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The irony, Kalranoos thought to herself upon receiving Xan's direct orders to visit Alexandria, the heart of the Commonwealth. To send a devoted pacifist to establish diplomatic relations with a military dictatorship! Yet there was noone more suited for the task than Alliance's chief economist. She was an apt negotiator, versed in both speaking on the behalf of the Alliance, but also listening to requests of their allies. Wherever the Chief of State sent Zonia, from the Mandalorians to the governments of planets the Alliance brought to their fold, the Prakithan excelled. Somehow, she always came back with more than what they bargained for. The Sullustan was cunning enough to make a beautiful, yet intelligent and educated woman her ambassador amongst the stars.
Very few could resist Zonia's subdued sensuality, hidden under layers of fine fabric and a timid, measured smile. The mission to Alexandria was no different; Kalranoos would see if there was common ground between the Alliance and the militant force rising in the Unknown Regions. Following the events on Chandrila, no security risks were to be taken; Zonia was to be accompanied by either a Jedi or a high ranking officer at all times. She refused a proper body guard, but anything less was considered non-negotiable by Xan. This time she was entrusted into the able hands of [member="Zark"] Pulsar, who was, among other things, resposible for safely delivering Zonia to the Commonwealth's capital.
The cape of Zonia's dark brown dress draped behind her as she made her way to the command deck of the ship, along semi-empty corridors. The ship was running on minimum crew, with most of staff given their well-deserved leave. Kalranoos had spent the entirety of the trip in her quarters, going over financial data. Pulsar was considerate enough not to bother her during their time in hyperspace. With a low hiss, the blast doors of the command deck opened, revealing a viewport dominated by white streaks of hyperspace. In front of it, a man stood, hands clasped behind his back. With the softest of steps, the dark-haired woman made her way to stand by him, albeit at a decent distance.
"Are we there yet?" she asked, her voice laced with subtle nervousness. The length of the journey was slowly starting to test her tolerance of space travel.
[member="Horus"] and bring anyone else you like from your faction
Bridge, Unyielding-class Command Cruiser Rebel’s Hope Southern Edge of Commonwealth Territory, Spar Sector Neutral Space
Starlines reflected in the eyes of the solitary senior officer on night watch. Hopefully soon they would be setting their watches by Alexandrian standard, but until they made official contact and were guaranteed safe passage into Commonwealth space the ship ran on Sullust time, and by now the second shift of the skeleton crew would already be in their bunks. Blissfully, this also meant the executive officer would likely be overseeing the shift change and away from the bridge for a while yet.
With the third officer down on the flight deck keeping an eye on their newest recruit, that left the Captain himself to maintain his silent vigil over the hyperlane before them. Zark knew he should be quietly simmering by this point at the prospect of an assignment so radically outside the norm for the Hope’s standard operational parameters, but he was quickly beginning to realize that there was nothing standard about this particular posting. Although the command was new to him he found himself looking forward to the change of pace as if it were some kind of vacation, even if high command had done their best to reinforce the notion that it was anything but.
On the face of it, it didn’t make a whole lot of sense to send a tactical carrier like the Hope on a diplomatic venture of this nature, but from what little they knew culturally of the Alexandrians they were a highly militaristic society, and according to the Alliance eggheads at least probably more prone to respect a display of benign strength. Who better than the famed mothership of Rogue Squadron herself? In the back of his mind, Zark also knew that such a militaristic society would also likely send a warship or two of their own to intercept them, and that his role would also be in some capacity to gauge the technology and capability of the Alliance’s suddenly very curious and apparently very well armed new neighbors to the north.
Pulsar had to admit, despite the serious nature of their expedition, he was actually intrigued. Any lingering resentment over misallocations of military resources were quelled by his curiosity concerning what they did know of Alexandria’s society. The historian in him he had buried away lurched out from a past life to glance just a little too long at reports he would normally glance over. Isolated from the rest of the galaxy for thousands of years, the sheer amount of parallel cultural and technological development would be enough to stagger any research.
You cannot conceive, nor I, the infinite complexity and wondrous diversity of life in this universe.
