Tales of the Efferdhal Lily/The Tales/The Salem Affair

From UTRPG

In which the crew of the Efferdhal Lily visits Salem, Oregon and gets embroiled in local politics.

This transcript is in the process of being edited for content, length and style.

[edit] Before the conflict

[edit] Oregon legal team

September 25, 756 OSY

Jett dozed on the hard plastic seats in the North Salem spaceport. The seats seemed designed for some species other than human, apparently with narrow hips and hunched backs. And no pain sensors in their legs. Each seat had a five-button control pad attached to it, which as far as Jett could tell didn't do anything. Maybe the buttons were wired up to an apparatus that was part of a social experiment to see how many times people would push the buttons without getting anything in response. If so, Jett had given them a lot of data before he had gotten bored and tired.

It wasn't easy sleeping in those chairs, but the low-g environment made Jett feel at home, and the downers still leaching into his neck helped as well. Preston, on the other hand, was a bundle of energy. He had been running from office to office, from agency to agency, trying to get someone to expedite his request for diplomatic status. Apparently this was the only way to even get to Polk without a registered tour guide, let alone get any sort of audience with the OSA council.

It was barbaric, all this running around. Normally Preston would hold all these meetings and file all these requests over the net, but Salem's data networks were excruciatingly slow, and had the tendency to cut out at inopportune times. Add to that the fact that there was some sort of space-interference cloud between Salem and Polk, and it was nearly impossible to do anything efficiently. So Preston was stuck actually travelling from place to place, following one dead end after another, getting shuffled around by clueless clerks.

Surely he would get to Polk eventually.

Preston sat down exasperated and tired beside Jett. "There must be an easier way to get to Polk... sigh... Haha, Imagine if we could take your rocket pack? Wait a minute... Is that the worst idea ever or the best idea ever? I can't decide."

Jett chuckled around his exhaustion. There was something about Preston's presence that seemed to sap energy directly from Jett and fuel Preston's mania. But there was something behind the joke, some idea, that started to bother Jett.

"I don't know if it'd be a good idea for you to just cling to my suit while I jump at a space station a million miles away."

A silence of mutual frustration followed.

"Wait... Pres. What in space is taking so long? Is it securing a ship, or getting a landing permit? 'Cause if getting a ship would help, I'm sure we can speed things up..."

Preston laughed at him, but Jett wasn't discouraged. He knew there must be a faster way to get this done. Preston commanded more money than Jett could readily conceive of. He didn't understand how anyone who threw around that kind of space-bread had difficulties getting anything done.

"Pres, why don't you just bribe 'em with those new credit chits? You know, show 'em the value of Arestonian money. Exchange rate must have been pretty nice to you, and a few chits can grease the wheels of these desk-clerks or whatever are giving you problems."

Preston gasped. "Jett! Are you suggesting I perform a misdeed!? I could never conceive of compromising a man's integrity by offering him a bribe! However these savages are needy... It would practically be a crime to leave these primitives in such poverty as we found them. But with such poverty often comes such pride, they would never accept my charity. Perhaps a donation merely guised as a bribe is the most ethical course of action after all... "Very well! It is decided! The fates will reward my virtue!"

Preston then headed straight for the office of the bureaucrat who seemed most sketchy with a bag of plastic in his pocket. Preston entered the office of the previously stubborn official.

"I see you're back Mr. Feckless, did you have another matter to discuss?"

"Yes, in fact it is a matter of an overburdened wallet." Preston put a bag of money onto the desk.

The official paused, but only for a moment. "Well it seems everything is in order, they will be expecting you on Polk in a few days."

"How civilized of you." Preston returned to Jett to relay the good news.

With a few judiciously placed bribes, Jett and Preston quickly found themselves at the inter-Salem shuttle port. High-powered fast-burn shuttles lined the docks, their squat, ugly forms reminiscent of every other piece of engineering in this backward system. Jett felt comforted by the site, and even recognized a number of models quite similar to the crafts from Tombstone.

"Well, looks like we're on our way. Remember to strap in, Pres. These trips can get pretty wild."

[edit] Oregon research team

September 25, 756 OSY

Having exhausted their ability to gather information from outside, Mei-Ling and James flew to South Lansing by aeroplane. The flight from one end of Lansing to the other took 18 hours, non-stop. Shaking the knots out of their backs and shoulders, it looked at first as though the pair had arrived back where they started. The architecture was nearly identical, and the huge domed end of the habitat loomed in the distance, disappearing above the clouds.

Soon differences were evident. The buildings were large, but not quite as large as in Lancaster, and not quite as densely packed. As they were driven in a ground-car to the hotel Preston had booked for them, it was clear that this city catered to its educational institutions: shops and restaurants advertised reduced prices for students on all sorts of low-quality goods. From time to time the car would be forced to stop by the flow of traffic, and nearly every time this happened someone would hurry up to the vehicle carrying clothes or jewelery or food to sell, scowl at the passengers for not looking like students, and move on hopefully to the next vehicle.

The hotel was a short distance from the city proper, and looked to be one of the nicer ones around. When they checked in the hotel clerk bowed to Mei-Ling and apologized profusely. "We're very sorry, but there will be a short delay while we process the off-system credit account used to book this room. Please have a seat in the bar, and enjoy a drink with our compliments." He looked curiously but not disapprovingly at the obviously foreign James. "Please let us know if there is anything you will need during your stay."

James smiled politely as the clerk left. There was something amusing about that mild look of distaste. Though then again...

He glanced down at his comm-rig. Ugh, 10mbps wireless. Its like the tube age out here.

"Porlin... That sounds familiar. Why do I know that name?"

Mei-ling wasn't particularly put off by the clerk's demeanor. Most of the population in Oregon had only slightly more regard for other habitats in the system as they did for out-systemers, and she was used to the superciliousness of Salem in particular, which was the self-proclaimed hub of the system.

Sitting down next to James, in the slightly worn lobby couch, Mei-ling looked over his shoulder at his comm-rig. "He's the slipknot physics person. Why?"

"I've heard that name back on Erewhon." He pulled up an aerostat screen and blazed through an incomprehensible 3D field of data, to the bewilderment of onlookers. "Ah, there," he said bringing up an article from the Invisible Eagle Times. "There was a Dr. Porlin working in the University of Erewhon's northern campus several years ago who was also tied in with the Erenese military on several top secret projects. It can't be the same guy can it?"

Mei-ling sat up, quietly impressed at the ease with which James extracted his data. "There can't be too many Dr. Porlin's in the cluster, but it does seem unlikely. Erewhon? Really? But, he didn't publish anything here recently. Maybe we can look up an LSI course catalog, see if he missed teaching courses for a a few terms in the right timeframe?"

[edit] Polk

September 26, 756 OSY

In comparison to the harrowing shuttle from Marion, the transport to Polk was luxurious. Less creaky and rusted, this transport didn't feel like such a death trap. Its passenger seats were clean and cushioned, and the pilot gave most of his attention to his flying, at least until the vessel was out of the busy Salem environs.

It was difficult to tell, but it felt like the transport was not particularly fast. Still, it was a smooth ride, and Jett was able to catch a couple of hours of drug-induced sleep over the course of the five-hour flight. Preston spent much of the time completing the remaining paperwork for his diplomatic permit, reading up on Salem law and coming up with a way to fill in Jett's landing papers that wouldn't get them both strip-searched.

Preston also put time into informing himself on the current legal and political situation in Oregon. Corvallis had, unsurprisingly, been alternately bullying and convincing the other nations of the OSA into supporting them on various fronts: most notably in taking a flexible attitude toward the legality of Corvallis' military activities, and in adopting an anti-outsider stance. The paranoia their rhetoric had instilled in the OSA would be hard to counter.

The president of the OSA was intriguing. Peter Contros was a favourite of the OSA, the media and the public alike. He was unusual among politicians in that his name was not associated with any political scandals, at least not for very long. Whether it was by being abnormally honest or for other reasons, Contros was so good at avoiding scandal, and at keeping it from sticking to him when it arose, that he was nicknamed "Teflon Pete."

On the one hand, it seemed like President Contros could be a good ally in getting the law to come down on the Corvallian pirates. On the other hand, he championed a strong independentalist stance: that non-Oregonians had no business getting involved in Oregon affairs. And unfortunately for Preston, it seemed like the majority of the OSA tended to back just about anything Teflon Pete said.

Finally the transport arrived at Polk, a mid-sized toroidal station. The docks were actually hangars on the outer perimeter, so full gravity was restored before leaving the transport. This gave a slight illusion of landing on a planet, although the precession was still enough to give Preston some mild vertigo.

