"Tell him business before pleasure. We'll be speaking to Lance first. I'm not going to be dragged all across the system to let them shoot more sparklers in my face and tell me about their glorious several-month-old history." He paused, and added "Leave that last part out."

Miette sighed, and joined Viryn in the cockpit. "This is going to be a long day, isn't it?"

“He what?” roared Admiral Mar-Veil.

The Executive Officer, a stern looking human of thirty odd years, handed his commander a flimsy document. “Aye sir, Minister Quell has redirected the shuttle toward the Uniform.”

Bridge officers and command crews alike had been ordered to wear their dress uniforms and the Admiral was no exception. He smoothed his tunic and, unfolding his glasses, examined the parchment. Fluffy eyebrows poked up above the wire thin gold rimmed eye glasses. “Business before pleasure,” read the Admiral curiously. “Business before pleasure…”

His prior displeasure, manifested as an aggravated shout, slowly faded into an amused sort of sublime smile.

“Send an updated report to the Uniform and inform Colonial Minister Ramos offices of the change.”

This would indeed prove amusing.

Aboard the RDS Uniform, in particular the offices of Vice-Commodore Lance Shipwright, the mood was not so light.

A Delta unit, this one an unassuming man of perhaps twenty years and clad in the traditional cover-all of a RDS employee, stood watching his employer with a perplexed sort of look on his face. Curiously he tracked and attempted to interpret the apparent rambling ranting of his superior.

“No, he bloody well can’t!”

Lance Shipwright had just come out of the shower; a refresher unit abutted his office. A terrycloth towel was wrapped about his waist and he appeared to have been in the middle of a shave. Still dripping wet he paced up and down behind his desk, very occasionally pausing to fiddle with a control panel here or adjust a stack of data pads there.

“It’s not all just a little bump,” he snarled at no one in particular and waved a hand by his ear. “And stop touching me, I need to think!”

The Delta unit, bemused, did not bother to state that it had obviously not touched the Vice-Commodore. It did, however; take a moment to suggest that perhaps it would be a wise idea to finish shaving and get dressed. The suggestion went largely unheeded as, for the most part, Mr. Shipwright did not seem aware of, or willing to acknowledge the presence of the Delta.

“Stop fussing. I don’t need you to blow in my ear and tell me it’s going to be okay. What I need you to do is shut up and let me think. I need to stall.”

An idea occurred to the android/human replica. “Docking Pod Alpha and Bravo are offline for maintenance. The closest bay to the Administration levels is a Gamma-level unit designed for small probes and prototype starfighters. It is barely suitably sized to accommodate the Ambassadorial shuttle. The shuttle will have to dock on Sub-Section One Thirteen. Best arrival times from the suggested docking bay are,” he paused to calculate, “One hundred fifty five seconds, average.”

Lance Shipwright paused and studied the Delta as though it were some distant and foreign object. With eyes able to detect even micro-radio pulses, the Delta could tell and puzzle at the extreme dilation of his employers pupils which slowly began to focus on the android.

“What… Yes, Delta. Make it so. And bring me my uniform, something dressy. We’ll use my meeting room,” he gestured to yet another room connected, though indirectly, to his offices. “You’ll accompany me, no one else.”

“Yes sir,” said the Delta while simultaneously relaying the Vice-Commodores commands throughout the Uniform. “Flight control is updating their flight path.”

