"I'm down for negotiating," Hugh says. "Contrary to appearances, I do actually know how this diplomacy thing works."

"As am I," Swims-the-Black nods. "Although, I don't know if we are capable of such a mission. Directly appealing to an authority figure to appreciate our side and trying to convince them that we agree is something unfamiliar to me after spending time with this team," he says with a grin.

"And that's why it will work," Hugh says. "They definitely won't be expecting that."

Luis laughs, "Well, then, I'll talk to Barnes today about trying to get a better feel for the players, and let you know how that goes after the taping." He glances at his watch, "Actually, if we're going to make our pickup, we'd better get going." He turns to Arketta, who still looks distracted, and asks, "Coming?"
Arketta nods and slowly follows Luis out of the booth, clutching her file in her hands.

With the meeting over and the members of the team either finishing their breakfast or heading out to follow through with their part of the plan, Ngawai whispers something in Davis' ear and gives him a peck on the cheek. Davis smiles, whispers something back, and Ngawai stands up.

"I'll be back, still not used to how much keeping hydrated while pregnant makes you have to piss," she says, and walks towards the restrooms. Davis returns to his breakfast and scheming.
Angel leans over. "Davis...word to the wise. Don't be the next one to take a shower in your room."
Davis looks over at Angel, eyebrow raised. "Did she get you?"
"She did." Angel smiles. "And now it is time for your wife to realize I am above childish pranks. She's running in the big leagues."
Davis gives a thoughtful nod. "Two things. Whatever this is, it'll be safe for Naloni?"
"Yeah," Angel says. "It's organic. Hippie chick I dated for a bit loved the stuff - I swear, if they could put unicorn tears in it they would. Will cost me a weeks pay but...thems the breaks."

"Good," Davis replies. "And the other thing: Ngawai's told me stories about the hazing pranks she masterminded in Kansat, and prank wars with Harlon." He finally returns Angel's grin. "Whatever she did to you is just a warm-up if you want to go down this road."
"And I deployed paint-bombs to a goddamned battlefield. Maybe this will have the decency to actually be entertaining."
Davis laughs. "Then good luck, and Godspeed, sir. And don't tell me anything, I don't need to get caught up in this."
Angel nods seriously. "I was never here."

----

On the way out of the restaurant, Arketta takes Luis by the hand and guides the both of them into the hallway to the restrooms. She hadn't looked like her usual confident and comfortable self since Davis handed her the manila envelope with the conspiracy's blackmail material, something Luis noticed almost immediately. She looks nervously behind them, then turns back to him.

"Luis, there's something I have to tell you," she whispers to him.
Luis nods and says, "What's up?"
"We both know that I was a Turai before I met you," she starts, "and that I haven't talked about what I did back then. Well, Simmons must have found my Turai record in the Cortex dump, and...well..." She presses her envelope into his hands. "I want you to know before anyone else."
Luis takes the folder with one arm, and wraps the other around her shoulders. "Look, I knew you had a past. The first time we met, you tried to stab me, it's hard to forget. I figured you'd tell me when it was right. But you also have a present, and you have a future, and those don't have to be what's in this envelope. Whatever's in here...it's who you were, and you can't forget that, but it doesn't have to be who you are and who you'll be."
"But now, it's not just me who knows, and they might let the whole of Narsai know," Arketta says. She presses the folder against his chest. "Please, Luis, read it, and then decide what you think about me."
"All right." Luis trails his arm down Arketta's shoulder, and briefly clasps her hand before he opens the folder.

The first page is mostly dedicated to making the case that Arketta has been influencing the team's decisions and Luis' in particular. It seems like a weak argument, but the writer is obviously leading up to the second page, which, instead of being written, is simply a printed copy of her Turai file. Prior to her assignment to Whiirr, Turai Arketta Quis had quite an illustrious career, involved in putting down three separate terrorist organizations in her four year career with the Turai, on top of a half-dozen other smaller actions against criminal cells and even a lost Sheen. Most importantly to the blackmail, her record shows 36 kills, 22 of those listed as "pacifications" from five different instances, mostly as part of what is listed as "clean-up" missions. Luis knows exactly what that distinction means.

Luis's eyes scan the page, then over it again. He takes a breath and looks up, meeting Arketta's eyes. Tears are running down her dark tan cheeks and she tries a few times to start speaking. "It was...I had to, otherwise I would have been killed, they were orders and you don't get to choose otherwise, and after the first time, it was just easier to not think about what I was doing..." She takes Luis' hands and squeezes them tight. "I didn't want to do it, Luis, you have to believe me. I didn't want to. Please...tell me that you can forgive me for what I've done."
"What would you do if you were given that order again?" Luis asks. The tone is warm, but the set of his face shows the weight behind the question.
"It was the worst day of my life." Arketta looks down, unable to look Luis in the eyes. "Afterwards, I wished that I was dead. If I could do it again, I would have let the Samal execute me in front of the Quad instead of firing into that crowd." She drops Luis' hands. "I understand, Luis. I should have told you what I am before."
Luis looks down at the papers again, closes the folder, and hands it back. "Yeah," he says and lets out a sigh. "Come on, we need to get to where Barnes is picking us up."

Arketta moves in front of Luis, blocking him. "Are we - can you - I..." she sputters. She reaches for his hand. Luis takes it.
"I...I think so. I need time to think, it's a lot, but what's in there...who you are, what you are now is different." He gestures at the folder. "The person in there would have bowed to the Emperor, not shot him in the head. She killed innocents because it was the only choice she was given to save herself, and then kept doing it because she could let herself think of it as the way things had to be. You wouldn't do that. She may be you, but you don't have to be her, and you don't have her future." He looks Arketta in the eye, but this time the strength in his gaze isn't focused on her. "And Davis and I and the others will make sure that anyone who sees that," he gestures at the folder, "Also knows the whole story."
A smile breaks across Arketta's face through her tears, and she embraces Luis, the effort lifting him off the floor an inch or so. She puts him down and just holds him tight, sobbing into his shoulder. "Thank you," she whispers. "I love you, Luis."
"I love you too," he whispers back.

Hugh really isn't too surprised, when he thinks about it. The bathroom is one of the few places he can relax in, it's only natural that any peace it has would be disturbed. But goddammit, if it isn't creepy to see the top of Zaef's face over the wall of the stall.

"You want to know what's in my package, Verrill." There's a pause. "Let me rephrase that: you want to see Simmons wrote up about me." Another pause. "That probably didn't come out right either."
Hugh takes a second to process being spoken to before he answers. "Actually, no," he says, "I make it my policy to stop at three important facts about everyone I know. Zaef Utari: Ex-arena fighter. Good with knives and sneaking. Likes Coca Cola. Bam, done." After the sound of some more...erm, water hitting water, Hugh speaks up again. "But since you're breaking the dude code, I think what you want to tell me is a little more important than your side in the cola wars. I'm listening."
"That explains why this is so awkward. The fact of the matter is, I have no idea how to combat this. I'm still not entirely familiar with your customs, Verrill, I don't know what works and what doesn't, I only have a vague understanding of what's socially acceptable-well, obviously, but the fact is I've got a packet full of essentially blackmail and propaganda and I can't fight back against it. I don't like saying it, but I need your help here, Verrill." There's some shuffling from the other stall. The characteristic clink of a belt buckle hitting the floor. A pause."Oh, fuck, this IS uncomfortable."
"While I appreciate your obvious talent for double-entendres, Utari, I would very much like it if you got to the point."
"That is the point, you little spinkfu-Hold on. Maybe this will help you understand why I feel over my head here." A manilla envelope slides across the floor into Hugh's stall. "And what the fuck is a double entendre?"
"It's when you say something that can be interpreted two ways, one really innocent, the other dirty as hell," Hugh replies as he opens up the envelope.
"Oooooh, that's what you call it."

Zaef's file is a bit thicker than Hugh expected, but then, he realized, he didn't know a lot about Zaef, or his past. Simmons or whoever put these together had rooted around in the latter. There was some build-up about not trusting Zaef with any sensitive information, or any at all if it could be helped, because it might be catastrophic in 'the wrong hands.' Hugh flips the page, and sees exactly what-sorry, who is being referred to as the wrong hands: a blown-up, high-res picture of three people covers the page, two adults and one boy. The adults had the signature golden yamakas and prosthetics optics of Keeper implants, and wore exceptionally rich formal attire. The child between them, lacking the implants, was fairly chubby and also richly dressed. None of them smiled, all had some variation of a frown on their faces and stood stiffly, but there was something familiar about the way they looked.

The caption at the bottom read: Illustrious Keepers of Secrets Heroest and Visam Utari, with son Zaef, at the Lost Way Master's Site on Sambasan.

The next couple pages mentioned Zaef's parents only in passing, but they talked about other interesting details-he disappeared at the dig site on Sambasan around 7 years old, parents never found him for years, that sort of stuff. When he was caught later, the Imperium traced his past to connect him to crimes he might have committed as a minor. It was a fairly big list-many counts of illegal travelling, stowing away, theft, armed robbery, the Imperial equivalent of manslaughter; in his late teens, he started racking up much nastier charges of trafficking illegal goods, harboring fugitives, second degree murder, carrying and using unregistered firearms in said homicides, reckless and unsafe flying manuevers, intruding on holy ground, resisting pacification and lawful safety measures, and ended with the offense he was caught for: first degree murder of a nearly an entire Quad of Turai. Under these charges, he was sentenced to the Arena.
The report examines some of these events in detail-he disappeared at seven years old? How? Why? it asks, but it doesn't answer right away. He bought and was registered for a cargo freighter, the Wingless Flight, but he paid a pretty penny to do so. How'd he get the money? Do average smuggling operations and hits pay really well in the Imperium? He has plenty of recorded instances of conflict between himself and Kansat, and even Turai later, but he not only survived those encounters(some of which involved planetary lockdown and came two steps shy of urban warfare), but he was only-Hugh scoffs at 'only'-sent to the Arena. How could he have made it through all of this with luck, wits, and possibly balls?
The report concludes these findings that "logically, the most probable and plausible explanation for these events is that these fantastical events were fabricated or engineered to provide a convincing cover to infiltrate the rebels, and now, Earth. By maintaining close connections to the Imperial government, he could have easily been able escape from otherwise impossible situations. He would have been trained starting from the early age of seven, not running away or being kidnapped as these ridiculous reports claim."
Zaef's parents make a return appearance-despite their rebel son, they've done quite well for themselves, not merely keeping their jobs but climbing several more rungs of the corporate ladder. He also had a private meeting with the Emperor himself after his last Arena fight-if he was a rebel at heart, why not kill him then? Some other previously covered events are re-examined - an assassination attempt on Hedion involving a bombed Kansat skimmer and a planetary lockdown, called off after a three week manhunt-called in some favors. Paying for his ship-beg mummy and daddy for cash. Use his parent's expertise to figure out how to traverse some old Master-level ruins while he's at it. Meeting with the Emperor-making his report. Getting sent to the Arena, and not being executed before said Emperor-obviously, some claudestine operation making sure Zaef is still an asset.
The report ends with a recommendation: "Pointing out inconsistencies or unexplained phenomena listed above will quickly destroy Utari's credibility. Let the public and press stew on these excuses for a while, then quietly connect some dots for them. The rest will fall in place, and we can execute the traitor if we can rile up the public enough."