Preston and Jett stepped off the transport and into the hangar, fully pressurized and well-lit despite the fact that the standard time was nearly midnight. A man in a dark suit, with a peaked cap under his arm, was holding a sign written on a magnetic slate that read "Wilkinson - Areston". With barely a thought, Preston automatically walked over to him and put down his suitcase.

The man nodded and said, "Welcome to Polk, Mr. Wilkinson. My name is Darren. I've been assigned to be your driver while you are here. If you'll please follow me." Darren picked up Preston's bag, nodded amicably at Jett and led them to a small vehicle moored nearby. As he was loading baggage into the rear compartment, he said, "Your room is booked at the Keizer Suites. Would you like to go straight there?"

[edit] South Lansing

September 27, 756 OSY

Mei-Ling and James spent the next day settling into South Lansing. It became more and more apparent that Mei-Ling was being treated not only with respect, but with deference. Every hotel employee, store clerk and cab driver Mei-Ling interacted with greeted her with a clumsy bow, while other customers generally got little more than a friendly nod.

Mei-Ling eventually noticed that she was not the only person treated this way. There were a few other Yushites around, and they seemed to be treated the same way. It is as if, she thought, the entirety of South Lansing kowtows to Yushi.

Mei-Ling and James were discussing this in the hotel bar, when James' face suddenly went white. From his seat facing the window, he saw a woman passing outside. Although he knew it couldn't be, he could have sworn that it was Miriam, the Zanan smuggler who had died in his arms on Viagra 7g.

James left Mei-Ling without a word and ran outside, but there was no trace of her. Strange, he thought, I must be seeing things.

[edit] Turn 1

Conflict map at the beginning of turn 1

[edit] James

"Oh god, she survived." James mumbled as he dashed out of the hotel.

But how? Am I seeing things? He tapped some controls on his comm-rig and threw up his full holo-interface and began interrogating the hotel's security cameras. Please let it be her. Warnings came from his rig suggesting that the Hotel's computer systems didn't like the intrusion but they were tuned out. He had to find her.

In a hidden corner of Salem a tight-beam transmission was sent out, heavily encrypted: "I have bad news to report, Chief. By now you've heard of the outsiders here. Well, as far as our intelligence can tell the locals still haven't traced us, but the outsiders may have picked up on a residual signature. "I take full responsibility for this: my team was accounting only for the local tech level, and not prepared for more sophisticated scans. But we've scrubbed the logs now, and upgraded our protocols appropriately."

The speaker waited nervously for the response, counting the seconds for the transmission to arrive, then listened to the received orders. "I... understand, chief. My Lieutenant is here." The speaker handed the communication console to the Lieutenant and waited, eyes closed, for the inevitable consequence of failure.

James' search became frantic. Half frames of images flitted before his rig and dissappeared into a haze of countermeasures. His room in the hotel became a technicolour show as the local bandwidth was consumed voraciously by his Aerestonian comm-rig, nicknamed Leviathan for the time being for its relative power compared to the local hardware.

Oh god, she's alive. Either that or she's a computer hacking ghost. I saw her die...

No, she's not getting away. I won't let her. I need to see her. I need to know how she's alive.

Plus I've seen this countermeasure before, elegant but not as much of a hassle for a data troubleshooter like me.

James worked furiously to track down the trail he had caught, but it kept changing, disappearing and reappearing as soon as he took his eyes off it. At every step, James was forced to make a decision: follow the digital trail and secure it for future use, or chase after his lost smuggler. Every minute he spent parsing surveillance logs for her signature, his opponents got a step ahead of him in covering their traces. And every time he reprogrammed his spidering software to keep up with the disappearing trail of network accesses, the delay meant the number of places he had to look for surveillance records grew. These guys are better than I thought.

Five rotations later, another transmission was beamed into the void. "As per your orders, Chief, the problem has been contained. The subject has been successfully distracted from his task, and is too busy chasing ghosts to pose a serious threat at this juncture. Report ends."

No, no no no no. Damn it! James banged his fist on the desk. The trail continued to dissapear as soon as he got onto it. Screaming a digital roar of rage he stopped pursuit. Weakly a light pulsed in the corner of one of his aerostat screens.

[edit] Corvallis

Sky news 7 reports tonight that a third judge has been accused of accepting bribes. This should be nothing new to our viewers; these stories pop up all the time. But strangely, OSA representatives are being very closed-mouthed about this latest series of accusations. Not a single person was willing to make a statement about the accusations except for Cody Soliman, the legal representative for the accused Judge Max Sircy.

"My client has a long record of judging fairly and honestly from the bench. She is confident that these accusations will be found to be baseless, even if it takes a legal inquiry to do so. No further comments."

Up next on 7: do you know what's in your drinking water?

[edit] Mei-Ling

As James got involved with finding his ghost, Mei-ling dove into research work. The topic was difficult, and though she had had a solid background in physics, the work was slow and painstaking — she was not out to break new ground, really, she did not feel qualified to do that, but rather to find the paths that others had laid and left undone.

There were clues left by the academics that they had perhaps not intended. Gravitational Lensing in the Slipknot Region referenced two papers which turned out not to be accessible from outside the university systems proper, so the next morning found Mei-ling visiting the campus library center. Although 'Kestya Norbytt's' identification put her as a Viagran, Mei-ling traded shamelessly on her Chinese features, and the library monitor granted her access as a visiting scientist without more than a cursory check of her credentials, which had of course been prepared for more than that by James in the first place.

The morning was productive, and it was early afternoon before Mei-ling noticed her hunger. Her datapad had downloaded many hours' worth of papers for study; most were only tangentially related to the slipknot, but a few seemed more relevant. And there were also noticeable access protections that she was unwilling to test further without James' help.

Mei-Ling was at the library conducting her research. An aerostat crackled quietly to life near her ear and James' voice came out.

"Careful when you're outside, try not to draw attention. I think someone's watching us. I can't say why or who though, but my suspicion is there's a dead smuggler involved. Also, feel like getting some room service?"

[edit] Preston

Preston heard the news cast and knew what his opponents were up to. He decided he needed some allies too, lots of them. He decided to go to the media and get some publicity for their case. He gave a rousing speech to sway the opinions of the masses.

Excerpt from amazing speech:

"You may say what concern is it of mine if a fancy well-to-do Aristocrat gets a few bruises, but I am not the only victim! Look at my poor comrade here: His name is Jett and he is a hard working mechanic. He gets up every morning just like you and does his best just to get by. How can a whole system sit back and allow the honest livelihood of a hardworking man be threatened by bullies and pirates!? I say it's time to end this injustice! If the Corvallins wont come to the law, then I say we take the law to them!"

[edit] Yushi

Xiang Hong, Director of Security (and chief spy) for Yushi's OSA delegation headquarters, was frustrated. Yushi station was several AU from Salem at this point in their orbits, and the 15 minute round trip communication lag was difficult at the best of times. At times like the current, when Oregon alpha was undergoing a radiation storm, it could make things almost impossible. Particularly when the incompetent technicians couldn't keep the equipment running long enough to get the necessary level of error-correction to overcome the interference.

He sighed. He would keep tabs on the interlopers who had tripped Yushi's monitoring of the slipknot research at South Lansing, but the General had been quite clear about the dangers of showing too much initiative last time...

As Mei-Ling left the library centre, a man watched from the second-floor balcony. On a data slate, he skimmed the list of articles she had accessed. His eyes lingered briefly on such key phrases as "gravitational lensing" and "wave inversion". Then he noticed an article she had picked out for later perusal: "Quotients of absorption spectra and quotient harmonics". Unusual, he thought, and called up the article. He skimmed the abstract and his forehead furrowed. Either she's a genius, or lucky as a cat.

He transmitted the link to the lab at Lansing Scientific Institute and smirked. He would have given anything to see the look on Mei-Ling's face when she got back to her hotel room and found out that she couldn't access the article from outside the university's network. There wasn't much good to be said about Salem's academic paranoia, but every now and again it came in handy.

The man pocketed his slate and headed out to his waiting ground-car. As an afterthought, he put in an "ongoing research" hold request on a few of the articles Mei-Ling had flagged. With a bit of luck, her hunch would pan out and only the LSI would be able to take advantage. I don't know why you came back to Oregon, "Norbytt", but you won't get what you're looking for. His eyes narrowed, and his mouth tightened. Not if I have anything to do with it.

Clinton Brassfield cringed at his desk in the Yushi diplomatic offices on Polk. His boss, Director Xiang, was in a foul mood and it was all Clinton could do to keep his head down. Just before closing time a console lit up, indicating a priority message from the scientific outpost in Lansing. Clinton printed it out, cursing his luck. That outpost had given nothing but bad news since it was opened, and the last thing Clinton needed was to make the director angrier. Xiang had a tendency to shoot the messenger.