Master Jiren’s words sprang unbidden to mind, and Zark resisted the instinctual urge to touch that lifewell of energy churning inside him, always. In the old days, he recalled idly, at a moment like this he would have been deep in a waking meditation, opening himself completely to the Force and feeling the ebb and flow of the universe itself as the stars passed them by. Not for the first time, the word addictive sprang to mind when he remembered that feeling, as clear and powerful now in his mind as it had been the last day he had really felt it. That, too, seemed like another life now.
And so, as the turbolift opened behind him he was forced to rely on his more natural senses to identify its occupant. Speaking of perks of the assignment. Until now, he had shown his charge the respectful distance his courteous nature as a scion of the Dubrillion courts demanded, but even having lived the monastic life of a Jedi the Captain noticed an almost ethereal sophistication to this Kalranoos. Used to fringe nobility and the lowest dregs of the Outback, this businesswoman and power player within the Galactic Alliance was a question mark to him. Knowing that a part of his duty on this assignment would be to essentially act as a glorified bodyguard for the Alliance’s selected representative, Zark would have to make an effort to move past that.
“Are we there yet?”
“We’ll be at the edge of Commonwealth sovereignty momentarily,” the Captain answered, not taking his eyes off the starlines ahead of him, “From there, I’ve been instructed that we are to be met by an escort from their Navy to convey us directly to Alexandria, unless they have other plans they have not yet communicated to us.”
The silence stretched for a few moments more before at last Zark turned to look at Zonia and smiled, “I hope, Miss Kalranoos, the hospitality aboard my ship has been at least tolerable if not satisfactory? Deep space travel can be arduous enough without the austere conditions of a military craft.”
Main Galley
“This is bantha dren and you know it, LT!” moaned the newest Chief Cook of the Rebel’s Hope.
“I just came for next port of call’s requisitions,” the cyborg Jedi Padawan and third officer’s modulated voice belied his exasperation, “Not to apply for a position as your defense counsel.”
“One little smuggling ring and he puts me in charge of the kitchens?” Chief Isaac Cain continued as if he hadn’t heard his superior, “Come on, LT, you know this dren wouldn’t have flown back when we were independent!”
“But we’re not independent anymore, we’re with the GA,” Arix reminded the scowling Korunnai, “And you were running a sizeable smuggling and gambling operation out of Rogue Squadron’s flight deck.”
“So?”
“So you were the Deck Chief!” Arix’s voice boomed out, startling the ‘reformed’ confidence man in the lopsided chef’s hat on the other side of the gleaming durasteel table, “The requisitions, please, Chief.”
Isaac stalked off grumbling, but he did return several seconds later with a datapad, apparently mollified by the use of his old title. Of course, in the context of the kitchens it held a very different meaning, but if some false dignity was what it took to keep Cain from causing even more trouble than usual, then it was worth it in the Padawan’s mind.
“Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to the flight deck to check on your replacement.”
Territories of the Commonwealth were hard to measure. They held installations and outposts as far as the Codian Moon and Rattatak, but their presence of government was only ever felt in the Cadi System, birthplace of the Commonwealth. It looked hardly the war zone of ten millennia of civil wars between monarchs, up until Horus had put an end to it with the final betrayal of the Royal Navy, now the Commonwealth Navy. In fact the system was bursting with passive activity, it was an ants nest ready to explode with overpopulation. Ten thousand years of isolation had put extreme hardship on the Cadi System. Colonial expansion was need not desire.
As the Rebel's Hope came out of hyperspace on the far fringes of the Cadi System it would be welcomed by the sight of the Home Fleet, a vast armada that spread from the scorched Uluru nearest Sol Invictus, their star, to the frosted Pontiac, a distant globe at the edge of the system. They weren't big ships, although carriers dotted space, large enough to deploy entire battalions of marines on the battlefield, enough to overwhelm a planets defences in weeks, if not days. The majority of the Commonwealth Navy were small heavy frigates. The Cadi System looked like a space insect nest, and the Commonwealths warships were the ants. Seemingly boundless, but tiny. Their bite easily underestimated.