“Good. Let’s not make him wait too much longer.”

~~~

"Coming in to land now, Minister," said the pilot as they navigated the cluttered hangar bay of the Uniform. "We'll be clear to drop you off soon."

"Good," said Viryn, who was pulling his coat on. He refused to wear anything official, this was merely a leathery trench coat for fending off the cold of a starship's open spaces. With that secured, he turned and nodded to Miette who joined him at the boarding ramp. There was one last clunk and shudder as the shuttle came to a stop in the hangar bay. The ramp extended, and they were out.

"Geeze, what a mess..." Viryn murmured, as he observed the various bits and pieces that had been quickly cleaned away for his arrival. Clearly he had entered the engineering world, a strange world with funny looking cogs, expensive machinery, and a disproportionate number of men. "Come on, let's get going."

"Not much of a mechanic, Viryn?" said Miette, as they navigated the tools and wires all over the flight deck.

"Are you kidding?" said Viryn. "My technical expertise ends at the abbacus."

"Aw, pity," said Miette cheekily. "I was hoping you could fix a shaft in my undercarraige."

Years of such double entendres had left Viryn numb to their humour, and he continued walking without notice. With a perfectly timed virtual sigh, Miette, followed him.

Reaching the edge of the hangar where a promising door stood open, Viryn nodded curtly to the strange-looking man in cover-alls. "Listen, we haven't got all day, so I'll cut straight through the diplomatic shit. I'm Minister Quell and you've got Lance Shipwright in there somewhere, maybe on a huge pile of government money giggling. Take me to your leader."

The word came to mind; stalemate.

And it totally failed to describe the situation.

Glaciers and tectonics moved quicker and less with less deliberation.

Vice Commodore Lace Shipwright locked horns with Viryn Quell, Minister of Ethics.

“Is there no way to exculpate myself in yours eyes?”

The two had been locked away, sequestered now, for minutes. Viryn Quell had broached the situation diplomatically enough. He had accused Lance Shipwright of misappropriation, misappropriation due a most genuflect apology. It had progressed from there, neatly.

Scuttlebutt intoned the Minister was traveling with a female escort or counterpart. Sensing the need to present a similar front the Vice Commodore had brought along a Delta unit as well. Unlike the Minister and his cohort Lance Shipwright and the Delta were stark contrasts to one another.

A cerulean uniform of the deepest naval hues fit his moderate frame well and was similarly adorned with all the pageantry, piping and embroidery due his station. Golden epaulettes sat pleasantly upon his shoulder while atop his head a bleached white dress-cap, naval in tradition, reflected the luminescent glow of the overhead lighting. He had unbuttoned the top notches of his jacket, revealing a pale blue dress shirt. Pinned to his breast was a small, tasteful Coalition pin.

Feigning nescience and hovering at the Commodores shoulder was the Delta unit. Perfectly human in appearance, the android had the foresight to smudge his orange and yellow cover-all. Typical grease monkey behavior and the replicant pulled it off beautifully. He attempted to remain innocuous, and failed horribly.

A stack of data pads and flimsy documents tumbled onto the table. The technician, an android in human clothing, looked up and cringed. Lance Shipwright sat at one end of the table while Viryn Quell took up a position at the other. Given the roughly square shape of the furnishing they ended up sitting across from one another and not so much apart from. Caught in the imbroglio the Delta managed to look abashed and, stacking the pads, backed away from the table.

“Your arrant arrival here, in dismissal of the welcoming the people of Gestalt arranged in your honor, seems indicative of an inherit mistrust between us. I cannot imagine why you would be of such an outlandish opinion. You have all of the appropriate information.”

The negotiations were not timorous; indeed they had begun with a note of peevishness.

While the people of the Gestalt Colonies had been nothing if not complaisant, in fact striving beyond such extremes to please their Coalition guest Minister Viryn Quell seemed bound and determined to find some fault with the scenario and in particular, a fault which he could exploit and blame upon one Lance Story Shipwright. And to that end the Vice Commodore had, seemingly, dispensed with the pretense.

He pressed his palms into the table almost pulling his posterior from its seat.

“What hubris do you hope to find here, Minister Quell?” He waved a hand at the piles of data. “And why do you distrust our considerable offers to assuage your concerns? If it is true that gregariousness hides a crime, then indeed you have some very deep digging to do.”

Tribute had been paid. Further tribute had been offered. Starships, prefabricated constructs… whatever they asked and could the Colonies provide, they had offered. Yet still Viryn Quell refused to accept their kindness as genuine. Vice Commodore Shipwright strongly suspected that the Minister had taken personal exception. He was bound and determined to discover why.

“I dream of a connubial state between Gestalt and the New Galactic Coalition and yet…”

In an act of contrition he slumped back into his chair, doffed his cap and ran his fingers though his oiled, jet-black hair. “As you know, the Colonies are close to the Imperial border. While we maintain a peaceful stance with the Empire and exist beyond their current claimed territory and, I might add, further beyond their own suggested Neutral Territory Proposal, this state of affairs cannot purport itself indefinably. Expansionist empires enlarge exponentially.”

“We need your help, Minister Quell. And I think you need ours.”





Meanwhile, elsewhere...

“Who parked this here?”

The young mechanic glared at the opulent shuttle that occupied his docking berth. He snarled.

“What in the hell is going on when a guy can’t get two hours to work on his own projects…”

A security dispatch approached the man from either side of the aforementioned spacecraft. They wore the uniforms of Colonial Fleet Security and the stern, square set glare of the same. Electro-batons thumped against their hips as they moved forwards.