There is a long silence from Hugh's stall. Obviously, he's reading the entire dossier from start to finish, probably repeatedly going over some things. When he does finally speak up, his voice has lost its mirth and been augmented with anger in its stead. "I have one question, Utari," he says. "Actually, no, I have about a billion questions, but this one is the most important. How the fuck do Simmons and Russell have all this information on you? Because this reads like something a high-level Imperial intelligence source put together."
"I'm pretty sure he put this all together from the Cortex, with some digging. I have a criminal record there, you know, and the Imperium records damn near everything." A pause. "There aren't any cameras in this bathroom, by the way. Already checked. Another thing the Imperium records."

Hugh thinks about it. They threw the whole damn cortex, every bit they could find, out there into the open for everyone to see. All the Imperium's dirty secrets - including Zaef's past.
"Fuck!" Hugh says. "We're taking this to Davis right after we're done here, Utari. And then you're going to give us the straight dope, what really happened. Got that?"
There's a longer pause, a grunt, and a plop. "Does it have to be Davis, of all people?"
"When it comes to making sure they don't crucify you for this? You want the best."
"I'm going to need a very stiff drink. Maybe two."

Very few official buildings in Washington DC work regular business hours, and the United Kingdom embassy outside DC is certainly not one of them. The parking lot is half-full, even at the un-businesslike hour of 0630. A quick inspection of her passport sees Kadiatu through the front gate, and a call upstairs delivers her through the security checkpoints and up to an unmarked office on the third floor belonging to her contact officer in MI6, Martin Porter.

A cardboard cup of tea steaming away next to his keyboard, Martin nods as Kadi enters the room. "Warrant Officer, how do you do?"
"Well enough, Mister Porter," she answers, heading over to the man's desk and dropping into the chair in front of it. "The game, as they say, is afoot. What's the blend?" She nods towards the tea.
"Irish breakfast. Can you believe that the Yanks actually have a website that delivers whole leaf overnight?" Porter chuckles and shakes his head. "It's not bad, I can get Denise to bring you a cup, if you want."
"Sounds good. Three sugars." She reaches down and pulls a sheath of papers from the thigh pocket of her pants. She opens them up and drops them on Porter's desk, revealing a hand-drawn illustration of a man's face; one of the conspirators from two nights ago.
Porter pushes a button on his phone, opening a line to the secretary in the hall. "Denise, a cup of the Irish breakfast, three sugars, please."
"Yes, Mister Porter."
Porter flips through the stack of papers as he takes a drink from his cup. "So, who are these, then?"
"The people who I was meant to be meeting yesterday, but they rescheduled to the night before. I don't know if they're the actual people behind the move to disband 815 or just frontmen operating on relay from their bosses, but it's somewhere for our lot to start looking anyway. As expected, super keen that I dish any dirt I'd managed to dig up in less than a day and narked when they were reminded that accelerating their agenda wasn't part of ours."

"Hmm. I'll scan them in and get back to you today with any possible matches." The sketches are slid into a manila envelope and put in his desk. "And the Sheen? How did that go?"
"About as well as could be expected. I hate the buggers, you just can't get a read on them until after you've managed to provoke a reaction. Which I managed to do. Pretty genuine too, which I guess will make the PsyOps kiddies happy to know. I don't know if it's all of them or just the one I happened to interact with, but a definite superiority complex."
"Well, the diplomats in the building are currently running scared after the Sheen Ambassador sent a letter requesting that in the future, the British government treat his race with more respect than intentionally provoking a hostile reaction from one of their representatives, so bravo on the performance, but I think we know well enough what they are capable of now." Porter shakes his head. "A diplomatic incident with a bloody race of artificial intelligences, who would have thought."

The conversation comes to a halt as Denise knocks at the door, is allowed in and hands Kadi her tea before leaving again.
"Hopefully it worked to sell the veracity of it all. No china?" she asks, indicating the paper cup with a suitably raised eyebrow.
"No, those of us who work for a living don't have time for such things," Porter replies with a smile. "So, what dirt have you dug up on 815?"
"Well, they're off reservation as we speak. The lot of them are off somewhere. I followed Captain Verrill, and I saw him meet up with Davis and the lesser of the two evils, sorry, his wife, before I lost them, so it's a reasonable guess that they're off having a private party they don't want anyone else to know about that's probably related to the whole conspiracy to bring them down. "It'd be so much easier to keep track of them in London with all our cameras, but given I don't know this place from Cardiff, what can you do?"
Porter nods. "Not much. What's more important here is whether or not they're working against our interests or Earth's interests. The Americans and we are agreed that we can't have our most influential force through the Gateways be playing for the other side. Have you found anything to substantiate their claims about 815?"
"They're maybe a little native," she holds up her fingers a pinch. "But at the very least getting all that chrome in his skull seems to have gotten Sergeant Stanhill in tight with the Sheen. Given the snit that amped up little calculator got into over my just asking it to explain the failsafes and operating principles, actively excising the Sergeant from operational matters because of such doubts could get really ugly really fast. Which is exactly one of the points they're hoping to play against Simmons and his backers. "Speaking of which, Simmons' boss may or may not have tried to pink slip Verrill and Swims-the-Black in the CIA's own parking lot."

Porter's eyebrows shoot up. "Bob Russell?" He digs the manila folder with Kadi's sketches in it out of his desk and pulls them out again. "Fucking Hell," Porter says and quickly brings up a file on his monitor and spins it around. On the screen is a dossier, with the picture of one of the men that Kadi met with two nights ago and the name "ROBERT RUSSELL" next to it. "Is this one of the men you met with?"
Kadi nods. "Third sheet. He came across as a right rabid little weasel. There's absolutely no love lost between him and 815, even before the last mission according to the little confab we had after Verrill and Swims-the-Black got back to the hotel. Refusing to play ball the other night may have prompted him to tip his hand."

"Or he's just a thug." Porter has a sour look on his face. "He's one of the Americans we've been working with on getting you into 815. Okuna, O'Donnell, Ward and a few others from their Department of Defense were also involved." He brings up a couple of more images, all men she recognizes from the late night meeting, names matching the individuals Porter just mentioned. "Were any of them at this meeting?"
Kadi points out the offenders. "So, who was it again who sold the President on the neutrality of a UK investigation into his showpiece off-world team?"
"O'Donnell, Ward and Russell approached MI6 with the President's approval in hand," Porter says bitterly. "I guess we know what their agenda really was. I don't like being played for a fool, Kadiatu."
"Hardly fools, Mister Porter," she answers, finishing off her tea. "They just obviously believed 815's treacherousness would be self evident even if you didn't hate each and every member of the team, and just wanted to remove any hint of political agendas from the process of denunciation. The idea they might be wrong may simply never have crossed their minds."

"Or they just expected us to play along and swing the hatchet for them." Porter leans back in his chair and thinks for a moment. "For now, we stay on mission. Keep observing 815. They may have an agenda, but that doesn't mean they're wrong. We know far too little about the 815 to conclude that they haven't been turned. But be careful. If they're willing to attack them in the open like that, you might get caught in the crossfire, and if we don't play along, the game might change very quickly."
Kadi nods. "It might be worthwhile reaching out to the others and persuading them that Russell is a lose cannon they can ill afford to have going off half cocked and threatening their agenda. Pulling at least one Damoclean sword from over the team's heads would let them ease up and give me the time I need to see if they let anything slip. Of course, there's every possibility that it wasn't Russell but Simmons who was ultimately behind the hit and Russell’s going to be the one taking the heat. It's probably past time I met him."

Porter nods. "I'll reach out and see what I can come up with. Have you found anything else on 815, any of the other members besides Stanhill? Any signs we have to worry about Davis, Stanhill, Riviera or any of 815 abandoning our side?"
"Swims the Black strikes me as quite the mellow sort for all that he's a wookiee gladiator, and he thought our attempt at the translator coat was well intentioned. If Q division can talk to few more Wherren to get it working properly, I suspect it'll give us some worthwhile diplomatic traction with them since no one else has even tried the approach with them. I don't think there's any question that he'll follow whatever lead Davis takes. Same deal with Ngawai. Zaef probably will stick with Captain Verrill, as will Angel and Arketta with him. And if you find me with a knife in my back, it's probably Arketta who'll be holding it. But apart from that, no sense that they'd turn against Earth. But push them too far too fast and they may well go rogue and operate as they best see fit in exile if the Panel just jump in and take charge and start messing things up rather than play Prisoner's Dilemma with the larger anti-Imperial efforts. And if that happens, I hate to think where that would leave us with the Sheen. Have I mentioned they creep me the fuck out?"

"That you have." Porter looks back at the screen, his expression darkening again. "I think that's all I have for now, Warrant Officer. Be careful. I will contact you as soon as I know more about this game we've been pulled into."
"Cheers. By the way, has my concealed carry permit cleared yet?"
Porter motions out his door. "Yes, talk with Denise, she'll get it for you. Enjoy it while it lasts, I doubt the Americans will stay this charitable towards us for long. Good day, Warrant Officer."
"Mister Porter," she nods farewell.

As the team minus Luis and Arketta stand up and head for the exit, Hugh mentions heading off to the restrooms, shortly followed by Zaef. The rest of the team pays the bill and goes their separate ways, but Davis and Ngawai wait in the SUV to make sure Hugh and Zaef leave the diner all right. Just when Davis is becoming suspiciously concerned about the length of time Hugh has been in the bathroom, he sees him work out of the restaurant with Zaef next to him. Neither look relieved of anything, much less an empty bladder.

The doors open, and Hugh and Zaef pile into the back seat. "Are we secure here? Because we've got a long talk ahead of us." Zaef growls. He sounds and resembles many a cornered animal.
"We've got some light reading for you," Hugh says, handing Davis the dossier.

Davis pulls the pages out and flips through it, handing pages to his wife as he finishes them. "So, they're basically throwing your whole past at you. And yeah, we're secure here. Ngawai scanned the SUV before we left."
"Skip the pleasantries. The sooner this is over with, the sooner my headache will go away. You have questions. Ask 'em."
"Hey, Zaef, relax," Davis says. "I don't want to pry, I know you've kept your life before us private for your own reasons, but we're not the enemy here. All Brinai could tell me was that you used to be a freighter master, and the Arena stuff. But now, I have to know. I have to know the truth about this, because we both know that the Imperium takes the darkest possible interpretation in these files, and so will whoever's planning on using this against us. So, whenever you're ready."
Zaef massages his temples. This, this is exactly why he didn't want to come to Davis for this. "I don't know where to begin. Start with questions."