Every planet in the system was colonised, terraformed to optimal living conditions as best as could be done. The furthest planets possessed herculean mirrors reflecting light and heat onto planets that would otherwise be inhospitably cold. At the centre of the system was Alexandria, cushioned by the defending Home Fleet. It was a luscious green and blue globe with speckles of white clouds. A broad spectrum of environments coloured the planets, from deserts to oceans, jungles and plains, rainforests and mountains. The cities on Alexandria were few and far in-between unlike those across the Cadi System, the only planet with less cities was Uluru.
Above Alexandria was the hive mind of the Home Fleet, a series of space stations and shipyards, both civilian and military. Horus, Lord of Admirals, found himself at Port Ulludulla, the inter-system port for foreign vessels. Although deemed a civilian port it held one of the largest military presences in the Cadi System, it was a floating city in its own right. With a civilian population of ten thousand, mostly technical crew, and a military presence of eighty-thousand. It possessed housing, nightclubs, cantinas, restaurants, academies and navy command. Horus was being escorted in a MARV from command down to the lower trenches of the port where the smaller berth stations for ships of less than six-hundred meters could make dock.
Following the MARV was a MATT, the troop transport variant of the MARV, on board was Fireteam Black acting as security. The Galactic Alliance wasn't considered a threat, least of all in the heart of the Commonwealth, but it was an insistence made by lower command. Horus may be on the Security Council but he was still forced to listen and submit to the advice of his cabinet of admirals. The venerable Lord Admiral looked sharp in his all white navy wear, with medals as many as his years alive. Though fit, his body was but a shadow of his former self, a young man whose pride and strength was only matched by his wit.
Horus unbuckled his harness as the MARV came to a slow halt, the Rebel's Hope would be escorted by Battlegroup Alexandria to the berth. No weapons were armed, and the Commonwealth was making a public note of it. The Home Fleet was calm, the insects hive relaxed. They gently mulled about their day-to-day duties. Horus' eyes watched from the seat of the MARV as a younger man helped him from the vehicle. He wondered if the Home Fleet was really up to the task of defending Alexandria when he passed into the long night. In recent days they had learned of their limitless enemies, their nation borders far more in danger than they had ever imagined. Horus had to secure the Commonwealths place in this galaxy before all that he had accomplished was undone. He then wondered quietly if Winslow had received his invitation to accompany him on this diplomatic mission.
*Vance stood among the starboard flight deck, where Rogue Squadron's primary fighters were located. He fidgeted with his deck jumpers, which were unzipped part of the way and tied off at the waist via the sleeves. He was pulling them just a bit tighter, trying to use the pressure to get his stomach to settle. The thought of the last half hour he'd spent in the head attempting to perfect his "bantha call" was resurfacing in his head. He clamped down on that mental image, though. Mainly because he'd rather not revisit the situation. So, tightening the waist seemed like an acceptable alternative.*
*The eldest son of Athen Caydence, prone to space travel.*
*What a joke. He realized that most of it was psychological. Just like the "fact" that he swore he felt the ship entering and leaving hyperspace, or anytime the vessel would turn or shift. He'd heard some of the others when they'd joke at his expense; often times, he'd join in on it. It was a travesty, come to think of it. All of his life had been dedicated to keeping starships...well, in the stars. The fact that he could barely stand up in one that was space-bound without feeling like his insides were roiling was laughable, at best. What was worse? He blamed the artificial gravity for why his shoulder continually seemed to hurt. Shrugging his shoulder reflexively as he thought of it, he simply knew that the ship's internal gravitational field was acting differently with regards to his prosthetic arm. Pulling it down further, making it feel...heavier.*
*It was a difficult transition, to say the least. But, Vance continued to make do with his circumstances. Already, he'd taken to making sure the starboard launch bay elevators were working properly. He liked the simplicity of the design. Standard square platform that had recessed corners, which rose to the ready-deck when in need of proper maintenance. And when the time came that Rogue Squadron would scramble for launch, the decks in the immediate area of the fighter lowered down to loading positions. Following canopy lock-down, the ship elevators would then lower to launch position. Before Vance arrived, the Rogues had been splitting the work detail between both the port and starboard hangars. All of the logs for the flight and launch data seemed impeccable at first, but Vance noticed within the first five minutes that there were several pilots with the exact same departure times, from scramble to launch, with zero hiccups or reported machinery issues. He wanted to chalk all of this up to the fact that Rogue Squadron was - considerably - the most-efficient, talented group of pilots out there. That their synchronicity due to flying hundreds of sorties together was what made them such perfectionists. But, after hearing "Hey TO, lift #6 is acting up again!" for (what seemed like) the thirtieth time, he had begun to form doubts.*