“This area is off limits to all personnel until further notice,” said one, the larger, burlier man. “You will have to leave.”

Shocked, and clearly awed, the technician split his attention between the two men and began back peddling. “Hey, if no one is allowed to be here, why are you guys here?”

Something caught his attention and he added, “Is that a diplomatic escort? That’s a Coalition emblem.”

A moment later, his world went black. One of the men had struck him with his weapon.

Much as one would expect under the circumstances, he slumped to the ground.

Viryn gave Lance an evil eye as he looked the man up and down from across the meeting table. He suppressed a sneer at the military uniform that put Viryn in the mind of a strongman dictator. "Lance, the Coalition doesn't need your help, it needs your services. Services that we pay for with money in the normal if somewhat onesided corporate exchange we're used to. We're not in the business of contracting out to quasi-nations run by a half CEO, half head researcher, half self-appointed president-for-life, unless his name is Vinda - and don't even get me started on that guy. However, he still has the sense not to use our money to found his own nation then expect us to bail him out.

"You're the one who chose the system to colonize, which means you shouldn't be so surprised to find Imperial Expansion on your doorstep. You're also the one who decided to turn a moderately successful ship engineering business started with public resources into a private kingdom full of new, dependant citizens, meaning my only business here is looking after the Coalition's investment."

Viryn stretched back in his chair. Unlike Lance's gesture, this was just so that he could get a bit more elevation to look down on him from. It wasn't that he was a naturally vindictive man (okay, so maybe he was), but the way Lance spoke as if the Coalition was going to play along with whatever he felt like doing burned a naturally venemous chord with Viryn.

"Maybe I should clarify my stance a little, Mr. Shipwright. The Coalition employs quite a few companies - some entirely independant, some goverment built - to build it warships, armies, or whatever the fuck we need for whatever the hell it is the House votes important today. One of my many jobs is making sure that all of those companies do their jobs without any foul play. A goverment-funded company using that cash to establish their own nation outside of my jurisdiction can be filed under 'foul'. As such, there's two ways this thing can go down.

"If you're in a bad spot and want 'diplomatic aid' or admittance into the Coalition or whatever it is you think'll keep you from getting clobbered, then you're going to have to admit that you're not a government company any more and I'm going to have to ask for our stuff back, which includes a good chunk of your staff and probably half your brain. If, on the other hand, you're a Coalition company willing to play by our rules, then you're going to have to explain away what the cost of running a small country has to do with ship design and why we're paying for it, because I know you didn't pay for the colonies with personal checks, and all we've paid you for is ship design."

He was about to continue laying into Lance, when something caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. He turned to the edge of the table, where he saw Miette leaning up against the weird man in coveralls. "Miette?" The secretary tilted her head to Viryn. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"Not this guy, it looks like," she said, with a wicked grin. Without warning, she planted her elbow into the crotch of the overalled figure, which hardly noticed the hit nor Miette's proximity. Viryn had winced simply at the sound of the impact, yet the man stood unharmed. Miette chuckled, "What, Mr. Fancy-Pants space engineer couldn't afford full anatomical correctness? What sort of mechanical man hasn't got any manhood?"

Viryn just gave her a somewhat slackjawed expression. When he recovered, he shook his head in disbelief, adding mentally to have her behaviour core checked for cracks when they got back.

Initially stumped, in the midst of formulating a reply to counter the rather extreme rebuttal of Viryn Quell, Vice Commodore Shipwright had not been properly situated to immediately comprise a defense against the supposed discovery of his human-android replicant. For the space of perhaps a half dozen breaths he said nothing, simply sat with a slack jawed expression and gawked at the Ministers aide.

For his part, Minister Quell seemed ready to launch yet another verbal assault on the character and motivations of Lance Shipwright and, by default, the citizens of his colonial efforts. Luckily, fortunately, the Delta unit was far swifter in its reply.

It turned and, contriving to look insulted, spoke towards the aide, “Is this a case of ‘the pot calling the kettle black?”

He posed the question simply and without malice and for a moment everyone shared Lance’s earlier stunned silence. And then, despite himself, Vice Commodore Lance Shipwright erupted into a bout of furious laughter. It did not start as an outright riot but began as a stifled chuckle that quickly grew into an uncontrollable giggle before parting his lips. The Delta followed suit.

A tear welled up in the corner of Shipwrights eye. Wiping at it and opening his mouth to speak he noticed that neither Quell nor his aide seemed to derive the same amusement as Lance found in the absurd situation.

“No, Minister Quell, this is not going to ‘go down’ as you suggest. Neither option suits me.”

He rose from his chair, shaking his head in dismay, and adopted a look of distant disinterest.

“At this point, and for the projected future, the Colonies of the Gestalt peoples will enter into a state of near self-sustenance upon which we will develop into a complete and unique contributing member of the Galactic Coalition. There is very little that can stand in the way of this, as you have no doubt discerned for yourself; the Colonies have extended themselves far further the most any member government of equal proportion in order to assuage your doubts. You could propose further demands, but nothing short of a complete trade embargo is going to get in the way of the developing Colonial effort.”