When Clinton read over the message, though, his eyes lit up. He resisted the urge to hilight each instance of words like "progress", "success" and "breakthrough", put the printout in a plain envelope, and stamped it "Confidential". He knocked at the door next to his desk, and decided to take the indecipherable snarl from the other side as an invitation to enter. He waited patiently until Xiang addressed him before speaking.

"What is it, Clinton?"

"I have a priority message from Lansing, Director." Clinton bowed and held out the envelope with both hands.

Xiang grimaced, a vein popping out on his forehead. He snatched the envelope from Clinton and grabbed a bottle of extra-strength pain killers from his desk drawer. He tipped two of the green caplets onto his desk as he started to read the printout — experience told him he would need them. Xiang finished reading, and looked up at Clinton as if wondering if his assistant was playing a trick on him. The director read the letter over again and sat back, his medication forgotten. "Clinton, call my wife. Tell her I'm coming home. And tell her to get a babysitter for the evening." It had been so long since Xiang had had the chance to report on such good news; he could wait for the storms to subside a bit and relish the taste of success.

[edit] President Contos

"Thanks for joining us. You are watching Star News Tonight, with Jim Cambridge and Allyson Amys. I'm Allyson Amys."

"And I'm Jim Cambridge. The news this hour: the unexpected appearance of the Arestonian Preston Feckless Wilkinson on the scene here has OSA delegates in a stir. His message of peace and co-operation, of justice against alleged piracy on the part of Corvallian military units, was roundly well-received by Portlanders, as well as internationally."

"Okay, Jim, but the president is not happy about this, and with good reason."

"I disagree. If you listen again to the President's address this afternoon, he was sincerely welcoming to the newcomers."

"But he told them to stay out of OSA affairs. It was pretty clear he didn't want alien agents involved. And from where I was sitting, the OSA seemed to agree."

"Will you listen to yourself, Allyson? These folks aren't 'aliens', just because they're from off-system."

"So what, I'm a racist now? You call them what you like. I call them outsiders, and I'd rather have Oregonians making decisions about Oregonian affairs. And if any of our viewers wants to weigh in on this debate, we have a poll up on starnews.np/OSApoll"

"Viewers can also see the presidential address rebroadcast tonight at ten, with commentary from Star News commentator Jami Barrentine and former Corvallis senator Darryl Garceau. More on this later this hour. We go now to Bridgetown County, New Portland, where the runoff election is facing a second recount."

[edit] Zana

[edit] Jett

Jett didn't know much about social niceties or political posturing. But he did know about filthy mildew-infested oxygen tanks and these Corvallians definitely had that particular stink about them.

Jett locked his precious jet suit in a locker at the shuttle port, exchanging it for a space-trench and space-fedora (the traditional garb of spies and sneaks in Oregon). He then took a wander through the Legislation districts during the night-cycle, hoping to spot some Corvallian agents doing the dirty.

It was a particularly dark phase of the station's lighting program, and the atmo controls had just activated the industrial humidifiers, but through the dark mist, Jett could see that something was up...

Jett recognized the accent instantly. There was no doubt about it. The Corvallians were running Tombstonian drugs into Polk. The hypocritical pirates were using their thugs to enforce a false scarcity on their product, while simultaneously stifling education and the economy to keep conditions prime for attracting drug users. The curiously informative Corvallian had outlined their entire scheme to the two-bit dealer in a single monologue, and Jett had overheard it all...

Jett crouched behind a dumpster, out of view of the Corvallians and their drug-dealer friends. He pocketed the small analog audio recorder he had bought at a pawn shop, hoping that his recording of their conversation was audible. Turns out some parts of Polk were just lousy with pawn shops, brothels and skeezy bars. Funny how the high-and-mighty so often lived right next door to the down-and-out. Jett put an earbud in and listened to a few seconds of the recording. Not bad, a little scratchy. Just for good measure, he popped the other half of the omegendorph he had started earlier and let it melt under his tongue.

When Jett peered back over the dumpster he saw the Corvallian agent holding open the lid of a large crate that hadn't been there a minute ago. Jett couldn't see inside, but it looked like there was something glowing in there. The Corvallian grinned, the light from the crate glinting off something metallic near her neck. Insignia of rank, probably, peeking out from under her long plain coat. These Corvallians don't fear much, do they, Jett wondered. Who the hell goes to a drug pickup in uniform?

The Tombstonian closed the lid gently, darkening the alley again. "And that's a representative sample of the merchandise. Well worth the Thalers you're spending. Do we have a deal?"

The Corvallian clasped the Tombstonian's shoulder. The Tombstonian winced at the touch, but did her best to smile amicably. Despite the lack of light, Jett could still see the Corvallian's grin. "My friend, we have a deal."

Jett stayed hidden until well after all the others had left, thinking over the situation. He didn't see what was in that crate, but it wasn't drugs. This might have been something bigger than opportunistic bureaucrats making a few Thalers on the side; and that would make it riskier for Jett to make use of.

Still, he had some good blackmail material. Should be good for something. Jett ambled back through Polk City to Preston's suite at the Keizer Suites, his fingers and toes tingling from the omegendorph.

[edit] Turn 2

Conflict map at the beginning of turn 2

September 29, 756 OSY

[edit] Corvallis

Judge Sircy sat at her desk silently. She wasn't crying any more; she had cried all she could. On her desk was a strange collection of objects. A series of photographs of her family. A detailed itinerary of her children's trips to and from school, tennis practice, church. Four locks of hair, each tied up with string and labeled with the name of one of her children. A small vial of blood, labeled with the name of her husband. And, still in the padded envelope these object arrived in, a letter.

Sircy blew her nose, pulled out the letter and began reading. It contained instructions, of course. Unsurprisingly, the same instructions she had refused to follow just a few days ago. I should have taken the money, she thought.

[edit] Preston

Early one morning, Jett was woken up by a knock on the hotel room door. Preston, already awake and going over the paperwork for the day, answered the door to a courier. He walked back in with a letter from the office of the OSA president. Preston had been invited to sit in as a non-voting member of the Judicial Review Committee. He had some good ideas, the letter said, and this position would help him familiarize himself with the relevant laws and statutes.

Preston considered whether or not he should attend. He really had a lot of work to get done, but then again it had been a stressful few weeks and he could do with the R&R. Seeing these primitives play grown-up could be entertaining, so Preston went. And Preston was entertained.

[edit] President Contos

It was eerie how President Contos seemed to almost manage to be in several places at once. In the morning he was at the opening of a new transit line. Over lunch he was at an extended session of the Judicial Review Committee, smiling across the table at Preston. In the afternoon he was halfway across Polk, holding a public Q&A session at a local public school, then teleconferencing in to an emergency cabinet meeting at 3, up a support tower tightening guy wires for a photo opportunity in the early evening, and off to a charity dinner with his husband that night. It was tiring just reading his daily schedule, never mind trying to keep to it. Whatever Preston had to say about the way Oregonians did things, their president was something special. No wonder his people liked him so much.

At 10 PM there was a knock at Preston's hotel room door. Jett and Preston looked at each other confusedly. "Expecting someone?" Preston asked.

Jett shook his head and peered through the peep-hole. His jaw dropped slightly, and he opened the door to Peter Contos. The president was still wearing his evening suit from the charity dinner, as was the four-person security detail accompanying him. Contos caught Preston's eye and nodded amicably.

"Mister Wilkinson. Good evening." His accent spoke of a cultured education, possibly even Arestonian, but he still had the long rounded vowels of an Oregon drawl. "I know it's late, but may I come in?"

Preston was surprised. "How irregular. Come in Mr. President. What brings you here at this late hour?"

Two of Contos' entourage preceded him into the suite. One gave Jett and Preston polite pat-downs, and the other checked the other rooms before reporting back with the all-clear. Contos walked in and shook Preston's hand. "You seem like an intriguing fellow, Mister Wilkinson, and I believe we've not ever spoken face-to-face. At least, not without being surrounded by cameras." He turned to Jett and extended his hand. "I don't believe I've had the pleasure. Peter Contos."

Preston started to get edgy. Why was the president of the Oregon System Association in his hotel room? Was he delaying with these pleasantries, or just being polite? Preston looked at the security guards. They were alert but not tense. Occasionally one would tilt their head as they listened to some message from their in-ear communicator, or briefly mumble something into their wrist, but otherwise seemed completely inactive.

Jett looked at Contos' offered hand. The last president whose hand he had shaken was Spaceböss, and that was just before... Well, that was different. "Jett Miner, Mr. President. Private security."