"How exactly did you leave your home, then?" Hugh begins. "I understand if you didn't feel like sticking around, but at seven years old?"
"So, how and why." Zaef takes a deep breath. " I don't remember much of my parents then, but some things stick out-if only because they were around so rarely. They...they embody everything I hate about the Imperium. Unquestioning loyalty, never thinking for themselves except whenever they could benefit from opportunities, strict meaningless rules and harsh punishments, and an obsession-no, beyond obsessed, they had a zeal that could only be broken by death-a sick obsession with the Masters. I had nothing that was my own, and sometimes even my thoughts would sound like them. Still do, sometimes.”

"I got lucky. They thought I would take after them, be a Keeper. They would never believe otherwise. They took me to holy sites to be inspired by the Master's works, or whatever shit they tried feeding me. The Lost Way...the Lost Way was an old ruin, a forbidden site. No one allowed in." Zaef laughs, and it sounds surprisingly genuine. "They never thought I would violate such a taboo, and even then, they wouldn't have done it themselves. They looked everywhere, except the holy site, and I watched them. I tried so hard not to laugh.”

"They called off the search after a day. Wanted to go back to work, I bet. Then...I was free. At last."
Hugh just looks at Zaef. "And here I thought getting into a drunk brawl with my Dad was a tough childhood."
Zaef snorts. "Hell, I haven't even gotten to the good parts yet."

"Well, let's fast-forward to when you graduated from petty crimes to the big leagues, going from stick-ups and robbery to...smuggling and hiding fugitives and rebels?" Davis says. "Seems to coincide with when you got the Wingless -"
Zaef cuts Davis off with a wave. "- Don't use the name. She's dead now, it's bad luck. And I don't like thinking about it."
"Okay, but how did you get her? What did you do to rack up this..." Davis gives an impressed nod, "...respectable series of charges?"
"And impressive bounty," Ngawai adds.
"Well, that's a fun story. I'd been saving up for a while, doing odd jobs, but I couldn't afford a measly old junker, nowhere close. Shipmaster figured out what I was saving up for -could never hide anything from him and damned if I ever found out how he knew- and got the whole crew to help pitch in. Got me enough for the old girl and a little extra. Damn generous of them." He chuckles. "Still don't know how they managed to hide that from me, but that was a big surprise. And the charges mostly came up when I was doing jobs to keep her afloat. Assignment would be simple, take this over here, drop it off and get paid. Something'd happen, it always did, and the whole thing would just spiral out of control from there. Some of the later ones I was traced back to after the fact, someone else got caught and it ended up on my head."

"And so you decided you liked trouble and started looking for it?" Hugh asks.
"Didn't need to. Trouble decided to be my crazy stalker ex-girlfriend and has been pestering me ever since," Zaef grumbles.
Ngawai nods. "The rap sheet matches those from most of the rebel and smuggler captains I hunted, many of them have dozens of these charges stacked up just from making a living."
"Until the last bit," Davis says. "So, the hard part. Since it's most of their charges against you, tell me about the events around killing the Turai squad, losing your ship and being sent to the Arena."
Zaef pauses for a bit, then sighs. "Bad luck. We're making a run to Aikoro and the system gate had an unscheduled patrol there. Routine inspection, all that. We were smuggling, but it was small stuff mostly. Seeds and fertilizer. They boarded us, looked around and found the stash. I was talking our way out of it with the Samal, and he seemed like he was going to read us the riot act and leave after slapping our wrists, but...he gets a call. He talks for a bit, raises his chamakana to my head and tells me that his commanding officer has insisted that we are made into an example."

Zaef leans back and stares into the ceiling. "I was by the stash with the Samal and his trin, the other nine are watching my crew, making sure nothing fishy happens. They...they never stood a chance. I took out the trin, set up an ambush and tried to contact the rest. Twenty minutes and another dead trin later, the shipboy crawls through the ducts with a crater for knee and he...he tells me we're all that's left. The others fought back, managed to kill one or two. But they never stood a chance. The rest of the Quad comes barging in and I just look at the kid, bleeding like crazy out of his leg and sobbing into my shoulder and I put my guns down." He pauses for a bit. "They patched the kid up, laid into me for a bit, and piled us onto the boarding craft. Flew us back to the Needleship."
"And where do your parents come into this?" Davis asks.
"At the trial. They ran some standard tests on me and whaddaya know, I've been dead for years, they tell me. Missing so long, I was declared legally dead. They pulled my parents in, in case they turned out to be implicit in my crimes." Zaef's solemn face suddenly splits wide open in a wide, warm smile. "They took the opportunity to rake me over the coals, of course. Jobs on the line, and all that. 'You're not our son. Our loving loyal son died years ago.' Good soap opera. I sped it along, provoked them. They disowned me on the spot, yelled and threatened to make me squeal a long time in the Arena-nothing new in the insults, but the anger, hoo, that was new." Zaef chuckles a bit, the smile still spread across his face. "Spent damn well over a decade staring at my door waiting for the Turai to bust it down and say they're taking me back to my parents. Felt good to know it wasn't ever gonna happen."

Davis nods. "And there's the moment that we can bring up to counter all of this. I don't think we need to pry any deeper. Thanks, Zaef, I know that wasn't easy for you."
Zaef grumbles and mutters something about it being "too damn early to drink."

Somehow, it falls to Hugh to translate the collision of planning and pancakes into words, as he is quickly chosen by unanimous vote to put in the call to Samantha Barnes and bring her up to speed. Thinking of how to get Davis back for that, he speeddials her number on the held-out-for-him phone and puts it up to his ear.

"Oh, hey," he says. "This is Verrill. I've got some updates for you."

Hugh hears some shuffling as Barnes juggles her cell phone on her end. "Hello, Captain, just give me a moment." Some more shuffling. "Here. What happened? I've been hearing that Bob Russell over at the CIA is raising Hell after the incident."
"Two of his men tried to jump Swims and me. One's dead, the cops have the other in custody. Russell blew up at the scene. It's...look, it's not nice, but it's not our biggest worry right now. We're more concerned over a couple of names we dug up that are apparently backing Russell and Simmons. We need those guys checked out so we know what the hell to do with them."
"I got the report," Barnes says. "What are the names? I'll try to get you files before the plane takes off from Andrews."

Hugh rattles off the list from his notes, adding the few snippets they do already know. It's...more than a little concerning just how big the alliance against them seems to be.

"Now, bonus round! We also want to get in on the ground floor on this proposal to fold us up. So, uh...who exactly is responsible for that bill? We'd like to have words with them, too. Busy schedule, I know."
"It's still in committee," Barnes says. "The Homeland Security committee is pretty evenly split on the bill, there's just two that are still undecided, from what I know, and the White House has the SecDef looking into it." Barnes pauses. "Hugh, are you sure you want to be getting involved with this? It's a really delicate situation."
"I'm not going to barge into their offices and scream 'This is madness!', if you're worried about that," Hugh replies. "But the way I see it, if we don't even know who Simmons and Russell are trying to influence, we're at a huge disadvantage. Knowledge is power and all that, and this is going to be very relevant to our immediate future."
"All right, just...go gently. Try to avoid shooting anyone in the Congress parking structure. Congressmen Robert Kleist and Danielle Barber, and I think you want Chris Sigman at the White House," Barnes says. "I'll get appointments set up for you today."
"Thank you. We'll try not to burn down the National Mall while you're away. I'll call in if anything develops."
"Do that," Barnes says, and hangs up.

Davis looks over at Hugh. "So? Do we have appointments?"
"Yeah, she's working on them now," Hugh says. "I hope some of you can rock a suit, there's no way I can be in three places at once."
"Brought my best ones," Davis says.
"Don't think that I would fit, but I could give it a go if you have a spare, Hugh," Ngawai jokes.
"...brr," Hugh replies, trying to purge that mental image. "Davis, you're in. Now, let's get our pitch straight before we go knocking on any doors..."

Luis sits on the plane from Washington to New York, leaning back in his seat, while Barnes and Gorlan sit closer to the front of the plane. He’s not relaxed, though. In his mind, he can still see the pages of Arketta’s packet. He knows what it means about the Imperium that a soldier who joined to continue a family history of service to the people would be forced to fire into a crowd of those very people or face her own death, and to do so on several occasions. It’s hard to think about, a reminder that as bad as the issues Russell and Simmons and their backers are throwing up are, the fact that the Imperium demands this of its soldiers means that they have to be not just stopped from attacking Earth but stopped from doing this to their own people. The edge on it is even more raw because he knows that soldier is sitting next to him.

He looks over at Arketta in the window seat, listening to Imperium music on her vox headset as she watches the Eastern Seaboard pass beneath them, and tries again to link the records of her service with the woman he knows. He takes a breath, lets it out, and leans back into his thoughts. Back in the diner, when he spoke of Arketta and that soldier as separate people...it’s a tempting way to think, to simply forget that the soldier is Arketta’s past. It’d be easier to deal with. He sighs, and tries to put it aside to review his talking points for the upcoming interview.

Angel finds himself standing in front of the door to the hotel room Davis shares with his wife, feeling anxious, tired and a bit out of it. He knocks softly on the wood, waiting quietly in the abandoned hall. He sees the shadow of two feet at the door, too close together to be Davis’, a suspicion that’s confirmed when the door swings quickly open to reveal Ngawai staring angrily at Angel. The reason why is clear: her hair is entirely a deep electric shade of blue.

Angel grins slightly. “It’s a good look. Kind of the hip rocker chick thing.”
“You’re lucky Swims was able to back Garrett and Hugh up,” she spits at him, giving him the same look Angel imagines her giving a suspect. “What do you want?”
Angel sighs, shaking his head. “Never mind - sorry for disturbing you.” He turns to head back down the hall.
Her look softens. “Angel, wait. Seriously, what do you need? Would you like to come in?”
He looks at her for a moment. “Davis around?”
“No, he’s still out with Hugh, talking to the politicians,” Ngawai says. “Waste of time, in my experience. You get better results with a gun or a bribe than a smile, at least you know where they stand.”
“There’s some saying about that - learned it in high school. Damned if I can remember though. Good though - it was you I wanted to talk to. It’s...about Tora.”
Ngawai nods and stands aside. “Come on in, Angel.”

The room looks deceptively messy: clothes lie on the floor, papers and a vox holodisplay on the desk. However, Angel’s been around Davis and Ngawai long enough to notice that everything is organized so that it can be packed up and thrown out the window in five minutes or less. Ngawai takes a seat in a chair and pulls another up next to her at a right angle.