*Thinking of the TO actually seemed to make the ghost-pains in his shoulder all the more prevalent. It wasn't as though Vance had anything against the male; quite to the contrary, he respected the man. But Arix was...unyielding. He had - literally - zero give. Everything had to be simply. Thus. And Vance couldn't argue that the previous deck chief was quite lax in his duties. More often than anything else, he was seeing the evidences that Cain's "smuggling operations" were still being attempted, even with him being gone. Either the man still had reach and influence there, or his sudden upheaval from the flight deck had created a bit of a power vacuum. Either way, the son of Athen had to be just as ruthless in coming down on them as the TO had. First offenses were demerits, second was the brig. He hadn't caught anyone past two times, though. He was glad of that, too; court-marshaling didn't sound too fun to carry out on any of them. For the most part, the crew had been accepting of the new hangar chief. But then, there was...--*
*He felt the churn in his stomach again. Placing his hand over his abdomen, Vance turned toward the hangar exit just as the TO was entering. Opting instead to try and power through it, he continued his turn into an about-face, heading over to one of the several engineering stations that were set up on the adjoining bulkhead that the port and starboard sides of the hangar shared. Almost slamming his right hand down on the cool, metallic surface of the desk, Vance eased the datapad he'd left there into his grip. He continued to go over the figures from the latest launch data, and also checked the localized flight itinerary for any updates to the schedule. Nothing had changed, thus far. They were still slated to meet up with the Commonwealth rep that would lead them to "Alexandria" - wherever that was - in just a few short hours. Vance had been instructed to keep Rogue Squadron on standby, in case things became...hinky, he believed Arix's words were. He considered the legitimacy of using that sort of word even as the TO appeared in his peripheral vision. Swallowing hard to convince his stomach he wasn't giving in, Vance turned to face him. His words that he was able to form lacked the crisp, energetic tone of a fresh recruit.*
"Third-Officer Arix...to what do I owe the pleasure of your vis-..."*He lurched, but remained upright.*"-visit today?"
While the most important surveillance apparatuses of the Commonwealth Naval Intelligence had been notified of the Galactic Alliance vessel and its estimated time of arrival, some of the smaller CNI operations had on purpose been kept in the dark about the visit. The drill had turned out to be a lovely experience to put the teams through, one after one they had reported the sudden appearance of the unidentified ship with reports of the vessel as fully fledged as their equipment could possibly allow them.
It was this news alone that had kept Winslow, the Director of Intelligence, in a relatively stable mood despite having to abandon dinner with his wife after one of his security officers had reminded him to attend the diplomatic meeting set for later that evening.
After he had prepared himself for the departure and wished his wife a pleasant evening, he had boarded the MPD-11a troop transporter that had landed by his mansion in Barossa Valley. Soon after, he and the team of CNI Security Officers that would accompany him was on their way to Port Ulludulla. As one of the members on the Security Council, he knew just how important his job was. With the Commonwealth’s sudden appearance on the galactic scene, factions once unknown to them rose into view at every turn. It was vital that all potential allies was evaluated, researched and sorted from the potential enemies.
The MPD-11a’s landing gear touched the floor of the reserved military hangars a few hours later, a hissing noise heard from the ship as the landing ramp slowly lowered itself, allowing Winslow and his security detail to exit and board their transporter that would lead them to where they would greet the Galactic Alliances representatives.
Winslow’s physical appearance had not changed a lot since him and Horus had last seen each other. He was a large man still, perhaps not necessarily in height, being a few inches shorter than the Lord Admiral. At the very least, he triumphed him in width and mass, his shoulders broad. Despite his age, it was clear that in his youthful days Winslow had been of an athletic build, his large hands showing signs of having been used from an early age. A scar stretched down his left cheek, now but a mark on his greyish skin, the color a sign that he rarely saw sunlight. The scar stretched its way down past his lower lip, it almost being entirely concealed by the large iconic mustache that adorned his face.