After an uncomfortable handshake, Jett backed against the wall. He was out of his league, and he wanted to get out of the way before the crossfire between Preston and the President began. He didn't like his odds against the two goons, either.

Jett began mentally catalogueing all the electrical devices in the suite. Surely something ran on a cold fusion generator that was compatible with an Arestonian Fusion gun. Maybe the space toaster. That thing was the most powerful piece of technology he had seen since his arrival in Oregon.

As the president exchanged some preliminary pleasantries with Preston, Jett brewed some coffee. He had no idea if that was the culturally appropriate thing to do in the situation, but at least it gave him something to do with his hands, and an excuse to go into the kitchenette and get a closer look at the toaster.

Preston and Contos sat by a small table, each a perfect simulacrum of the face his system put on for others. Contos was clean and friendly, intelligent and sophisticated, but his strong hands were calloused from "honest" work at some unknown past time. Preston was dressed in a style vaguely reminiscent of a naval dress uniform, as if even in this casual environment he had placed himself in the role of overseer. His manner was polite and absent of condescension in a deliberate, condescending way.

President Contos thanked Jett for the offered coffee, sugared it, then took a sip and set it down in front of him. He smoothed his short jacket and leaned slightly toward Preston. "Mister Wilkinson, may I be direct? You present to me a bit of a mystery. I would like to know, in a nutshell, why you are here. I have reviewed the brief of your lawsuit against the Corvallian military, and that is all well and good. But if I may say so, the way you have been comporting yourself suggests that you are interested in more than legal compensation.

"Since you arrived less than a week ago you have met with at least four of the delegates to the OSA. You have spoken at or held at least as many press conferences, and I believe there is a recorded interview with you being edited for airing tomorrow night. These are not the actions of a man interested solely in pursuing a lawsuit.

"I have been told I am a fair judge of character. And I do not suspect that you wish Oregon any ill. So let me help you. Tell me what you need, and if it is in the interests of Oregon to do so, I will help you achieve your goals." The president took another sip of coffee and continued to lean forward, waiting for Preston's response.

"Mr. President, I find your directness refreshing. As you know I hail from the golden halls of Areston and growing up as a child I enjoyed their many benefits. I like to think however, that far from making me arrogant and self-centered, it has enlightened me to realize the glory that human life can be.

"When I arrived in Oregon I must confess I expected to be met with savages, and let me be direct Mr. President, this was without a doubt the case. They flaunted the law and attacked my ship with nothing less then nuclear warheads, and when I file a perfectly legitimate complaint with the authorities they shy away from enforcement. This I found unacceptable.

"But Mr. President I have never forgotten that despite everything this system is inhabited by human beings. Human beings with the potential for the same enlightenment as I. This is why I am trying to rouse your people into action! To bring your society out of piracy and into a civilized existence. Your space is dangerous and your judicial system corrupt. I would like to be of whatever assistance I can during my stay here.` I trust you approve Mr. President?"

President Contos steepled his fingers beneath his chin as he listened to Preston speak. By the time the Arestonian had finished, a tiny furrow had appeared between the president's eyebrows, the only sign of any emotional reaction to what Preston had said.

"I think I understand what you are saying, Mister Wilkinson. You are, I presume, used to a speedier legal system than we have here. This is one of the many cultural differences between our worlds, that make the human race so wonderfully diverse and interesting. Our legal process is designed to incorporate delays for certain kinds of cases — in particular ones with as broad an impact as yours.

"As an aside, I would like to impress on you just how significant your allegations are. For one thing, the defendant is a government body. That alone makes this a complex case. For another thing, those allegations are very serious. Nuclear weapons were outlawed decades ago. It is for these reasons that your case is producing delays. All involved parties want to prepare themselves as well as they can, so as to try the case justly.

"In short, Oregon is by no means shying away from enforcement of its laws. Quite the opposite: our tradition of contemplation and research has provided us with a very thorough and effective legal system. This claim is borne out by the success rates of our legal system. It compares quite favourably to those of many other places including, incidentally, your own lovely home world."

President Contos finished his coffee and stood up. "Mister Wilkinson, it was a pleasure to finally meet you face-to-face. During your stay I would like to invite you to sample as much as time allows of what Oregon has to offer you. I believe you would greatly enjoy learning a bit about our rich history, and getting some slight exposure to the workings of and interplays between the diverse societies that make up this system.

"It will be my pleasure to have a list compiled of museums, historical tours, interesting literature, documentary talkies, concerts, sight-seeing trips, and anything else that might contribute to your enjoyment and understanding of my dear home system. I will have this list transmitted to Darren, and will keep it updated with upcoming events so long as you are here. If you have any specific requests please do not hesitate to ask him."

Contos' guards shifted formation as the president got ready to go. "Mister Wilkinson, Mister Miner, thank you for your hospitality at this late hour. You were gracious to invite me in unannounced. I would like to begin your Oregonian education by sharing a cultural tradition from my own home world of Danner. It was considered very old-fashioned, but when I was a child I was taught that this was the proper way to leave a host's house." Contos took Jett's hand in both of his and, as Jett and Preston watched in amazement, brought it to his mouth and kissed its back. The president's guards shifted uneasily at his proximity to strangers as he repeated the process with Preston.

"Good night, gentlemen. I wish you a speedy and just result in your legal proceedings and I will see you, Mister Wilkinson, at the JRC meeting tomorrow afternoon."

As the President and his entourage left the room Preston moved towards the bathroom. "What an enthusiastic individual."

Preston turned the tap on to wash his hands.

"So are we going to... museums?" Jett asked hesitantly.

"Of course we are, do you want the President`s help or not? Bring a notepad."

"Oh..." Jett replied.

Preston thought himself well-educated, but the lack of focus in his broad early education was coming back to bite him. Having learned "a little about a lot", as he liked to say, just meant that he didn't know much about anything. Fortunately Salem put effort into being a system hub, and part of that meant that there was a lot of material available for Preston to educate himself with.

Preston realized that he did have a lot to learn, and the potential payoff was huge. If he was going to get the OSA to listen to him, he would have to do something to make them less wary of him. What better way than pretending to care about their stupid little system?

Preston wandered through the umpteenth museum. Jett dragged his feet behind him, groaning every time Preston stopped to look at a display. Preston couldn't help being interested in the history of these people, and that disturbed him. He began asking himself questions, tough questions, that challenged many of his assumptions and preconceptions. Could the President have been right? Could Preston be... wrong? ...

Preston jerked his head to shake himself free of this irritatingly introspective trance. These deep questions could wait, in the meantime: people owned him money. And that, simply, was that.

[edit] Jett

Jett knew the Corvallians were playing rough. And he knew he could play just as rough.

Shadowing a number of their agents to another meeting with the smugglers, Jett was able to get the drop on them and inflict some greivous bodily harm. A number of the more public Corvallian officials came in to work the next day with their underhanded bag-carriers tied up and gagged outside their doors.

A note pinned to them simply stated: "We know. Let's talk privately."

Jett had gained some information from the beaten smugglers. The Corvallians had their hands in everything. The money from the smuggling operations allowed them to influence the OSA and even the President into thinking they were operating in Oregon's interests. But a particularly talkative agent with a shockingly low pain tolerance had detailed the methods they used to move the money and manipulate the governments of the system. He cut a deal with Jett to reveal what he knew in exchange for immunity when the evidence was used.

Jett now had a breakdown of how their organization worked. It would be a powerful tool to bring to court. No matter how scared the judges were, the public would see how corrupt their own institutions really were.

Shocking developments from Polk tonight. The Supreme Court has set a date for hearings into allegations that the government of Corvallis...

*kshhhhhht*

...back from Corvallis with a special report on the reaction there to the news that there will be hearings, I repeat, there will be hearings on allegations of corruption. We go now to...

*kshhhhhht*

...have said before, the office of the Space Ward has no comments on that matter at this time. Please restrict your questions to...

*kshhhhhht*

...for joining us, ladies and gentlemen, do we have a great show for you tonight. We just received a huge check to talk about, quote, "anything but Corvallis."

laughter

It's okay, though, it's all above board. No funny business. The check was signed "Not Corvallis, maybe Yushi or someone."

laughter

Commandant Earnestine Jeppesen threw her mug against the wall of the embassy office. It clipped an ornamental suit of archaic armour, spraying coffee across the wall. "What the fuck is this? You said these Tombstonians, or whoever the fuck they are, are discreet. Now our business is plastered all over the fucking news! Either they fucked us, or they're going to freak and pull out. Either way, we're fucked!"