Ngawai adjusts the pregnancy cushion underneath her on the seat and leans forward to Angel as he sits down. “So, Tora.”
He nods. “Tora.” Angel sighed softly, closing his eyes and staring up at the plain ceiling of the hotel room. “Your ever-so-clever husband has me talking about her tomorrow. Something about ‘preempting the narrative’, whatever that means. But I’m not actually sure what to say. Get caught up just thinking about her, and looking like an idiot on camera isn’t going to do anyone any good.”
“Well...” Ngawai pauses. “Garrett’s the one who would try to talk you in circles to walk you to some kind of idea, but I think if you’re stuck, you should just hit that head on. Tell me about her.”

“She was pretty.” Ever the eloquent one, Angel. “And she was fast. Was halfway to dismantling Davis’ story about the two of us on her own, and only needed a tiny nudge to get her the rest of the way. It was...nice. She was part of the Imperial hierarchy, about as far up as you could be looking to go when it comes to it, and I didn’t end up with a dart full of toxin in my neck. She wanted change.”
Ngawai’s studying Angel’s face. “And that’s what really drew you to her.”
He nods. “It was something I warned Davis about, a long time ago. The Imperium...we’re not going to take it down. It’s too big, and it’s too easy to just lose yourself in a war that won’t end. Been there already and Tora - it suddenly felt like we might not have to.”
“But it wasn’t just what she represented that made you fall in love with her.”
“I don’t know what made me fall in love with her. Or if it’s even fair to call it that - I knew her less than a week.”

Ngawai puts a hand on Angel’s shoulder and smiles. “Angel? You’ve been in mourning for the last week for her. You were ready to basically commit suicide to get revenge for her. Maybe that’s more than just friends.”
He chuckles. “Fair. I don’t know. I mean, part of it was what she represented. I’ve known guys deep into it who fell in love with a concept of a girl. But she was smart - clever, adventurous, and she wanted to help. She was sitting in a garden with some of the most dangerous and wanted people in the Imperium, and was asking questions.”
“Clever, and attractive. I can see what you saw in her,” Ngawai says. “But what’s the hang-up, then? You loved her - you still love her. Just talk about that.”

That’s when Ngawai manages to hit it. Talking about them rather than her, or what happened. Angel clearly tries a few times, an array of emotions on the sniper’s face, before shaking his head. When he speaks, its tired, frustrated. “And there you have it.”
Ngawai’s never seen Angel actually afraid of anything before, but there it is. She leans forward. “Angel, what aren’t you telling me?”
“I got her killed Ngawai.”
“Angel, you didn’t -”
“Bullshit, I didn’t, Ngawai. I knew her for less than a week. I met her, I brought her up to speed, I slept with her and she ended up bleeding out on a carpet. I wasn’t holding the knife, but it’s me that put her on that path, and I wasn’t there when I should have been.”
“Angel, you...you can’t blame yourself for what happened to Tora. She made the decision to help you on her own. From what I’ve read, she made the decision to make sure that you couldn’t be in danger in case Reno turned violent.” Ngawai sighs. “You gave her the chance to make a difference, like she wanted, and she did.” She gives Angel’s shoulder a shake and offers him another small smile. “She still is, isn’t she. Garrett talked about you coming back from Hedion a changed man, and that’s what it is. You carrying her with you.”

Angel nods slightly. “Should have been there. I knew who Reno was -”
“Angel!” Ngawai says. “She shot you with a sagalpi dart! You were unconscious for who knows how long! You said it yourself, she was clever. Have you thought that maybe she knew what she was doing? That she knew that there was a good chance that whoever went in there to meet with Reno wasn’t coming back out again, and that she wanted to sort out the mess that she made by herself? She did it for you, Angel. She loved you, and she walked into that place, knowing what might happen, for you.”
“That doesn’t make me feel any better about it Ngawai. She shouldn’t have needed to protect me.”
Ngawai shoves Angel. “Oh, come on. You know as well as I do that things happen on missions, and sometimes, the hard choices need to be made. You were obviously ready to lay down your life for her. Are you telling me that she didn’t have the right to do the same for you?”

Her expression changes as she thinks of something. “Or that’s not what it is. Maybe you’re thinking that you should have been there instead of her.” Ngawai gives Angel a look of deep concern. “Angel, do you wish that you were dead instead of her?”
“It wasn’t a mission. It was a picnic. And she wasn’t a soldier, or Turai, or some badass bounty hunter. She was a civilian, and I talked her into it. And yes, I do.” He closed his eyes. “It should have been me. I could have done something, and even if I couldn’t, it was my op. She shouldn’t have been there and...I can’t let her go.”
“She was a member of the team, Angel. She decided to join, she knew what she was doing, and it was her choice to make. Don’t take that away from her, she saved all of your lives on Hedion.”

Ngawai squeezes Angel’s shoulder. “It’s hard, losing someone you brought up. Here, look at this.” She pulls up her Imperial tunic past her bulging stomach and breasts to reveal two big beamer scars on her chest, color-matched to her dark brown skin. “There’s another on my thigh. When I was in Kansat, we were raiding a smuggler’s warehouse, and I took three beams. Dusa wasn’t as lucky.” She squeezes his hand tightly. “I know how you feel. But you can’t blame yourself for it. Things happen, and both Dusa and Tora knew what they were doing when they went in. You keep the scars. But you can’t blame yourself for what they wanted to do.”
Angel cracks a small smile. “Put your shirt down - between the hair and that, Davis is going to make my life miserable.” He sighed softly. “Thanks Ngawai...I mean it. I don’t know if I believe you, or if I can do that but...thanks.”
Ngawai pulls her top back down and returns the smile as the Imperial fabric tightens back over her torso. She leans over and gives Angel a sideways hug. “Any time, Angel.”

Angel stood to leave, looking back at her. “Let me know if you need anything - I owe you. And I mean it about the hair - you look good.”
Ngawai spreads some of her hair in between her fingers and looks at it. “Yeah, I know I do,” she says with a grin. “Maybe I’ll get it gene-modded after Naloni. Later, Angel. Good luck.”

It’s just a small washroom near the offices of Congressman Robert Kleist, only big enough for Hugh and his authority issues. The Captain always thought he looked good in his dress uniform, but that was half-remembered graduation pictures. Wearing it around DC has felt...off, so far, as if he’s really the kind of insidious mole his enemies want to paint him as. He splashes some cold water onto his face and rubs his eyes. A look at the mirror reveals a little patch of discolored skin sticking out from underneath his collar, a kauka souvenir from God knows what occasion. It’s funny how you never notice those until you need to convince someone you’re still 100% Earthling.

“Captain Hubert Verrill,” Hugh tells the mirror. “It is an honor to meet you, Sir.”

It’s not. It’s naked calculation. The enemy is making a move and Hugh must counter. He’s not here to make a friend, though if he does, he wouldn’t turn it down. He’s here to gain support. To talk smoothly. And Hugh has to admit that with how good kicking Imperial ass has felt, the diplomat in him hasn’t been let out to play in a while. Add to that that he’s still raw about the role he played in giving Simmons leverage to begin with, and the frayed nerves need no further explanation.

Davis knocks on the other side of the door. “Hugh, meeting’s in five, wrap it up in there.”
“Don’t rush a man’s piss break, Davis,” Hugh shoots back. The bravado’s as fake as a wooden nickel. More water splashed on his face, like that will help.

“Captain Hubert Verrill,” he repeats to himself. “Captain Hubert Verrill.”

Who wouldn’t believe a guy with a name like that?

---

Hugh exits the washroom with a straightened tie and his game face on. “I’m ready,” he says.
”Good,” Swims-the-Black signs. ”Kadiatu and I will take up guard positions in the waiting room, while Zaef stays further back, in case we need additional support. Are there any objections?”
”None here,” Davis grunts in reply. “Hugh?”
“Cool,” Hugh says. “Though I’m not expecting a firefight.”
”We were not expecting one at the CIA, either. Caution is better than another disaster.” Swims straightens his vest. ”Good luck, Hugh, Garrett.”

Hugh checks his watch - expensive-ass low-profile tactical, never been checked on an actual mission - and knocks at the door to Congressman Kleist’s office twice.
“Come in!” calls a voice from inside. Hugh tries to profile it from just its sound. Male, caucasian, mid-50s - maybe Nebraska? He takes a deep breath, nods to Davis, then grasps the door handle and opens the door. He lets Davis walk in first, then follows and closes the door behind him.

The office immediately tells Hugh one thing about Kleist (who is male, caucasian and mid-60s - can’t win ‘em all) - the man loves the hell out of fly fishing. Trophies and pictures to that effect abound. Hugh tries to not be distracted by that when it comes time for the handshakes, then spools off his text. “Captain Hubert Verrill,” he says. “It’s an honor to meet you, Sir.” After a moment, he adds “Thank you for taking the time to meet with us.”
“Anything for the heroes of the GRHDI,” Kleist repelies.
“Garrett Davis, pleased to finally meet you, Congressman,” Davis says.
“Well, please, sit,” Kleist says, motioning to the chairs behind Davis and Hugh. He takes a seat himself. “What brings you to my office today?”
Davis taps on the arm of the chair. “Well, as you know, the committee is considering a bill to dissolve the independent leadership of the GRHDI and completely move it under the control of the Department of Defense. We’re here to discuss if such a move is...premature, if warranted at all.”
“Well, the problem as presented to us from the Pentagon is a matter of priorities,” Kleist replies. “We need to be sure that your team and the rest of the GRHDI are focused on what matters most.”
“Which is?” Davis asks.
“Earth, of course,” Kleist says. “I mean, it’s great doing these PR missions like Whiirr, but I just can’t see how they’re helping stop the Imperium from lasering us all to death.” He laughs. “I mean, that is what we’re doing out there, right?”
“Pardon me, Sir, but Whirr was more than a PR trip, and we have the scars to prove it,” Hugh says. “And I’m not entirely sure what the Pentagon thinks we should be doing, frankly. They talk a good game about Earth’s interests and accountability, sure, but I haven’t seen the first inkling of an actual plan from them. On the other hand, we’ve been very busy making allies and convincing sympathetic factions within the Imperium that there is hope, that we can succeed in stopping this war and crafting a lasting peace. We’re not going to beat a thousand worlds in a straight-up slugfest, Sir, and we don’t enjoy the technological superiority out there that lets us pull off covert ops in the -stan flavor of the month. Our best weapons have proven to be cooler heads, a bit of creative misdirection and diplomacy.”