With a heavy groan, Winslow exited the transporter that had driven him from his hangar down to the lower trenches, his stern blue gaze inspecting Fireteam Black before they reached Horus.
“I see you’ve grown fond of them.” His deep voice resounded as he slowly made his way towards the Admiral, extending a hand for a handshake instead of the well-known salute.
"I grew up on Prakith, Commander." she replied with a half-smile - "In a mining colony, covered with toxic soot." Kalranoos came from a very modest background, living most of her childhood just above the poverty line. The way she spoke and bore herself gave no hint of anything lesser than formative years spent at Theedian court. Zonia was adaptible, a fast learner; she quickly picked up tools of the trade of the politician, from public speaking to clothes that accentuated femininity without being indecent. Her choice of attire was suitable for the task at hand; Zark's, not so much. But she wouldn't complain for now, they weren't friends. Yet.
"Whatever is good enough for the Rogues is good enough for me." the dark-haired woman stated, meaning every single word. They were the finest pilots in the galaxy, the pride of the Alliance. Zonia would spoil them from time to time, with half a century old whiskey, but they were mostly a humble bunch. Whatever provisions the ship had, it would more than suffice.
"And please, call me Zonia." she added in a more friendly and less formal tone, effectively erasing the professional boundary between them - "We'll be working closely together in the future. I am the chief economist, after all, you might want to be on good terms with me, haha."
The ship slipped out of hyperspace, only to be greeted by Commonwealth's Home fleet. Zonia's smile widened a bit. "Will you be so kind and tell Caydence his presence will be requested at the meeting? I haven't met the man yet and comandeering people around is not something I do gladly. Command thinks there might be business opportunities ahead, in naval engineering."
Her dark gaze diverted to the Duros XO who sat by the nav-computer, calibrating the sensor array. "Commander Stazi, please set the course for Port Ulludulla." she asked kindly, then walked to stand in the middle of the command deck - "Also, hail them. Audio and visual."
The Duros signalled with a wave of his hand and Kalranoos was free to speak. Like so many times before, she addressed their potential allies with her trademark amalgam of confidence and respect. The cape of her dress encapsulated her form in tasteful elegance; she was no queen, but sure looked like one. She could, by her presence alone, end wars. Perhaps it was the Alliance ideal, which Zonia closely followed, that gave her this aura.
"This is Ambassador Zonia Kalranoos on the behalf of the Galactic Alliance. Requesting permission to dock." she said plainly, before the transmission was terminated. Surely, naval protocol prescribed the captain to be the one requesting docking rights. Pulsar had every right to object. However, the Commonwealth needed to see her first.
Bridge, Unyielding-class Command Cruiser Rebel's Hope Cadi System
"I've heard of Prakith, but have never had the personal pleasure," put in a certain way the statement could have seemed snide or judgmental, but Zark's tone was earnest. Sheepishly reticent to speak candidly just yet about his noble heritage, he said, "I am from the Outer Rim, way out on the other side of the Core from Sullust."
It seemed that there was more to the enigmatic Miss Kalranoos than he had expected, as with a few glances he tried to penetrate the refined exterior of her mannerisms to see the daughter of working class people and failed to do so. Though he didn't know it, her path through life and class was in a way obverse to his own. Where Zonia had elevated herself from the depths of Prakith to the heights of chief economist for the Galactic Alliance, Zark had been born into a life of privilege a son of House Kryptos, a minor viscounty within the Dubrillion courts. That status had been stripped from him, first by the Jedi praxeum that took him for training when he was discovered to be sensitive, then by tragedy, and then circumstance. Unlike Kalranoos, however, Pulsar had not shed his former skin quite so flawlessly. Despite having spent half his life in the Kathol Outback or on some backwater Outer Rim world, he had still held on to some pesky tells, affections and mannerisms from his formative years that he just couldn't seem to shake and that Zonia was uniquely qualified to pick up on.