Ambassador Fulghum breathed slowly, trying to calm Jeppesen down. "Ernie, I don't know anything about this. We have our people on it, and you know they produce results." He looked up at her red face and swallowed, gathering courage. "Unless there is anything else here you'd like to throw, I have work to do and I believe you do as well. We all need to run damage control now, so go and reassure our Tombstonian friends that we're doing everything in our power to protect their interests, and that they have nothing to worry about."

Jeppesen shook with rage, leaning over Fulghum's desk. Knuckles white, she picked up a letter opener and threw it at the suit of armour. The point sunk four inches into the thin metal of the helmet and Fulghum gulped. Jeppesen stalked out, kicking over a waste-paper basket on her way out.

Fulghum exchanged a look with his white-faced assistant, who had been standing inside the door ever since she had admitted Jeppesen. The ambassador smiled weakly. "Could you get me a change of pants, please?" His joke fell flat when the assistant nodded and scurried away.

Preston was pleased with Jett's somewhat unconventional success, normally Preston would have something judgmental to say about his methods but Preston really didn't know what to believe anymore, and the whole situation was really wearing on him. He just wanted to get this whole affair wrapped up. Realizing his thoughts had wandered yet again Preston set his mind back to plotting his next move...

[edit] Cut scene: blood in the water

Jett was holed up in a safehouse. He knew the Corvallians weren't playing around. The pending inquiry would probably give them pause before simply murdering him outright, but Jett knew how easily they could manipulate public perception, and therefore wack him without it costing them too much.

One of the passwords flashed on the Arestonian communicator Preston had given him from the Lily. Preston was high enough profile to be able to feel a little safer out in the open, and they communicated by sending short messages through the focused-beam microwave communicators. They should be effectively untraceable, as Oregon was decades, if not centuries away from such technology.

Preston wanted to be let in. This would be his first chance to look over the information Jett had extracted from the agent, since he had been so busy dealing with the media. Keeping an eye out for people watching, Jett let him in.

"Good evening Jett! I brought you a delicious Oregonian Space-pizza! Thought you might be getting tired of the protein dispenser. It's supposed to be a delicacy; I couldn't stomach it, but thought you might enjoy it! It reminds me of something I ate in Tombstone. Or something I saw a pet eat. Whatever."

"Thanks," Jett grunted. His attempts to be dark and brooding never survived contact with Preston. He really was grateful for the company, and the space-pizza smelled delicious.

"Well, let's see what you were able to dig up!"

An hour later, Preston was sitting cross-legged on the floor surrounded by a half-dozen data slates. He was in a sort of trance, running numbers and background checks while checking the veracity of the information. A look of concern had seeded itself in his face, and was growing by small degrees with each passing minute. Finally, Preston spoke:

"Something's wrong. There are whole areas missing. Money appears and then never goes anywhere. There is some good information here. Incredibly useful information. But I don't think this is the whole picture."

"WHAT?!" The last slice of space-pizza tumbled from Jett's hands, his furious question punctuated by the sound of congealed artificially-fermented space-cheese hitting the floor.

Hab subsector Echo-Gamma, the hab subsector that Connor Gonzales lived in, had always had maintenance problems. For six months during his childhood, the heating system had kept the temperature at 32 degrees Centigrade. They had rediscovered the lost technology of the flip-flop during that time.

Now it was the fire-extinguishing system. Every night-cycle for a week now, it had sprayed streams of water from the ceiling, as if the entire subsector was ablaze. It had been fun at first, getting around the water-rationing that existed on the lower levels. But it was getting irritating.

"Hurry up, I'm freezing!" Darrell said. The two worked at an accounting firm, and had worked late to get the papers in order that needed to be sent to the auditors for the upcoming investigation.

He fumbled for his mag-lock key to open the door to his apartment, but his fingers were wet and the square of plastic was sent skittering across walkway. He reached down to pick it up, but a suddenly a boot was holding it in place.

"Connor," Jett said from beneath his now well-worn space-fedora, fire-depressing spray running off of the rim. "We need to talk about the info you gave me."

Darrell cleared everything up. Connor had been covering a scheme that he was involved in. He had hoped that Jett and Preston would bring the authorities down on a rival group and so up his profits. Darrell was as honest as could be, and let them know what was really going on. He never got involved in any of the dozens of schemes that went through their office. He was too worried it would lead to a bad end. Like what happened to Connor. Jett had kept his promise, and it had been quick for Connor. He might have even blacked out before he hit the ground.

The sound Connor made as his body was liquified by the fall was sickeningly reminiscent of the sound space-pizza made when it was dropped. Jett would avoid the Oregonian dish for the rest of his life.

An alarm sounded at the headquarters of Oregon Pizza Inc. A functionary ran into the CEO's office, panicked. "Mister Waterfield!" he gasped, his eyes wide. "Terrible news from our psychic division! Apparently there's someone in Polk dangerously close to figuring out how pizzas are made!"

"What?" Erik Waterfield's cigar jumped out of his mouth. "How did this happen? Who's responsible for this? Do we have a leak? A traitor?"

"No, sir, all indications are that this individual happened on the information by chance."

"That's impossible. Preposterous!" Waterfield stalked over to the window overlooking the production room of the pizza factory. "Nobody can just guess how they're made." He watched as a man, begging for forgiveness, was pushed off a tall platform by someone he had lied to. He landed on a specially-prepared surface, where his remains were scooped up by workers, spread onto large circles of dough and put into the oven to bake, and another groveling victim was prodded onto the platform. "No, we must have a mole somewhere. Find them! Go!"

The functionary, happy to be dismissed without a beating, scurried off.

Darrell Unrein looked across the table at Jett. He didn't know who this Tombstonian was working for, but he certainly seemed to be well-backed, if his clothing and tech were any indication. And it was obvious he was no friend to the Tombstonians who had been meeting with Corvallis. "Last time you said you could keep me safe from retaliation. Are you going to tell me how you plan to do that?"

Jett glowered. "No. Finish telling me about the volatiles."

Darrell sighed. "Fine. The shippers from Tombstone I told you about, the ones smuggling narcotics. They get everything but their merchandise from a Zanan supplier. This company, 'Zana Farms,' produces all sorts of stuff. Food, high-tech equipment, chemicals, you name it. So they get their boxes, their clothes, their ships, their toilet paper, everything, from Zana Farms. I've not seen the paper trail further back than Zana Farms, and I don't know where the drugs come from, but that's not the point.

"Corvallis offloads the drugs somewhere or other, but they don't use the same shipping containers. For every 2-kilolitre crate the Tombstonians buy from Zana Farms and send to the Corvallians, Corvallis buys another 2-kilolitre crate from a local supplier. Or the equivalent. Two kilolitre crates or whatever.

"So what happens to the Zanan crates? I don't know, exactly. But they don't show up here. These Zanan crates're not regular HDPE shipping crates. These are reinforced, with some sort of high-tech shielding. Anti-radiation or something. Point is, that sort of material would show up in the disposal logs, but they've not. So the crates're not sold as scrap and not sent to reclamation. Corvallis runs regular transports to and from their hab, just like all the nations do, and I bet if you could look into their manifests you'd find them shipping those crates back home, unless they're stockpiling them here somewhere.

"That's the real shady deal Corvallis is engaged in. Whatever else is in those crates other than the drugs. I know it sounds crazy, but the drug smuggling is a front."

Darrell leaned back. "All the details are on that chip I gave you. If you can make some more connections than I did, let me know, and I'll see if there's anything else I can do. But for now you know everything about this that I do."

"We go now to our correspondent Ted Henslee on the scene of a grisly death in Subsector Echo-Gamma. Ted, what's the situation down there?"

"Cold and damp, Elnora. The fire suppressants down here are malfunctioning, as if they were harbingers of this tragedy. The authorities say that the deceased, who has been identified as Connor Gonzales, fell to his death from the scaffold structure of one of the high-rise buildings here.

"Gonzales was a life-long resident of Echo-Gamma, an accountant working for the joint embassy offices. He lived just a couple of hundred metres from where I'm standing, where his body was found this morning. Polk Security isn't releasing any details yet, but P News One science correspondent Ericka Kempker calculated that this was about where precession would have dropped him if he'd jumped from his window."

"Ted, is there any word on whether this was a homicide, a suicide, or just a terrible accident?"

"No, Elnora, no word. Polk Security has told us there is currently no criminal investigation into this death, but they are of course trying to find out the circumstances surround—"

"Ted, I'm sorry to cut you off, but we've got a flash bulletin. Sources say that Polk Security just announced that they will be opening a criminal investigation into the death of Connor Gonzales. No word yet on whether there are any suspects... they're saying now that the investigation is a homicide investigation, and they're not announcing any suspects yet. No motives... okay, nothing except that there's an investigation.