Davis gives Hugh a “cool your jets or get out” look before addressing Kleist. “I think what he means, Congressman, is that we’re first and foremost keeping Earth in our minds, but that a straight-up fight is in no one’s best interest, either for us for for the Imperium, and if we can get the more moderates in the Imperium to join our side, we can win this war without having to fight across every planet in the Imperium against an enemy with a massive numerical and technological advantage.”
“Now, from what we’ve seen, except for your friend’s eyes and other small-scale devices brought through the gate, there’s nothing the Imperium has that the Pentagon hasn’t assured us that we can match in five to ten years,” Kleist says. “Leaves us plenty of time to catch up.”
“The Pentagon can’t float a new destroyer in less than 20 years, Congressman,” Hugh says. “The Imperium’s needleships are entire cities made of metal. Also, Sir, are you familiar with the gatekegs? Captured Imperial technology we used to build the gateways we are using now. From what I understand, we haven’t made any significant progress in understanding how they work.” Hugh leans back in the chair. “The only piece of Imperial technology we’ve made serious progress on is in adapting their infantry weaponry, and even that was mostly strapping our own control systems to them. I’m not trying to slight the XM-10, I was on the team that field-tested it, but it’s hardly a massive breakthrough over the basic Imperial technology.”
Kleist gives a dismissive wave. “Yes, but there can’t be more than a few of those needleships in their fleet. The whole concept of them spanning a thousand worlds is, in itself, ridiculous. I have been sent your initial reports before leaving for...Botane, and your team predicted that there were no more than maybe a few dozen worlds, and that your objectives for infiltrating their highest security areas could be accomplished in less than six months, something that you successfully achieved. I, and others on the committee, are not quite convinced that the Imperium poses the grave, insurmountable threat that you seem to believe it is.”
“That report is now a year out of date, Congressman,” Hugh says. “And if you want to dig in the past, you’ll find more reports like it. We didn’t know what we were getting into. At every turn, the struggle we face has turned out to be bigger and more difficult than we thought it would be. With your permission, Sir, we do have some more current data that we would like to show you. I assure you, this is much bigger than any of us thought before Botane.”
Davis pulls his vox off of his ear and places his holodisplay on the table, then slides the vox onto it. “What do you think, Imperium file footage first, or Bashakra’i reports?” he asks Hugh.
“File footage, please,” Hugh says.

Davis’ fingers flicker through the air, and in short order, the holodisplay projects a three-dimensional video of the fleet in orbit around Napai and the Akwhela’s Eye station. A few dozen Needleships are docked at the vast space station alone, and at least ten more are visible as long, thin glints of light in orbit above the planet’s surface. A voice is droning on about the various troop level strengths in what is actually a year-old report as to troop strength and fleet status in the Napai system, but Kleist doesn’t understand what is being said. Instead, he just turns pale at the sight of the sheer amount of Imperial firepower that can be mustered around one planet.
“And this is a report from our allies as to the extent of their infiltration into Imperial holdings,” Davis adds, and brings up a second holo, this one with Bello talking to Davis about the status of the Bashakra’i network in the week previous to the Hedion mission. A scrollable list of worlds that the Bashakra’i are currently maintaining a presence on is next to the video, and Davis flicks down it, revealing that the list is hundreds of worlds long.

“So, you see, Congressman,” Davis says, turning off the holo with a wave of his hand, “the Pentagon might be underestimating the difficulty of the situation a bit.”
Kleist has leaned back in his chair. “I should say so.” He thinks for a moment. “But that does not mean that they are wrong. To the contrary, it could be said that discipline of action is what’s needed more than anything else.”
“Begging your pardon, Sir, but it does mean exactly that,” Hugh says. “They are wrong about the entire situation. Even if they do hit on a working tactic now, if they keep working from their own assumptions, I don’t see how they can possible manage further developments. At best they’ll hold the line and struggle to get to where we are already. That’s time wasted we don’t have.”
“And what makes your methods so much better?” Kleist shoots back. “What have you managed to accomplish? All the Pentagon has managed to accomplish with your help is taking over a few sparsely-populated worlds and making contact with a rag-tag group of refugees and a race of primitives.”
“Well, just last week, Sir, we overthrew the government of an Imperial core world,” Hugh says. “The rag-tag group of refugees is actually a growing rebellion - they are the ones with agents on several hundred Imperial worlds. We have also made allies of the Sheen, a vastly powerful machine race that until now has kept out of Imperial politics. If you study our mission reports, I’m sure you won’t find us lacking for achievements.” He leans forward. “And if you’re interested, the Wherren representative is accompanying us. He is a wonderful, honorable man, well-traveled and educated. He happens to like fishing, too, you know.”

“Achievements are one thing, it’s accomplishments and results that I’m most concerned about,” Kleist replies. “Look. I know that your team has done great work. But I am not convinced that you couldn’t continue to do said work under a more direct, Earth-conscious leadership. The Pentagon has raised what I think are real concerns about having such an independent agency lead the way against the rest of the galaxy. Unless you can prove otherwise, that this war cannot be fought under the Pentagon’s leadership, I don’t know what else to say.”
“We intend to prove just that, Congressman,” Hugh replies. “If you want to hear the facts, we could go on all day. But what it comes down to, for me, is this: if we can prove that the Pentagon’s fears are not actual - if we can prove that the current arrangement works - then what reason is there to support a reorganization? Because no matter who turns out to be right, reshuffling the GRHDI into the Pentagon will take a lot of work and time that we won’t be able to spend on working with our allies to stop the Imperium’s plans. We, as a whole, have to be sure that giving GHRDI to the Pentagon will help more than it hurts, Congressman, and we contend that it won’t.”
“Well, if you can prove that, then I will be all ears,” Kleist says. “Can you do that, right now?”
“Not yet, Congressman, but very soon,” Davis replies. “I’d keep your calendar open.”
“I will, Mr. Davis,” Kleist says, then looks at Hugh. “Captain Verrill, despite what you might think, I am not opposed to the GRHDI, and I don’t subscribe to the odious idea that people from Earth are better than anyone born elsewhere. But I am concerned with whether or not Earth survives this war, and that matters more to me than whether or not your team keeps its autonomy.”
“I understand completely, Sir,” Hugh says. “You’re right, Earth’s security is at the forefront of our interests and we must find the best way to achieve it. Obviously we have our ideas and the Pentagon has theirs. I hope you’ll forgive me that I’m very much interested in getting our side of the story heard.”
Kleist nods. “Sure, I understand. Is there anything else, gentlemen?”
“No, that will be all, Congressman,” Hugh says hastily. “Thank you very much for taking the time to meet with us.”
Davis stands and shakes Kleist’s hand. “Thank you for meeting with us, Congressman. We’ll have the information you need before the week is out.”
“Let’s hope so, the committee vote is next week,” Kleist says. “Good luck, gentlemen.”

---

Out of the Congressman’s office, Hugh lets out a breath.

“Well, that could’ve gone worse!” he says. “I think we planted some good seeds there.”
“Yes, we did, just...tone down the attack mode a bit for the next one,” Davis says. “You don’t need to jump down their throats to make your point.”
“Davis, I’ve spent my life maneuvering myself into positions where I get to speak truth to power. It’s not the easiest habit to break. But message received, I’ll try to keep it cool from here on.”
“Fair enough, and I know that you’re raw over what’s happened over the last few days,” Davis says. “You don’t need to prove anything to me, Hugh. All right?”
“No, but I do need to prove something to myself,” Hugh says. “That I’m not going to be anyone’s chump. And that I can get us out of this mess.” He looks around. “Come on, let’s grab the team and hit the next waypoint.”
Davis smiles and claps Hugh on the back. “All right, let’s go, then.”

The foursome of Barnes, Gorlan, Luis and Arketta are shifted onto government SUVs upon landing at JFK airport, and once Brooklyn traffic has been negotiated, Barnes takes the time before everyone has to be at the Daily Show studios to show Gorlan the sights of Manhattan Island through the windows of the SUV. Being from a mile-high domed arcology on a desert planet populated with dozens of other similar superstructures, Gorlan is somewhat less impressed with New York’s soaring skyline than Barnes was expecting, however, he is impressed that a city as dense as New York can somehow move at all without skimmers, and asks several questions about how the infrastructure of New York works, and seems quite impressed at the complexity of how New York manages to function. Barnes leaves out water main breaks and the occasional steam pipe rupture, of course.

Gorlan spends most of the trip looking out the window and staring not at the buildings, but the people on the streets. At one point, he asks where the seekers and other drones are, and is taken aback when Barnes replies that New York doesn’t have the universal surveillance that the Imperium depends on to keep control. When in Times Square, Barnes points out the police substation and the officers standing around outside of it, and Gorlan wonders out loud how so few Kansat are able to keep control. Arketta cuts in before Barnes can think of a more political response, bluntly telling Gorlan that the Narsai’i are interested in maintaining law and order, not controlling what their people do and say. Barnes is on edge while Gorlan processes this, and relaxes when he simply nods and says, “Good. A bit unsafe, but good.”

----

After driving around Manhattan, all four of you are delivered to the back of the Daily Show studios, and shown quickly into the green room. Barnes explains the setup: While Luis waits in the green room to be put on stage, Gorlan, Arketta and herself will sit in the audience, with a translator provided for Gorlan so he can understand what’s going on. A makeup tech comes in and starts doing up Luis, when Jon Stewart and one of the producers come into the green room.

Barnes immediately stands up and shakes hands with Stewart and the other producer. “Thanks for doing this for us on such a short notice,” she says.
“After the ratings bump that we got last time, we’d be stupid not to,” Stewart replies. “Kristol will just write some sniffy piece about how this just shows that I’m in league with the aliens or some shit for NRO, he’ll get over it.” He nods to Luis, and then does a double-take at the reflection of Luis’ face in the mirror. “Wow, holy shit. You really went all the way, huh?”
Luis shrugs. “Would you believe this is the basic package? Compared to what some people in the Imperium go for, this is really low-key.”
Stewart just shakes his head. “Brave new world, I guess.” He looks over to Arketta and shakes her hand. “Good to see you again, Miss Quis. And you are?” he says to Gorlan and offers his hand with his trademark self-deprecating smile.
Gorlan might not understand English, but handshakes are one of the traditions that the Imperium and Earth share. He’s figured out that Stewart’s a figure of some importance, and gives him the proper Imperial bow of respect after shaking his hand. “Gorlan Kesh, head of the Kesh clan and visitor to your amazing planet, sir. I’m looking forward to tonight’s events.”
Stewart and the producer turn to Luis and Barnes, looks of confusion on their faces. “This is Gorlan Kesh,” Barnes responds. “He’s very much looking forward to the show tonight.”
“Yeah, on that, is there anything in particular that you guys want to talk about, or are we just spitballing?” Stewart asks.
“Talking about some of the recent accomplishments that Task Force 815 has achieved in conjunction with our off-world allies, including something that only recently was cleared for release to the public,” Barnes says. “Also, we’re trying to get the message out there that most of the Imperials aren’t the ones looking to kill us, that most of them are just like us.”
“Except for the whole ‘living in a future sci-fi story’ thing,” Stewart says. “Sure thing. I’m not gonna play softball on this though, Miss Barnes. A lot of people are worried about what’s going on out there, me included.” He takes another look at Luis in the mirror. “And what the hell they can do. No offense, Luis, it’s just a little freaky.”
Luis shrugs. “It feels pretty normal from my end.”