Perhaps the one quality that belied her humble beginnings was her willingness to endure the conditions aboard his vessel without complaint, as she went on to assure him that the accommodations were acceptable. If only she knew how many complaints his senior staff had received from the Rogue's personally about their quarters. Then again, he couldn't be sure if their behavior wasn't part of a possibly still ongoing hazing ritual to break in his command, as it hadn't seemed to effect their performance in the cockpit.
"And please, call me Zonia."
The efforts she made to be cordial continued to disarm him as he began to suppose this summit would be at least tolerable, if not enjoyable. Still, a lifetime of manners overrode his good intentions as he replied subconsciously, "As you wish, Miss Zonia."
The part of him that was from nowhere near Dubrillion added with a jestful grin, just loud enough that only she could hear, "You don't need to butter me up, I promise if the Commonwealth betrays us to defend you with manly courage."
Before they had an opportunity to socialize any further there was an increased bustle of activity around them as more bridge officers made their way to the bridge in the moments before the reversion. As they emerged into realspace at the edge of the system, their escort was waiting for them in military precise formation, the bulk of the warships suddenly colossal in the viewport where moments before there had only been starlines. Battlegroup Alexandria was impressive, Captain Pulsar had to admit. The heavy frigates that made up the bulk of the naval vessels arrayed around them in escort formation were more or less the same size as the Hope, but Zark's head spun as he did some quick calculations in his head about the sheer logistics of the manufacturing and production of just this one battlegroup for a single planetary system. This Commonwealth was certainly industrious to a frightening degree, that much he could already tell. If these people ever decided to expand, it could be either a great boon to the Galactic Alliance or another menace in a galaxy seemingly filled with them, depending on their intentions.
And that was what today was about, after all. Their intentions, and the Alliance's, and the hope that the two might align in enough ways to call one another friends.
Zark opened his mouth to begin giving the usual orders to guide the Hope into their berth when Zonia interrupted his train of thought with her request to contact the newest addition to his crew. He was about to let her know that he would just as soon as they were on their way when she gave her executive officer the command herself. Expecting to have to confirm the order himself, the Captain was nonetheless unsurprised when Commander Stazi complied readily with the economist's request. He could just imagine the massive grin Mazik was wearing underneath that outwardly placid exterior, as the duros still relished every opportunity his rigid personality could take to undermine him. Several junior officers glanced his way as the self assured civilian representative continued to request docking rights with Port Ulludulla, but Zark said nothing, instead stepping away from the center of the bridge to quietly comm his third officer. It was a power play, he could tell right away from Zonia's actions, but he knew enough about negotiations to also know that it wasn't for his benefit. It was for theirs.
Starboard Flight Deck En Route to Port Ulludulla
Arix had been halfway to the flight deck when he had received the comm from his Captain, informing him that Vance Caydence's presence was required at the airlock designated for Pulsar and the economist's disembarkation when they were assigned a berth at the massive space station that served as a hub for the entire system's interplanetary traffic. The young Jedi didn't know much about the Commonwealth or these Alexandrians beyond what Zark had told him, but he yearned nonetheless to see Port Ulludulla for himself, and yet here he was in the bowels of the carrier on the way to break in their new deck chief. Such was a life of service. In truth, the third officer was not so cruel as his reputation implied, mostly a result of the menacing looking life support suit he wore to keep what was left of his body alive. Cruel or not, Arix demanded excellence from the sentients under his command, and the consequences for failing to live up to that expectation could be harsh. This wasn't just another ship of the line in the Galactic Alliance Navy, this was the Rebel's Hope. This was where Rogue Squadron came home to roost.
Their newest addition was brilliant, and more at home in a hangar bay than almost anyone the cyborg had ever seen before, but nevertheless Arix wasn't sure if the Carratos native was cut out for navy life. For one thing, he didn't seem to be able to stand upright on a spaceship while it was in hyperspace or at impulse power. Stopping briefly as he was called over to assist in coordinated the repair efforts on a malfunctioning lift (number six, good ol' unreliable), he suppressed a laugh as he finally made his way over to the new chief. The third officer supposed Vance thought he was putting on a convincing performance of remaining unaffected by the artificial gravity, but Arix didn't need to be a Jedi to see right through him. It was obvious enough in his complexion alone.