"Ted, do you know if there might be some connection to Corvallis-Gate? Gonzales was an accountant, right? Is it possible that he's linked somehow to the alleged financial irregularities in the Corvallian embassy?"

"I couldn't say, Elnora. And at this point I don't want to speculate. But you can bet P News One will be on this story like a Bendian on water."

"Ha, ha, thanks, Ted. Well, folks, you heard it here first. A criminal investigation is being opened into the death of Echo-Gamma resident Connor Gonzales. Keep watching P News One for more news on this and other breaking stories. My name is Elnora Tregre. Up next, Tanisha Bednarz takes a look at sports."

[edit] Turn 3

Commandant Jeppesen took a long drag from a cigar and blew the smoke across the dimly-lit table. The mousy man across from her crooked an eyebrow, but didn't otherwise react. "How are you sure," Jeppesen asked, "that this will not turn into another fiasco?"

The man did not smile. "Commandant, I assure you we have people placed at every level. These are people who... Well, I won't waste your time with the details. And it's probably best that you not know the specifics."

Jeppessen grimaced. Her man was right, of course, but she didn't like not knowing things. Hopefully now the brass and the pencil-pushers would stop annoying her with their "public relations" nonsense and let her do her job.

"Thank you, Render. You do very good work. Please let me know when your promotion hearing are due and I will be happy to write you a letter of reference." If I'm still in good favour by then.

Render smiled tightly, his lips not parting. "Thank you, Commandant. I must leave; I have things to attend to." Jeppesen waved her assent and Render slunk out.

The Commandant ordered a second drink and leaned back, her heavy boots on the table. With agents placed in the court system the law would hopefully be off the military's back, and they could finally get some real work done.

A high up member of the OSA sat down at his desk. On top of the inbox lay a brown envelope. She removed the letter and read (Excerpt from letter):

"dear member of the OSA, Please consider the following facts..."

"...the Press has been notified of this as well and a press conference has been called outside your offices in light of these recent events I hope you will be on our side when you answer their questions. Sincerely Preston F.W."

She swallowed hard as she heard the news crews prepping outside through her open window. She still felt a weight in the envelope. When she shook it out a button reading "Corruption in legislation is corruption in our space!" She could hardly believe what she was seeing.

Her assistant opened the door a crack "A media frenzy to see you ma'am"

The OSA leader looked back down at the button, she wasn't sure what she should do...

EDIT: Yikes, the unreadability of orange really shows itself with this much text. Blech. Sorry everyone.

Preston typed:

"Good to see you Red Star, My name Is Preston Feckless Wilkinson, owner and patron of the Efferdahal Lily. Before we begin docking procedures theres just a few bureaucratic inconsistencies I would like to clear up. Firstly I must reference both article 6 subsection 3, as well as article 6 subsection 3(a) of the treaty you have referenced which excludes us from a manual search by a boarding party. We are however perfectly happy to send you a full listing of our cargo as per the procedures noted in the afore mentioned articles. I should also warn you that should you choose to ignore procedures and board our vessel we will be forced to dispatch you with all the power within these hulls and to report your actions as a violation of article 12 subsection 7. This report will also trigger legal action against your organization as per article 47 subsection 2.

If you could kindly resolve these concerns of mine we would be happy to pull over and let you aboard, until then captain we will be continuing on course.

Preston Out."

 
Bureaucracy + roll + FPs + pawn bonus + Harm - move several + free move =
    (5)     + (-2) + (0) +    (1)     +  (2) -     (1)      +   (1)     = 6

Jett Miner typed:

 
Skill + roll + pawn + aspect + harm - multi-move + free move =
  (5) + (-2) +  (1) +   (2)  +  (2) -     (1)    +    (1)    = 8

Teflon Pete was nervous about the fallout from this investigation, but he was sure he would get through ok. He was Teflon Pete for space' sake. And besides, it seemed as if it was mostly the Corvallians' mess; nothing tied directly to him. This Preston fellow even seemed like quite a decent chap.

His aides were talking again. They worried too much. There was a big banquet for sponsors of his party tonight that he had to attend. The asteroid mining lobby had funded him during that first shaky space-month, and now he had to show his gratitude. Seeing as he was clear of all the recycled biomass hitting the fan everywhere else, Pete was tempted to stay all night and ham it up. Be the man above it all, and make sure that sponsorship money kept rolling in.

He taught me to never lower your guard, even when in a position of power! If civility shows any weakness, barbarism will slip in. Sage words.

Peter Contos frowned at a short report among the many he was reviewing that afternoon. Surely Corvallis' lawyers had been scouring every source they could find for dirt on Wilkinson, and to his credit they had so far failed to come up with anything significant enough and credible enough to make it past the president's assistants and onto his docket.

Until now. Contos read over the details claiming academic fraud, nepotism, bribery and various other charges which, if true, meant that Wilkinson was not nearly the saint he portrayed. Loathe to jump to any conclusions, Contos paged through the citations and supporting documents his research team had attached to the dossier. These seem legitimate, Contos thought. Have I misjudged him?

At the next meeting of the OSA, Contos voiced his concerns. Wilkinson was an outsider, the president argued, with credible allegations of dishonesty against him. The right thing for him to do, said Contos, was to step out of the public eye until the charges were cleared.

Preston was raring to speak in his own defense, but without official standing in the OSA, and with none of the delegates willing to risk the wrath of their colleagues by ceding him floor time, his protestations went unheard.

 
Roll + Skill - multi-move + free move =
3    + 5     - 1          + 1         = 8

After recess was called, Preston was fuming. He managed to corner the president as he left the restroom. The president was halfway through a gloating salutation when he realized that Preston might actually strike him.

Preston came uncomfortably close to the president and practically growled, "you probably think you're pretty clever mister president, but you are so wrong. You're playing my game now. If you think you found dirt, just wait and see what I'll 'find out' about you tomorrow. Why don't you look up my good friends George Calionii, Frieda Summerswealth and the poor fellows at Zion Corp and see how they fared in the ring with me."

Preston turned to leave, then as a parting remark to the stunned President

"I went to your god damned museums. You were right, your people have come a long way, but your still way out of your league."

Preston stormed off, leaving the President with that.

After venting his fury onto the president Preston sat down with his data slate doing his best to sabotage the reference list of the document the President had produces. Breaking links and deleting source files as well as he could. Preston didn't think it would help but he had to do SOMETHING

Before the meeting of the Judicial Review Committee the following morning, one of President Contos' personal security agents met Preston in the hallway. "Mr. Wilkinson, the president would like to see you."

Preston looked at the bodyguard suspiciously. There was no indication that she intended to haul him off physically; this didn't sound like he was being arrested. The president's personal guard never went far from their boss, either, so he was certainly in one of the rooms nearby. Preston pulled his chronometer from his vest pocket, looked at it deliberately, sighed, and said, "I have a meeting in ten minutes, so let's make this quick."

As Preston had guessed, the guard led him into a nearby conference room. President Contos was at the other end of the long room, flanked by two of his security detail. The president was reading something on a data slate and did not look up when Preston came in. The fourth bodyguard politely patted Preson down, then showed him to a seat about ten feet from the President. Only then did Contos look up.

"Preston, I am disappointed in you. I have given you every opportunity to engage with the political structure of Oregon, treated you fairly at every turn, even pulled strings to open a special visitor seat on the Judicial Review Committee. Now I find out that you have somehow obtained or imported illegal hacking software, and have tried to use it to gain access to secure government servers. What do you have to say for yourself?"

"'All's fair in love and when your ship gets nuked.' I attended your museums Mr. President, I thought we were working together for a time. My actions with the media may have been extreme, but never unlawful. Then you start a slander campaign? I must say, the colour doesn't suit you Mr. President. I also find your motivation to oppose me at every turn baffling, but rest assured, I will have justice."

The Corvallians were running into obstacles all over the place. They were attempting to follow their usual tactic of bribery and intimidation in order to garner support, but it seemed every time they approached someone new, their actions were immediately broadcast to the media. Someone was watching them closely, and try as they might, they could not shake whomever it was. They were finding they had to resort to the cruder methods of actual over-the-table legitimate legal processes.

Jett was loving the various toys he had brought with him from the Lily. His standard communicator had an app that allowed video recording in dozens of spectra, even through walls, and the mic could be adjusted to listen to a select area over a hab-block away. Arestonians, and Preston in particular, had far too much technology for their own good.

"Mister Wilkinson, I assure you that you have my full sympathy regarding the attack on your ship, and that if the Treaty of Coquille or any other such agreement has been violated I will work in any way I can to ensure the enforcement of the relevant laws. This is true even now, despite your recent aggressiveness.