Stewart purses his lip and gives a thoughtful nod. “Fair enough. So, anything in particular you want to talk about? We’ve started just letting the interview run and putting the rest up online later, so we don’t have to keep it to five minutes.”
“Nice,” Luis says, “What I’d like to add to that is that not only are a lot of them like us, but a lot of them don’t like what the Imperium is and are open to options.”
“An oppressive space totalitarian state? What’s not to like?” Stewart nods. “I’m gonna have to ask about the eyes, about how things are going, and about all this bullshit that’s flying around about 815 and the GRHDI being in league with the Imperium.”
The makeup tech turns to Stewart, and holds up a compact. “Mr. Stewart, do you want me to put some highlight around the eyes? I can really make them pop.”
“Fuck, no, he’s a soldier, not a Twilight reject,” Stewart says. “Just make him look like a person, you know?”
“Oh, sure thing,” the tech says, and returns to doing up Luis’ face.
“If there’s nothing else...” Stewart says.
“Nothing else,” Luis says. “I’m sure you’ve got a lot else to check before the show.”
“Right, enjoy the show.” Stewart nods to the room and hurries back out.

Barnes looks over at Luis’ reflection in the mirror. “Are you ready, Luis?”
Luis nods, “Yeah, let’s do this.”

While Hugh and Davis are in Congresswoman Danielle Barber's office, Swims-the-Black and Kadiatu are again left to their own devices, standing guard out in the hallway while Zaef waits further down the hall. The big wherren simply goes about his job, looking at faces and body language of everyone approaching. Kadi's remembers one of her training officers during her MI6 induction being able to read a room in 30 seconds and pick out a potential threat from a crowd of a dozen, but Swims-the-Black is putting him to shame. He's reading people with a single glance; to Kadi, it's almost like he's psychic.

Otherwise, the job is rather dull. Swims-the-Black takes occasional looks at Kadi in between scanning for threats, but none seem apparent to her or to Swims.

"How'd your little get together go this morning?" she signs.
"Breakfast?" Swims asks. "It was good. I like what your people do with meat and eggs."
"We'll have to give you a full English one of these days," she answers. "And I meant your secret squirrel meeting to which I wasn't invited."
"We just had breakfast, Kadiatu," Swims replies. His fur changes color to a slightly orange tint, which if her memory serves correctly, says that he's a bit annoyed. "Who was it that you left the hotel with last night, while we're talking about secrets kept from the rest of the team?"
"After you and the boys all went out to play last night, I hooked up with a red headed law librarian in the hotel bar." Kadi chuckles and makes a grinding, thrusting motion with her hips that translates easily enough.
Swims grunts. "And this morning?"
"You and the others all slipped out somewhere between oh-six hundred and oh-six-thirty. Oh, you mean the hottie? Ships passing in the night."
Swims-the-Black nods. "An analogy we have in common." He goes back to watching the hallway.

"Given that this morning was your second clandestine assignation in less than 24 hours, I doubt that it was simply breakfast, which you could just have had at the hotel. I'm not annoyed; if I was, I wouldn't be talking to you about it. I get it, I'm the new girl on the team. But I am on the team."
"Then it would probably be best for you to start acting like you are on the team," Swims grunts, his voice turning brusque and clipped. "We all know that you are hiding many things from us, that your disappearances are more than just romantic trysts in the night. This morning, for example. We are more than willing to be trusting if you prove that you are trustworthy, Zaef was honest when he joined and was treated with trust in return. You, on the other hand, when I look at your body language and hear your voice, it is nothing but secrets layered on deception on half-truths. We operate by a rule that I knew when I was a shipmaster: it is up to the new recruit to prove that they are worth including with the group, not the group to prove that they are worth the recruit's trust. You must start telling the truth about who you are before we begin to trust you, and I do not mean about your planet's strange problem with like-gendered sexual activity."
"Are you familiar with covert military units? I'll assume you are. Here, secrets and half-truths are..." She shrugs after a moment. "Those are what they break us down and rebuild us to keep."
"A problem that Garrett, a spy, Hugh, Luis and Angel, members of another elite unit, and Arketta, Ngawai and Zaef, all of whom had lead lives where secrecy is key, have no problem with," Swims retorts. "Do not blame your training, your upbringing, or your culture, Kadiatu. They are not who you are. You either choose to be honest, or choose not to be."

"And how long did it take them to do that, Swims?" she challenges him. "What secrets are you all keeping from each other, especially those of you who served the Imperium?"
"None of them have ever lied to me. Ever." Swims' fur ruffles into an angry red in response. "All of them, Garrett most of all, have never hesitated to tell me the truth. And I have been more than transparent with them about what I have done, and who I am. I was Alef-ka, I served at the Emperor's feet, and now I reject everything that he stands for. I have nothing to hide from my friends, and nothing to be ashamed of."
"Really? Do you all always tell everyone the truth, or do you protect the confidences of others. Alright, you know that I'm not picky about the gender of my lovers, and that far too many people on this rock have a problem with that. If asked about me by the lawful representative of a nation where that was an offence punishable by death, would you tell the truth?"
Swims scoffs. Somehow, having it come from a hulking alien makes it sound even more emphatic. "Of course not. I might not trust you, but you are a member of the team, and putting your life in danger because of a silly rule like that is not what I do."

"So you'd lie to protect someone you were allied with," she smiles. "Well, I'm in the same boat; I have confidences I am obliged to keep. Even if it'd make things simpler."
Swims scoffs again; he's reminding her more and more of other superior officers from the MI6. "Another rule from my ship, and many others I have served on: The crew comes first. The men and women who keep you alive every day deserve your first loyalty; if you can't trust them, then you can't trust anyone."
"And you wouldn't respect their privacy?"
"Privacy is for things that affect no one but yourself," Swims replies. "If it affects the rest of the crew, then it is a matter for the crew. It is that simple. If you don't trust them to keep your confidences, then you are not one of them."

He looks over at Kadiatu again. She can read in his eyes, expression, fur, every part of his being, that he knows that she is probing; then he removes all doubt. "Whatever it is that you feel is too sensitive to share with us, you must ask yourself if it is something that matters to the rest of the team. They are good people, the best I have served with. They will keep your confidences if you let them, and they know when you are not being honest with them. If you want to be considered a true part of the team, you need to decide if that is more important than concealing whatever it is that you are not saying."
"And if it is nothing to do with the team? If it's simply that I happen to like my personal business to remain personal? Is that so wrong?"
Swims-the-Black smiles at Kadi. "Then I very much doubt that you and I would be having such an intense conversation if it was simply a personal matter, and you probably wouldn't be keeping track of where we have breakfast or any other of the mysterious things you have been doing."

The Englishwoman chuckles. "I wasn't keeping tabs on you this morning; it wasn't my room we went back to. Which is how I managed to spot what was going on: folks didn't realize they were walking out right underneath the window of the room I was looking out of at the time."
Swims goes back to watching the hallway. "Of course." His body language makes it clear that he's disengaging from the conversation. "If that's what you have to say, then I guess that's all there is to say about that, then."
"Doesn't mean I didn't try to follow to see what was up though," she says after a beat while wearing a wry smile.
Swims-the-Black grunts in reply. "Of course. But not for one of your secrets."
Kadi shrugs. "No, for one of yours."

Congresswoman Danielle Barber had similar reservations (and misinformation) to Congressman Kleist, a development that worried both Hugh and Davis. If this is what the Pentagon has been spinning as ground truths about the Imperium and the team, then they're already on the back foot. Swims-the-Black and Kadiatu seem even icier to each other than usual on the drive over to the White House, and Zaef, having been forced to sit in nice and safe hallways and waiting to provide so-far unnecessary backup, is simply bored. The White House doesn't promise to be any more exciting for anyone, as Davis looks over the information Barnes provided about the 6-months fresh Assistant Secretary of Defense for Off-World Affairs, Chris Sigman.

----

Despite his official office being located in the Pentagon, Chris Sigman's loaned office in the basement of the West Wing looks pretty lived in to Hugh and Davis as Davis knocks on the door. "Come in," a male voice says from inside, and the door opens to reveal a crowded 6-by-10 office, a small table crammed into the nearest corner to the door and covered with papers, a small prefab desk in the back covered with more papers, some family pictures and a laptop with Chris Sigman sitting behind it, and the room's sole piece of real decor: a mounted Marine Corps NCO sword, with a picture of Sigman in full Marine dress uniform at attention framed in the wood plaque. Sigman doesn't look like he's lost much physically in what Hugh and Davis guess is the intervening decade and change since leaving the Corps, with his blonde hair kept at close to Marines standard length and cut.

Sigman stands and shakes both Davis and Hugh's hands before returning to his seat. "So, what can I do for the GRHDI today?"
"Well, we're here to check on what the inside perspective on this bill and proposal to dissolve the GRHDI and sweep us all under Pentagon control entirely," Davis says, "and Barnes told us that you're the one to see about the proposal in the White House."
"Well, I can't speculate on what's being proposed, but there might be a draft of an executive order along those lines, yes," Sigman says, leaning back in his chair. "What about it?"
"We're here on behalf of the members of Task Force 815, and several of the senior members of the GRHDI, to say that we think that such a move would be disastrous for the war effort against the Imperium, and more besides," Davis says. "The time we lose alone while the Pentagon figures out how to manage relations with the Bashakra'i and the Sheen and re-learn how to effectively push back against the Imperium would be a serious setback, with the Imperium already working on ways to win people back to their side."

Sigman nods. "I understand that. But, you have to weigh the operational security concerns of our off-world operations against your group's autonomy."
Hugh bites back the urge to translate that into plain English, suspecting that Sigman wouldn’t particularly care for his interpretation. “How do you see the operational security concerns of those operations, Sir?” he asks, figuring that a harmless question is the best way to start off without another outbreak of foot-in-mouth disease.
"Look, I know about what's being whispered about you guys in these halls and elsewhere," Sigman says. "And while I won't just jump to act on it right now and recommend the SecDef try to drag you guys before Congress, it's too much of a concern to ignore." He stops talking for a moment, like that would be enough, but then he thinks better of it and starts to string together another reason. "Plus, your group's ties to off-world elements means that your team is a walking security risk, not to mention GRHDI's close ties to the Bashakrans and other off-world elements putting their security at risk. I'm just not sure that OpSec is worth compromising just to let Barnes have her little kingdom."