"You lucked out, chief. I was on my way down here for a surprise inspection," the electronically modulated tones of his voice made maintaining his reputation of terror easy to manage, "But no time for that now. You're to report to Airlock 7 and link up with the delegation, Captain's orders."
Starboard Flight Deck, Rebel's Hope En route to Port Ulludulla
*The young Caydence blinked hard, not sure if he'd heard the TO correctly. Assuming his vocabulator wasn't malfunctioning. Because, if he had just heard the cyborg correctly -- but, why would the Alliance's chief economist want a gear-head at a meeting with some of the Commonwealth's greatest military minds of this era? Surely there must have been a line of reasoning to this that Vance didn't understand. Regardless, these were the Captain's orders. Caydence still had yet to fully come to terms with the structure of military compliance. The orders could have come from the ship's cook, and Vance likely would have fallen in line. Perhaps that was a gross exaggeration, but Vance knew that he still had plenty to learn about being an enlisted man.*
"Aye-aye, sir!"*He managed a decent salute before remembering that he wasn't exactly in proper dress code for a delegation meeting.*"May I be excused to ready myself, sir?"
*Upon receiving the affirmation, he quickly left for the starboard hangar doors that would eventually lead him to the bunk decks. Taking a few moments to freshen up and rapidly change into his dress uniform, Vance did what he could to gather himself. Once he was certain that his dress was up to code, he tucked his headgear beneath his left arm and made his way to Airlock 7. He'd spent his first few weeks on-board the Hope learning every inch of her; so it was no surprise that he had managed to arrive at the airlock without so much as a hiccup just as the rest of the delegation was coming to it. This being the first time that he'd laid eyes on the Ambassador, he had to say, he was rather...stunned.*
*She carried herself with all of the air and resolve of high-political acumen. Vance noted the strong adherence to sexual overtones, an obvious - yet effective - means of disarming the opposing delegation, to be certain. And yet, something in her gaze seized him; in the way that one could be viewed with indifference, but still be weighed and considered. By her reputation, Vance knew that she was the Alliance's chief economist. The woman that he saw before him was anything but that, though. What he saw was an individual who was pressing for even higher purpose and prevalence. And it would be for that reason that Vance would be keeping his tongue in check, and his eyes on [member="Zonia Kalranoos"].*
*As the group would approach, Vance would lend a salute to his superior officers. If they continued forward toward the airlock, Vance would fall into procession along with them. Otherwise, there he would wait until acknowledged.*
Winslow, he looked half-Hutt as he climbed out of the transport. A burly man, grotesque. Horus knew the physical demands of the top brass were not the same, but he still felt like it was duty to maintain fitness. Horus may be much older, venerable even, but he was strikingly fit. Though he still struggled to keep up with even the greenest of cadets. "I seen you've grown fond of them," Winslow remarked, Horus turned his head to Fireteam Black and commented, "They're the best of the best, Winslow, CNI has done well with the Jaguar Program." They shook hands.
Horus turned to observe out the herculean viewport, vast distant ships escorted the lonely Galactic Alliance vessel into its berth. Permission had been granted by local Port Command. Scythes and Drexls took to flight, performing routine sweeps of the outer-most regions of the system, ensuring the safety of the Commonwealth and the Cadi System. A shame they could not extend such resources to the distant Commonwealth colonies that were beginning to crop up.
He recalled the briefing he attended when he woke, a mysterious blaze followed by dead communications from G'rho. It didn't bode well, he'd send Dean Letham to clear up the air later, but for now it was time for talks. "You've been made aware who exactly our guests are?" Horus asked to Winslow, but he already knew the answer. It didn't hurt to know the names and backgrounds of the diplomats from the Galactic Alliance. CNI had eyes everywhere and he had the distinct feeling some of those eyes were apart of Horus' private cabinet of admirals. He couldn't say who, but he'd have to look into it further.
>> [FULL TEXT] Commander, Preparations for your arrival on station are underway and on schedule. All pertinent information on GA diplomatic team has been relayed via your personal datalink, and is available for your perusal at your leisure. Please note that primary security for the Council will be handled by Fireteam Black. Marine Recon 17 has been deployed on station as backup security, should they be required, and has already cleared the station for security threats as per your commands. In my professional opinion, Uluudulla is as safe as a space station can be. Happy hunting, Commander.