"When I suggested you step aside for a time, I meant just that. I was not slandering you, Mister Wilkinson. In Oregon, when allegations arise about a public figure that jeopardize that person's credibility, they step off the podium for a little while, until their name is cleared. What you saw yesterday was not an attack on you, but an act of accepting you into the local way of doing things."

The president rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Perhaps my failing was that I was not explicit enough in my motivations and intentions. Or perhaps I am not as good a judge of character as I thought. I thought you would be a valuable outside advisor, perhaps even someone who could help me unify my people to work not against Areston, but for Oregon.

"A major part of my mandate, and thus my job, is to show Areston and the other systems — and some in Oregon itself — that Oregon is able to support and govern itself. You know now just how long Oregon has been treated as a colony of other powers, and you have seen some of the negative effects this has had on is people and politics. Part of the reason we have many of the problems we do is the effect of spending so much time under the control of Areston and others.

"If the current investigation determines that you were in fact responsible for the attempted electronic intrusion this morning, all further avenues of political access will be closed to you. I will no longer advocate, as I have so far, for your involvement in our political process.

"Of course, in that case there will probably also be a criminal trial. If that happens I hope for your sake and for the sake of your government that you are able to convince the jury that your actions were personally motivated and not performing an act of espionage. And by the way, I tell you this to warn, not threaten. I will under no circumstances condone any attempt to falsely accuse you of misdeeds."

The president took a sip from a glass on the table. "I have said a lot, and our time here is not unlimited. Is there anything you wish to add or ask before I continue?"

Ambassador Fulghum was facing another long night. Somehow the team of foreigners in town had been a severe thorn in the foot of the Corvallian diplomatic corps. Fulghum was cramming his head full of legal loopholes and procedures, his assistants managing to give him just enough assistance to keep his head above water.

With luck, what Fulghum had found would be enough to stave off the legal assault, but only just. There were certain immunities guaranteed by old treaties and never countermanded, certain lengthy procedures that needed to be followed by plaintiffs, certain deadlines that needed to be met... His legal team would be able to delay, but not prevent, the prosecution of the Corvallian military officers named in the legal case.

Hopefully whatever miracle his superiors were planning to get them all out of this mess wouldn't take too long.

"No, I think that is all for now Mr. President. I look forward to speaking with you once this ordeal is behind us."

Preston got up to leave.

The president seemed about to protest Preston's departure, but instead stood as well. "Mister Wilkinson, I hope you understand that I am sincere when I say that I wish you the best. I don't know why you might have attempted to access that government server — if that was you — but my suspicion is that you were frustrated with a political system you're not used to.

"My hope is that you will spend some more time in the role of observer, watching our political and legal system working rather than trying to take the wheel. If you have constructive suggestions — and from your time with the Judicial Review Committee I know you will — Oregon will be happy to listen to them.

"I, too, look forward to speaking with you once the current turmoil is past." The president started to step forward and extend his hand, but the firm hand of one of his security agents on his arm stopped him from getting too close to Preston. Contos smiled apologetically. "Have a good day, Mister Wilkinson."

Preston was shown out, and was not particularly surprised to see that his name had been removed from the list of visiting members of the JRC.

The Corvallians were complacent in their position in Oregon. Their top brass was starting to actually worry about Preston and Jett, but their heightened level of anxiety didn't trickle down to the lower echelons of their organization. That kind of organizational security and discipline requires a concerted effort to maintain. All it takes is an assistant or two to discard important documents into unsecure waste-dispose-alls, and a lot of bureaucratic red-tape can be unravelled. Luckily, Jett's gadget-enhanced vigilance made sure he was ready to take advantage of something left unattended.

[edit] Cut scene: Witness protection

October 8, 756 OSY

Derrick watched the door of the diner over a mug of hot coffee. The description Jett sent me of this contact of his is sketchy at best. I'll just look for the guy jumpier than an Arestonian at a tax audit. Derrick chuckled to himself. Heh. I should remember that one.

Soon enough, a man slunk through the door dressed in a long tan coat, a brimmed hat and a scarf covering the bottom of his face. His red-rimmed eyes darted from side to side as he walked, nervous and jittery, toward the back of the diner. Derrick rolled his eyes. Oh, for...

Derrick finished his coffee, put a few plastic chits on the table as payment and got up to meet the man. "You must be Darrell. Jett sent me."

Darrell Unrein looked down at the man facing him. He had a strange accent. Sounded rural or something. "Yeah? How do I know you're actually with Jett?"

Derrick raised an eyebrow and smirked. "Because I haven't hauled you off bodily. Follow me."

Derrick led the way to one of the Polk hangar bays. He swiped a parking pass and led Darrell to a beaten-up transport that didn't look like it could survive the trip to the launch bay, let alone to wherever Jett was sending him. Darrell stared wide-eyed. "You expect me to fly in that?"

Derrick feigned a pained expression. "I'm hurt! This baby is my pride and joy!" He laughed and led the stunned Darrell on board.

Once on the transport, Darrell was even more stunned. Futuristic panels blinked and glowed. The transport's seats were cushioned, and there appeared to be some sort of food dispenser on one wall. He gaped at Derrick. The outside was a cover? Who the hell are these people?

Derrick grinned to himself as he put the shuttle through its warmup procedures and prepared to head back to the Efferdhal Lily. He was looking forward to this guy's reaction to the Lily's amenities. "Hey Darrell, do you like bowling?"

[edit] Turn 4

Late one night, Preston was poring through the Oregon legal code in preparation for the upcoming court cases. To his surprise, the communication terminal in his room suddenly bleeped. It had been days since he had received an unexpected call. He looked at his chronometer. It was well past midnight. Who would be calling him at this time of night? He thumbed on the terminal and the grainy image of Christya's face flickered onto the screen. A green icon in the corner told him the transmission was being encrypted.

"Christya! What a nice surprise! To what do I..."

"I don't have time to chat, Preston, darling." Christya cut Preston off in mid-sentence. "Video calls are hideously expensive here, especially secure ones, and I still haven't completely figured out this primitive currency system. I'm just calling to let you know that I've contacted the home office in Areston, and pulled a few, um, strings, and I'm expecting a transport in a few days."

"A transport? You're leaving?" Preston was shocked. "But... but, the mission!"

"Preston. It's your mission. You don't really need me for this. You can forge ahead and plant your flag and name a star after yourself without me.

"But I've got a bit of a surprise, as well. There's a fellow back home who owes me a favour or twelve. He agreed to send a team over to help you out with your current situation. These guys are the biggest heavy-hitters in Glory Park, and now they'll be your backup."

Preston whistled. Glory Park was known across the Areston System as the elite legal district of Areston City. Only the crème de la crème of legal professionals worked there, and the idea that an entire team of lawyers from Glory Park was going to be helping him out with his legal problems almost made Preston salivate.

"Wow, Christya, thanks! They won't know what hit them! How can I repay you?"

Christya smiled suggestively. "Let's just say you owe me one. Catch you later, Preston."

Preston came up with the perfect retort about two milliseconds after Christya's image disappeared from his screen.

Preston looked in disbelief at the news feed. Those, f***ing idiots. Preston had been trying to contact the team coming in from ariston and had been unsuccessful. He feared the worst. Preston was weary of this place and the nonsense that populated it. He supposed he would have to speak to the media again and set some records straight, make sure they knew who exactly they had wronged.

"As you know my name is Preston Feckless Wilkinson, I am one of the voices recorded on the alleged conspiracy tape. I wish to explain this recording and to make the atrocity at the incoming knot known. My grievances here against Corvallis are well known, my vessel arrived here some time ago at which point we were confronted by Corvalis who, ignoring all legality, attacked our vessel with nuclear weapons, the damage to our vessel in your docks and our recording of the encounter can confirm this.

Our mission here is purely in the interests of science and exploration. We came here in pursuit of the myth of the unknown slip knot. This is supported by the matter catcher we began installing on our vessel as soon as we docked. This is the mission mentioned in the recording. The other voice is an associate of mine who no longer wished to partake in the mission of exploration. The "heavy hitters" mentioned in the recording are a legal team from ariston whose purpose was to assist me with my lawful legal battle here.

I fear however that the nuclear explosions that occurred at the inbound knot were a tragedy and atrocity. Following this story it is easy to see what is likely to have happened. The legal team was clearly assailed by corvalis and they used their nuclear warheads to destroy their vessel. This can not stand! I will be in contact with with your president as well as my own government to sort out the fallout of this travesty."

Preston contacts Ariston and reports everything he knows. He also hires investigators to investigate the wreckage.