Hugh has a - let’s be charitable and call it “skeptical” - look on his face, but the memories of the first conversation are still too fresh to let him cut loose like he obviously wants to. “We are working with strong, reliable allies in an environment where we are at a strong disadvantage, Sir. This isn’t like inviting Turkey or Poland to play with the big boys in Iraq. We need the help of the Bashakrans and the Sheen, and as far as I’m aware, allied operations require trust and sharing of intelligence. I’m aware that our operation is unconventional, but few things off-world can be executed according to standard doctrine. We have had to develop and grow our methods on our own, so I hope you understand that we are more than a bit baffled at the Pentagon, which has second-hand information at best, presuming to know better than us.”
Sigman returns Hugh's look with a "bullshit" glance of his own. "Methods like carrying on and marrying off-world elements?" he asks. "Standard doctrine is there for a reason, Captain, you know that. It prevents our men from losing track of what's important and keeps them on task and focused on what needs to be done. It's exactly those kinds of breaches of doctrine that concern myself, the SecDef, and the Joint Chiefs."
Davis' hands tighten around the armrests of the chair at yet another slam on his marriage to Ngawai, but his face doesn't falter. "If you look at our operational procedures, you'll see that we don't do anything that would jeopardize Earth or OpSec. We run our ops by the book."
"Except when you run off and take freelance missions for the Bashakrans," Sigman replies. "And working with them isn't like working with any of our Earth allies. We look at it more like working with an Afghan warlord, and if we went around saying the things that GRHDI and 815 in particular have shared with one of them, we'd be even more fucked-up in Afghanistan than we are now." He gives Davis a look. "Or maybe that's something you wouldn't understand."

It’s Hugh’s turn to give Davis a “Hold back” look. To Davis' credit, he limits his reaction to a brief moment of a furious look; it's still more than enough to give away that Sigman's jab landed.
“Sir,” Hugh begins, “maybe you could tell us exactly what you are insinuating with that. Because from where I’m sitting, that sounded incredibly rude. Especially coming from someone who has never been to Afghanistan to begin with.” Hugh leans forward, with a ‘Yeah, I read your file, you pogue dipshit’ look on his face.
Sigman's face turns bright red, and he has to do something similar to what Davis just did to avoid shouting back. Still, when he replies, it's certainly with a raised voice. "I'm saying that maybe Garrett Davis - and the rest of 815, and the GRHDI for that matter - are so blinded by whatever romantic notions they have about the aliens that they're willing to let sensitive information about Earth walk right out the door," Sigman says. "I'm saying that Davis in particular has a history of sleeping with questionable allies. The Joint Chiefs are with me on this, and we're pretty sure that the rot started to set in once you all came back from that fucking disaster of an exploratory mission to Botane. You came back nearly a week late, with six aliens and a frankly outrageous tale of how you got there. We've seen the Imperium's worlds. Whiirr's a jungle with a single camp of a dozen soldiers. Boranai's one of their most important worlds, and it's only got a few hundred thousand people, it's more of a suburb than a planet. We have every reason not to trust your ridiculous reports about these other planets, given your team's attitude towards the aliens you've set up whatever kind of relationship you have with them. There's no reason we couldn't mobilize an army large enough to successfully sweep the Imperium off of the dozen or so worlds they hold, and we don't need to get in bed with the aliens to do it."

“Sir,” Hugh begins, as if explaining the color of the sky to a child, “have you taken a look at the Cortex dump? You do not need to read our reports to learn about the size and might of the Imperium, their own records back that up quite nicely. Unless you wish to accuse us of faking more data than - how does Stanhill put it, Davis? More than has been produced by all human civilizations in history? I forgot how many gigabytes that was. A lot, I think.”
"No, the Imperium has already proven themselves to be pretty damn good at propaganda," Sigman replies. "Besides, who is processing this data? The Bashakrans, and they don't have a single reason to con us into supporting their failing rebellion?"
"So, your office were the ones who produced the briefs we read at the Congressional offices today?" Davis asks.
"The Joint Chiefs and I are interested in making sure that the Congress gets information we can actually trust, information from before your team started showing signs of cracking," Sigman says.
“Information that is either out of date or outright fabricated, then?” Hugh says, sounding quite casual about it. “What other conclusion can we draw, Sir? You don’t trust our reports and you don’t trust the Cortex, that doesn’t leave any way for you to know what’s going on.”
"We did just fine on Boranai for having out of date and fabricated information," Sigman says. "And we're in the process of getting additional intelligence assets on the ground. The war will go on, but with people we know we can trust."
“You must have been to a different Boronai than me, Sir,” Hugh says. “And these people you trust, they’re the finest special forces and intelligence personnel you could find? After us, I mean. So you’re not only starting with the second choices, you’re setting yourself up for them to be ‘corrupted’, too. I mean, that is a question, isn’t it? What if you do start from scratch and it turns out your new guys report the same information we do now? Will you believe them?”

Sigman looks at Hugh like he just asked if water is wet. "Of course we will. It's certainly possible, however unlikely, that it will turn out that your reports are accurate, but we can't know for sure until we get that information from a more reliable source than aliens and people who have their sympathies turned around. If that happens, then we'll revise our plan and continue, more importantly, without having to worry about the loyalty of our new sources. We've already started drawing up plans to make sure that any new off-world assignments come with orientations on the importance of loyalty to Earth above all else and the dangers to Earth posed by alien sympathies, and it's even been floated that we make our alien assets swear allegiance to us as well."
Davis throws his hands up in the air. "Institutionalized prejudice against our allies or any chance of truce, that really seems like a good idea to me."
Hugh just looks at Sigman. “Sir, you do realize that you’ve just described the new millenium update to Stalin’s wet dreams, don’t you? I recall we spent a few years not liking him. I mean, anyone who’s ever picked up a history book in a library should realize that this is a high-caliber slippery slope.” His eyes narrow. “But maybe the library is another place you’ve never been to. Sir.”
Sigman leans forward, his face turning red again. "We know how much you're willing to stick your dick in the Imperium," he says, emphasizing his points with his finger, "and it's our job to make damn sure that Earth stays untainted by the barbaric, heinous culture that's out there. You've seen it first hand. These aliens are a threat, as is anyone who puts their needs above ours. There's no point in winning this war if we come home to find our families speaking Imperial, and they spit on us, call us killers and demand we be tried as murderers for fighting for their freedom from the Imperium."

Davis just rolls his eyes and gives Hugh a "I'm done with this asshole, say your piece and let's go" look. “Your bigoted opinions make you spectacularly unsuited for the post you have been appointed to, Sergeant,” Hugh says. “Your warmed-over Vietnam Dolchstosslegende bullshit is not endearing, just in poor taste and disrespectful to the people who actually fought in Southeast Asia. Face it, Sergeant, in the end you’re nothing but another marine getting his silkies in a twist over an issue of integration. History isn’t on your side on that one. Davis, do we have what we need?”
Davis nods while Sigman looks like he's about to blow an aneyurism. "Yep, I think we're good."
“It’s always good to know where our country’s policy is made,” Hugh adds. “If you’ll excuse us now, Sir, we have work to do.” Sigman says nothing as Davis and Hugh walk out the office door and shut it behind them.

As they walk away, Hugh speaks up again. “Was that diplomatic enough?” he asks.
Davis laughs. "Well, Hugh, my trick with diplomacy is to let the other side's moves compliment your own, like judo. Use what they want to get what you want, understand their moves to adjust my own, save my energy for when I know I can really make an impact." He grabs Hugh by the shoulder and gives him a friendly shake. "But I suppose just blasting the assholes with both barrels when you find them works, too."
“Yeah.” Hugh pauses briefly. “I was afraid you’d lose it when he brought up Hadiya.”
Davis nods. "It was tempting to just sock him in the face and walk out," he says, and sighs. "I don't suppose it's a good thing that I'm getting used to people using her against me. Still, spending time talking it over laying in bed with Ngawai usually helps."
“Oh, God, you’re this chatty in bed, too? That poor woman.” Hugh grins.
"She finds our talks endearing, I'll have you know," Davis replies. "And besides, I don't think your nightly regulation sock can talk back," he adds with an equally large grin.
“And I’ll have you know they prefer being called ‘prostitutes’, Davis.” Hugh’s expression returns to a more neutral state. “I really need you to stay cool in these conversations, Davis. I know I have the habit of getting to a point where I just want to tear these guys a new asshole, and I usually end up doing it, too. I wouldn’t get anything done without a ‘good cop’ wingman like you. I just make them angry, I need you to use that anger to get what we want.”
Davis keeps his smile. "Relax, Hugh. I thought about it, doesn't mean I was going to do it. I'm more concerned with seeing if we can get you to do something besides just put everyone on the defensive and piss them off."
“Hey, I thought I had a good thing going there for the first three minutes or so,” Hugh says. “It’s not my fault he’s such a raging asshole.”
Davis and Hugh return to the point in the hallway where Swims-the-Black and Kadi are waiting. "Indeed you did, remind me to give you a gold star back at the hotel," Davis says.
"A gold star?" Swims asks.
"Hugh made it all of three minutes before getting Sigman to blow his stack and start ranting about how dangerous us alien-lovers are," Davis replies.
"An auspicious occasion!" Swims laughs. "Certainly, worthy of more than such a small reward."
Hugh laughs. ”I won’t settle for less than a sundae. With sprinkles this time.”

It seemed odd to Zaef that one of the Narsai’i’s most powerful leaders would do his business out of a large mansion, open to the sky, but given that the place hadn’t been bombed to cinders, there must be some reason for it. The Congress building was a bust, too many guards, even inside, and so Zaef was forced to be an actual bodyguard in both purpose and appearance - apparently, Narsai’i guards ditch practical armor and weapons in preference to looking like every other damned suit on the block. The crisp Narsai’i suit and collared shirt were kinda itchy and uncomfortably warm, though that might due to the pebbled Turai undersuit and Narsai’i armor vest he was wearing with it, and the several blades hidden on his person. But, toss in a pair of eye-shades and he was pretty much indistinguishable from all the other hired muscle here, and the last thing he needed was more attention. Verrill had already seen what happened when you stick out in front of your enemies here; hell, it’s why Zaef was here to begin with.

But now, at the White House, there was space to snoop around. Most of the guards were on the outside, and there’s far too many people walking around for one serious-looking guy with a strange haircut to be noticed. Hugh, Davis and Swims-the-Black walked downstairs to meet with someone or other, leaving Zaef alone in the big entry hallway of this wing of the building.

Zaef stands still for a while, watching the comings and goings with the bored disinterest of someone who is waiting - and not very patiently. People rush in and out of offices on both sides of the hallway, and after a few minutes, Zaef gets a feel for the pace of the building. There’s a steady flow in and out of the staircase that Davis, Hugh and Swims went down, and out of one or two doors further down the hallway, but full-on half the traffic is going in and out of two doors on the same side of the hallway as Zaef. Whatever is in there must be pretty interesting, and the lone guard there hasn’t looked in Zaef’s direction more than once in the last five minutes, except to expect some kind of nod, which Zaef easily gave in return.