Gazing out the window of their frugal meeting lounge, Lance continued.

“What I want for the Colonies is nothing less then complete membership within the Galactic Coalition of Planets. In exchange I am willing to offer the following…” Lance paused and turning regard the still seated Minister of Ethics, reclined against the wall somewhat. Hefting a palm, he began counting points on his fingertips. “The Gestalt Colonies will continue to build and develop technologies for the GC; order priority will be matched accordingly and , of course, all deliveries of said goods and services will be offered pro-bono until such time as the Government, and yourself, are completely certain of our financial, not to mention personal, devotion to the cause of freedom exemplified by the Coalition.”

“Secondly, the Gestalt Colonies will allow for complete GC supervision. I want to assure you of our intent here and to that end I am more then willing to establish oversight committees or directorate boards to help coordinate our goals. The exact terms of this agreement are negotiable on all points. I am willing to concede the development of the MC-170 Krakana as something of a mistake, which through the development of said organizations, we can avoid in the future… unless of course we should choose to coordinate on another similar development.”

“Third, and as indicated by your lovely assistant, I am willing to offer the GC unbridled access to my Delta-unit development. It should be noted, and the documents I will supply confirm, the Delta-unit development project was, in fact, carried out completely independent of any Coalition assistance. Doubtless you would demand the same anyhow…”

Anyone could have read that look in his eye. Trained politician or expert interrogator; one learned to pick up on these things.

“Such a demand could only end badly, this saves us both the worry.” Another finger flipped up and he counted it. “In summary, and fourth, the Coalition of Planets will continue to be our major trade partner. All other trade will similarly be conducted with alliance planets through the previously mentioned boards.”

“We want you, Mr. Quell and we want you to want us.”

Then, slowly, his face paled and a frown creased his lips. “We do not want to have our ambitions dashed by Imperial fervidity nor do we wish to see our hopes and dreams ruined by that same body we wish to join. We are prepared to defend our independence, even if it means our certain demise.”

“There are too few places in the galaxy like Gestalt, too few worlds where humans can feel… human… without being held responsible for the actions of others. Outside the Empire…” he drifted off for a fraction of a second. “You can take us as friends, Minister, or you can leave us as enemies.”

Miette knew that was the moment that the scruffy (but kind of hot, she thought) Commodore had lost the fight with Viryn. Viryn had spent but a few years in power after a lifetime of helplessness in the galactic scene, which meant if there was one thing he didn't like it was ultimatums. The stir of thoughts in Viryn weren't difficult to see - the distinctive twitching as Lance laid out his options.

Too bad, she thought to herself. They're practically the same person deep down. Then again, that could be the problem - does the galaxy really need two Viryns? The very thought of it almost shorted her motivator.

As she pondered this, Viryn quietly assembled the datapads and papers he'd recieved and slowly rose to his feet. "Well, that's going to be one hell of a pity. I was hoping you'd turn out to be sane, but it looks like you really think this is a country and you're their visionary founder. As Minister of Ethics for the Galactic Coalition, consider your company terminated for unethical behaviour.

"I'm not a total asshole, however. I recognize that you've got a couple million people dancing to your tune - although why they chose to follow a nutcase inventor is beyond me - so I'll give you twenty-four hours to put your affairs in order before I issue some arrest warrants."

"Viryn!" said Miette. "What are you doing?! You're being a total jerk to these guys, what's the problem? So they founded a country with government money, isn't that even better than just building some ship? Why do you want to punish them for-"

"For breaking the law? My, that's an innovative crime there, breaking the law. You're right, I should let him go." Viryn rolled his eyes. "You're not here to advise me, Miette. I know what I'm doing - and I'm nipping this madman in the ass before he gets anyone else tied up in this crazy dream of his. We didn't hire him to make a government, and I sure as hell don't trust him to run one." Viryn glanced at Lance before leaving the room. "I'll be seeing more of you soon, Mr. Shipwright."

Miette followed in his wake, pausing at the door. "Sorry, he can be a bit sensitive. Maybe he'll change his mind later?" With that uncertain consolation, she too left the room, leaving Lance and his Delta alone.

"Miette," said Viryn. "We're going back to the ship, then we're going to put Lance away and have this whole thing broken down. Everyone we lent him gets a psych evaluation then gets reassigned or cut loose. His whole 'Colonies' will have to be nationalized and broken down piece by piece."

"Isn't this a bit extreme?" said Miette, who moved nimbly in front of Viryn, blocking his path. "You've only been here like an hour, tops. What did he do?"

Viryn scowled, and gave Miette a sideways glance. "After that meeting, I just don't trust Lance's motives. At all. That doesn't matter if he's running some company or doing research for us, but it sure as hell matters if he's going to build his own country and private navy. If we hadn't found him he'd be nothing, now he's trying to negotiate with us for..."

"For what?" said Miette, who moved once again into Viryn's path. "All he wanted was to help you guys! He said he'd give you all sorts of deals, research, whatever you want! He even wants to join the Coalition! What're you afraid of?"

Viryn finally made it past Miette, and began striding purposefully towards his shuttle. "Him."