Preston contacts the president:

"Mr. President, you have no doubt seen my broadcast, I hope you realize the truth in it and reconsider defending the Corvalis. This will get sticky, not because of me, but because of Corvalis. They may well have drawn Ariston directly into this feud and as much as I regard your abilities Mr. President you will lose. I have hired an Aristonian team to investigate the explosion as well to combat any corvalis interference. I pray you realize the wisdom in modifying your allegiances or at least disconnect yourself from Corvallis. I have also contacted the OSA who have agreed to invite me back to the meetings in hopes that it will help with future dealings with the Aristonian government."

The president shook his head. "I'm very sorry, Mister Wilkinson. I sincerely wish I could help you. But one thing after another has been putting you in a very bad light. Your story about the legal team makes sense, but your claims that Corvallis attacked the Arestonian vessel don't make any sense. First of all, every Corvallian ship was accounted for and in other parts of the system at the time. And even if they had secret vessels, they'd have to have been right at the slipknot to be able to attack so quickly.

"I hate to be the one to tell you this, but your message to Areston never got transmitted. Polk Station Security has revoked your inter-habitat communication privileges. From now on, if you need to make any calls off-habitat they need to go through P-Sec. Anyway, OASA is performing a survey of the explosion site. Certainly anything they find will be broadcast in short order.

"Here's the best I can do for you: I have put in an executive order for an investigation into the accuracy of the allegations against you. This has become a serious diplomatic issue, and I will do everything in my power to maintain good relations with Areston."

The stress was really getting to Preston but he would not let these barbarians defeat him. He was their king!

Reading through the latest insinuations and outright lies about him in the press, Preston gritted his teeth. He had to play it honest. If he stooped to the level of Corvallis, lying and insinuating, he would be no better than the barbarians. And then what would people think? There were countless opportunities for Preston to fight fire with fire, but he struggled to keep the higher ground.

Preston was tired. His eyes were bloodshot and his head throbbed. His thoughts turned to maybe throwing in the towel. He turned on the television though and saw on the news feed that some small group of civilians had been swayed by his speech and were speaking out against the brutality of Corvalis. It wasn't much, but he supposed it was something. He then drifted off to sleep of the couch.

"Give me some good news, Render." Commandant Jeppessen's voice was hoarse from shouting all day.

"Some good, some bad, Commandant." Render talked without emotion, as though he was reading the weather. "The riots in Polk are still going strong."

"That's good news," Jeppessen said. She smiled, wolflike.

"No, that's bad. They're raising public opinion against Corvallis." Jeppessen frowned and Render continued. "We are working to affect the course of the riots, but so far there is no effective way to involve the aliens." Jeppessen flicked the butt of her cigar angrily across the bar and took a long swig of her drink.

Render continued: "The second bit of news is that the Space Ward is short on money, and they may start reducing their contributions to national militaries, including ours."

Jeppessen slammed her fist on the table. "What? They can't fucking do that!"

Render raised his hand to calm her. "Commandant, that is the good news. The SW probes are probably going to be recalled before they get a chance to properly examine the mines. They will most likely stick with their current assumption that the mines were put there by outsiders."

Jeppessen digested this, calming visibly. After a few moments her wolfish grin reappeared. She relished the idea of handing this news to Ambassador Fulghum. He would be able to spin this back into being the aliens' fault. She chuckled softly. "Thank you, Render. See what you can do about those riots."

Jeppessen drained her glass and stood up, then exited to her waiting car. "Go to the embassy," she told her driver.

The OSA was already strapped for cash. They possessed a sizable debt to the UTO (Universal Trade Organization) and this investigation would be pricey. When Preston offered to donate some of his funds as well as well as speak to his contact at the UTO to reconsider some of the debt (since the investigation was also of interest to Ariston) it did not take long for the OSA to respond. Before Corvalis knew it, there was Preston grinning at the other end of the table once more. Preston was also pleased to note the scowl on The President's face. He had fought the motion to accept Preston's help and money but the OSA outvoted him. Good old money, it's never let Preston down.

Preston's calls to the UTO went unanswered. His credit requests were declined. Preston had never been cut off like this before, and he didn't like it. He wasn't used to having to use finesse in financial dealings, and these Oregonians were difficult to deal with. It was like they spoke a different language.

When the president found out that Preston was running a campaign of coercing OSA delegates into supporting him with campaign contributions he countered by meeting with each and every one of them personally.

While many of the delegates agreed to reject Preston's advances, enough of them allowed their pocketbooks to rule their consciences that Preston won them back over to his side. While he wasn't allowed into any of the OSA's private proceedings, his will was clearly heard in the votes of those delegates.

October 22, 756 OSY

At 7:30 AM, Jett was woken up by a knock on the door. He sat up drowsily and looked around the hotel room. Preston's bed was still made; the small chocolate on the pillow made it obvious that it hadn't been used at least since the previous morning. Preston was sitting at the desk, reading something on his data slate. He looked up at Jett with sunken, tired eyes. "Would you get the door? They've knocked five times already."

Jett grumbled and clambered to his feet. The knocking repeated, louder. "Yeah, yeah, I'm coming. Keep your space britches on." He opened the door and instantly snapped awake. In a fraction of a second his eyes took in the two visitors' dark suits, their badges and their poised wariness. Something in his hindbrain yelled, cops! and booted his fight-or-flight reflex into gear. He took a half-step backward, putting himself within reach of his jury-rigged and so far untested fusion gun. He really hoped this wasn't going to turn out violent, but when the cops show up at your door first thing in the morning it's never good news.

One of the newcomers held up her ID badge and peered at Jett. "Polk Security. Are you Preston Feckless Wilkinson?"

Jett relaxed a bit. A small bit. If this had been about the rat Jett had sent for a long walk on a short scaffold, they wouldn't be asking for Preston. "No."

They paused. "Is Mister Wilkinson here?"

Preston looked up. "I'm Preston Feckless Wilkinson. What is this concerning?"

The officer walked past Jett to stand in front of Preston. Her partner stayed in the doorway, near Jett. "Preston Feckless Wilkinson, you are under arrest for the crimes of bribery and attempted bribery. Please stand up and place your hands behind your back." She took a heavy plastic tie from her pocket.

 
Roll + skill + spin
-1   + 3     + 1    = 3

From behind the agent speaking, Jett surreptitiously mimed clubbing them followed by an inquisitive facial expression directed at Preston, trying to hide his gestures as much as possible from the second agent.

Preston sighed heavily and shook his head sadly at Jett. "sure, of course I am. Very well officers, take me away." On the ride over to the station Preston used his data slate to hire a very expensive lawyer, then promptly falls asleep.

The first law firm Preston contacted sent back a politely-worded email declining to take on his case. To his dismay, so did the next one. The third agreed to represent him, but quoted him nearly twice the going rate. Bastards, thought Preston. Like sharks smelling blood in the water.

Preston smiled at the polite reply of his first choice of legal representation. However Preston knew the people in this filthy system lived off of what they could scavenge off the more civilized systems, they couldn't pass up his business. Besides, if they won this high profile case it would be great for their firm. Preston played hard to get with them for a bit and sure enough they responded with an agreement on an increased rate.

Preston decided to hold a press conference when he was able. He built himself up to be the case that could make a firm successful, after his testimnony he was able to find sufficient legal council.

Thomas Douglas Guest was head of a Space Law, a prestigious law firm.  His firm had been locked in competition with Galaxy Law.  He saw the commotion with this Preston fellow on the tele and knew this would sure be a one up on those Galaxy twits.  He picked up his phone and began assembling a team to take this rich guy's case.

November 1, 756 OSY

Preston looked at the stacks of translucent polymer banknotes in the briefcase on the bail officer's desk. It was a small amount to give up compared to the "incentive" Preston had spread around the OSA to gain favour, but still represented a significant chunk of Preston's current assets.

He was still unable to make contact with any of his funders in Areston, which was worrying for several reasons. Not the least of these was that he was relying on these funders to pay for the repairs currently underway on the Lily. Preston wasn't sure if his current liquid assets would cover the work — and he did not want these filthy Oregonians to confiscate his pride and joy.

At least he was out of the holding cell now. The last week was the most dismal of Preston's life. His trial was still pending but with a bit of luck and some good ol' Arestonian know-how he would make his way through this mess. He'd come out victorious, like he always did!

Preston's eyes glinted as he saw the crowd of reporters clamouring for position outside the security building. He struck his best "been through hell but still fighting" pose, like Captain Colonialism in episode 45G10, The righteous struggle against the oppressive regime of the anti-taxationists. His shoulders drooped a bit as if exhausted, but his chin rose defiantly as he stepped outside, nodded gratefully to those admiring his plight and stepped up to the podium.