Lieutenant Adalle, CIC Adjunct
>> To: Adalle%Adjunct@CMC.gov >> From: Tharelle%CIC@CMC.gov >> Encryption Grade: 3/3 >> Re: Re: GA Summit, Ulludulla
>> [FULL TEXT] Lieutenant Adalle, Your professional opinion would be more respected if you could spell Ulludulla. Have them sweep it again.
Tharelle stood and unstrapped himself from the bucket seat on board the MPD he'd ridden from the planet surface. With a grunt, he used sweaty hands to straighten his pristine black uniform. He hated space. That it was necessary for him to travel into space for various operations was a given, and he never complained or stressed over it. But he didn't have to like it. He was confident then when the day came, his death would come in space. Probably from a ridiculous malfunction of one of the millions of things that could go wrong on the smallest ship in the fleet. Such was life. Turning, he examined his reflection in the transparisteel window that looked out into the hangar. His white hair, streaked with black at the temples, was immaculately groomed as always. He frowned slightly at the deep furrows that formed around his eyes, along with the creases on his forehead. When did you get so old? he asked himself plaintively. In his youth he'd known that war was a young man's game. In his age, he knew that war wasn't a game at all.
With steady hands, he reached down and buttoned the dress cufflinks at his wrists before walking toward the ramp that had descended to the deck plates below. Using a hand to steady himself on the bulkhead, he moved toward the ramp and descended to the hangar deck of the massive inter-system station. It wasn't his first time on board, but each time he was a bit more desirous of terra firma beneath his feet.
As a member of the security council, his presence was 'requested' at this meeting with ambassadors from the GA. He'd have been obliged to turn it down, but he knew that these things were important - if dull. On the way up, he'd taken time to read what intel they had about the incoming GA personnel. He liked to be prepared - which is exactly why he expected something to go wrong.
A young officer approached him on the flight deck, giving a crisp salute before inviting to accompany him to the Lord of Admirals and the Intelligence Director. Tharelle motioned forward with a tight smile, and followed the young officer several steps behind in the direction indicated. Tharelle's eyes were no longer what they'd used to be, but he was fully capable of recognizing the corpulent figure of his counterpart from the intelligence division at distance. That made the other man Lord Admiral Horus.
Putting on his most political smile, Tharelle approached the two of them with his hands clasped behind his back. "Comrades," he said with a nod.
"They're the best of the best, Winslow, CNI has done well with the Jaguar Program." Horus responded and the burly man bowed his head in agreement, a grave expression planted on his face, his eyes diverting towards the viewport in unison with the Lord of Admirals. While he began to silently contemplate the Jaguar project and the moral scruples associated with the training the newly formed fireteams were undergoing, he for a brief moment caught sight of the Alliance ship.
Distracted momentarily from the Jaguar project, Winslow pondered upon the striking similarities the appearance of the Galactic Alliance vessel had when compared to the frigates of the Commonwealth. It had to be an efficiency question, a technical design point, the Director concluded before he stared towards the vast fleet that surrounded the harbor. His mind returning to the Jaguar project and the recent death of #0052. It was tragic, really.
"You've been made aware who exactly our guests are?" Horus asked after their brief moment of silence. Having to burrow the thoughts of the Jaguar program, Winslow nodded once again, his grin slowly returning to his face as a quiet rumble was heard from the man. “Of course, Nelson. Interesting people might I add.” He replied, fighting back the childish urge to add the question of whether or not the Admirals breakfast, a measured bowl of cereal, had been pleasant. Nevertheless, it would be implying too much. Unnecessary banter. As of recently, the CNI had perhaps put their noses too deep into certain matters and the disapproval, or rather, irritation the Admiral had responded with had not gone unnoticed.
Steps were heard behind the pair, the sound followed by a familiar voice: “Comrades.” It was Tharelle, the Commander-in-Chief. Winslow turned, his almost theatrical voice heard once more as he returned the nod, folding his large hands on his back.: “Tharelle, what a pleasant surprise. Just in time as well.” He continued, motioning nonchalantly towards the berth. “Never one to miss diplomatic pleasantries, huh?”