Zaef walks in through one of the doors. It’s a high traffic area, and the guards don’t pay him much mind anyway. At least, that’s what he’s hoping...and on the other side of the door is an empty office. Desks are arrayed against the two straight walls, and a large curve dominates the other, with one desk sitting off of it. The Narsai’i’s terminals are on standby, and the mess on the desks implies that the workers have just gone off for lunch. There’s a door leading further down the hall, and door made flush into the curved wall. There’s some file cabinets on the wall, but it’s pretty much just an empty office. There’s some interesting looking papers on the desks and signs that say “Aide to” this and “Secretary for” that, and who knows what’s in the terminals or in the other rooms.

Zaef moves to check the door in the curved wall - don’t want to break into a nice office if someone happens to be using it. The door is unlocked, and as far as Zaef can hear, the office is empty, so he heads inside. The door opens onto what even by Zaef’s Imperial standards is a really nice office. It’s not suspended in the sky and made of transparent steel, but the two couches, interesting trinkets on the shelves on the walls, and a really nice wooden desk in front of the big windows looking out over the grassy lawn certainly give the impression that this is the office in the building.

Zaef knows an executive suite when he sees one, and this is probably one of the most beautiful offices in all of DC, much less this building. This is a seat of power, here, the workplace of one of the most powerful politicians here.

Yet there had been only one guard close by. Something felt wrong, here. Zaef shut the door quietly - the place was nice, but it was also dangerous; there was likely autonomous security in or near, and it might be a trap he had already walked into. Besides, Zaef thought as he made to rummage through the more interesting piles of paperwork, there was little interesting information to take in there, just nice furnishings. The real treasure trove was out here: the paper trail of a big name on a small world. The papers on the desk look like something that Davis would use as spank material - a lot of boring reports, papers and maps, all on places that Zaef doesn’t recognize and can’t pronounce.

After a minute or so of rummaging around, Zaef hears the door to his right open, and he looks up to see a tall, dark skinned man in a suit looking at him with a piece of his meal in his hand. “Can I help you?” he asks. His voice is a bit deep, and sounds more curious than surprised. Zaef recognizes him from...one of the thousands of things that he’s seen about Narsai.
Zaef rubs his temples. First rule - don’t get fucking caught; out the window. Maybe he can smooth this over - hopefully. “Yes, I’m looking for a memo from the Secretary of Defense. We lost the one we had downstairs.”
“Well, there’s a lot easier places to find it than my desk,” the man says. He waves off someone - probably the drones and guards and skimmers full of soldiers waiting outside - and takes a seat on the corner of the desk next to Zaef’s spot in his chair. “Mr. Utari, right?” He offers his hand and smiles.
FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK!! is what Zaef thinks he his head, but he tries to relax - the man, is willing to talk, and hasn’t sicced the guards on him yet. He sighs, takes off his shades, and shakes the offered hand. “That’d be me. And may I ask who you are, and how you know me, if that won’t offend you?”
The man laughs. “Barack Obama, President.” He shakes his head. “I don’t think I’ve ever met someone that I’ve had to say that to. So, what can I do for you, Zaef?”

Zaef’s shoulders sag as he realizes who the big office belongs to, and how big his admittedly careless blunder must be. “For now, President, just talking is fine. Though, I admit, I’m kinda at a loss at what to say. I’m not much of a talker myself.”
The President nods. “Well, you and the rest of Task Force 815 have been doing an amazing job out there, and I want to thank you for agreeing to help us out.”
Zaef blinks. “Well, uh, thanks for having me. I’ve enjoyed working with and learning about Narsai - Earth.” He puts the shades away and undoes the top button of his shirt, adding sheepishly, “Seems I still have lots to learn.”
“And I want to tell you, and the rest of your team, that I’m taking these threats against your team very seriously,” the President says. “You’re our best face forward to the rest of the Imperium, and if we’re going to prevent a war that neither side will win, we’re going to need people like you out there showing them that that war is the last thing that we want. But at the same time, I can’t ignore the allegations being levelled at your team. I don’t think they’re true, but that’s not good enough for everyone. You understand, right?”
Zaef pauses, his fingers drumming on the desk. “I’m afraid that I don’t,” he says carefully, “but also afraid that I do. You seem to be privy to at least some of the plots being made against us, you believe that we’re your best shot at ending this war one way or another, and yet you either can’t or won’t raise a hand to help us.” Zaef scratches his chin. “Actually, that’s a bit of an oversimplification. It’s both. Fuck, politics makes things complicated.”
“On the contrary, Zaef. In my term, I’ve learned that it’s best to go with the people who get results. Your team gets results,” the President says. “Miss Barnes has friends in this building that she doesn’t know about. That no one can know about.” Zaef can feel the presence that a leader of high caliber can create. “Am I understood, Mr. Utari?”
Zaef raises an eyebrow. “...I believe so, President Obama.” He stands up and extends a hand, a ghost of a smile on his face. “I should be going now. It’s been a pleasure, Barack. I wish you luck.”
“You too, Zaef.” He shakes Zaef’s hand and nods towards the door to his office. “Do you mind?”
Zaef’s response is to leave as quietly as he entered.

Luis watches the show from the monitor in the green room. “Hello, welcome to the Daily Show, my name is Jon Stewart, we’ve got one Hell of a show for you tonight! Luis Stanhill is here, and we’re going to be talking about the war with the Jade Imperium, what trends and fashions are hot in the galaxy this year, and, as you might have seen, a little souvenir he picked up at the duty-free on Tatooine.” Stewart leans towards the camera and pretends to whisper. “It’s a little freaky.”

----

A half hour later, Luis is escorted to the side of the stage and told to wait to be called out.
“And now for our guest tonight,” Stewart says. “He’s a member of the Gateway Research and Homeworld Defense Initiative’s Task Force 815 and a veteran of our ongoing conflict with the Jade Imperium, please welcome back to the show, Luis Stanhill.”

Luis strides onto the stage, grinning and clutching a sheaf of papers. He waves with the other, then shakes hand with Jon and accepts his seat. The audience’s applause actually dips noticeably when he comes out on stage, and there’s a couple gasps of surprise at Luis’ new look. Luis sees Arketta, Gorlan and Barnes sitting off to one side of the audience, Arketta waves excitedly at Luis and claps for him. Jon’s slightly shorter, but the chair makes up for it.
“So!” Stewart makes an awkward nod as the cameras point at the two of them, Luis’ eyes glinting in the bright studio lights. He notices the area of his vision darken slightly where the spots are to make up for it. Stewart raps his fingers on the table and coughs awkwardly as the audience quietly titters to itself. “Get a new haircut?” he asks, looking down at his mug.
Luis chuckles. “Something like that. Changed a few things here and there.”
Stewart leans across the desk towards Luis. “Luis...why? I mean, was it just for the look, do they have crazy computer vision that lets you hack the Matrix or something like that?” Stewart pauses for a moment. “Do they shoot lasers?”
Luis smiles, “Well, no lasers, but I can do some computer interfacing with the internal vox. I can fly ships with my brain if you want a party trick, but they also do some vision enhancements, night vision, compensating for environments like harsh lights. I’d thought about it for a while, and the last mission gave an opportunity to do it in a way that would benefit our goals.”
Stewart’s mouth hangs open for a moment. “Bullshit.” The audience laughs with relief at Stewart’s reaction. “No, seriously. You can talk to computers with...” He tries to wrap his head around it. “With your eyes?”
Luis shakes his head, “It’s not just the eyes. I also have an onboard vox - a built-in computer and communicator. That does more of the data handling and storage.” He grins, “And it makes phone calls.”

“Presumably, it drops less calls than my iPhone, too,” Stewart cracks, obviously still reeling from Luis’ description. He reaches under his desk and pulls a laptop out from underneath. “I mean, can you, like, plug into this or talk to it or something? This is my laptop, I just brought it out with me today and I’m really glad I did.” He opens it up. “It’s on WiFi, if that helps.”

Luis’ features flicker as he connects the vox to the local network, and an infinite array of doors spreads out before his connection. Luis taps on the laptop and brings up its IP address, and his avatar flies down the hallway at near the speed of light, stopping instantly in front of the doorway, and with a few mental keystrokes, the door is open and Luis is in. He taps the stream from the eyes and routes it to output in a window on Jon’s screen.

“Helps a bit,” Luis says.
Stewart’s jaw continues to hang open as he spins the laptop around to show the cameras and the crowd, the feed showing Luis looking between Stewart and the audience. He starts to laugh and clap. “Holy shit,” he says. “Holy fucking shit. And this is like, really super expensive and rare?”
“My setup is a bit above average as far as ocular and onboard vox setup, but it’s not the top of the line, and there’s a few bell and whistles it doesn’t have,” Luis says, “It’s not like everyone has it, but it’s not exactly rare. Like...5 or 10 thousand dollars if you want a BS conversion?”
“Okay,” Stewart says. “Okay, wow.” He puts his hands up behind his head. “Well, I’d love to talk about all of...this for the next half-hour -” he gestures to Luis’ eyes, “- but you’re here to talk about other stuff, right?”
“Yeah,” Luis says and kills the eyestream connection with the laptop. “I wanted to talk about the progress of the conflict with the Imperium.”
“Okay, sure, what’s going on out in the galaxy, then?” Stewart asks. “We’re not told a whole lot, the military keeps it pretty hush-hush about what they can do and how we’re doing. I mean, for example...” he gestures at Luis’ face again. “All of that, they never told us about that.”
“Well,” Luis says, “The main focus of the Imperium right now is on a long-term strategy to reach Earth and wipe us off the map. We’re not planning on playing along, so we’re trying to use strikes like Boronai, Whiirr, and our latest on Hedion, which has only just been cleared for public release, to keep pressure on the Imperium while making contact with Imperium elements who might be more open to an end to the conflict that doesn’t require reducing one or both sides to smoking cinders. There’s a lot of people in the Imperium that’d be open to that if we can keep the possibility open and add enough pressure to let them be heard.”
“So, this Hedion place, what happened?” Stewart asks. “Can you talk about that?”
“Hedion is a center for power generation and manufacturing,” Luis says. He pops an image of the planet from orbit onto the laptop’s screen. “It’s a bit more central than Boronai or Whiirr. 815 infiltrated the planet to seek out some of those powerful people not already associated with the Bashakra’i resistance, make contact with and repatriate some families of existing allies. There were also some other events I’m not allowed to talk about to lay elements in place for the future.”

“Sounds...interesting,” Stewart replies. “So, you’ve spent a lot of time with the Imperials, right?”
“Yes,” Luis says, “It’s been a pretty eye-opening experience. They’re an interesting mix. There’s a lot of ways they’re more advanced than us,” he gestures at his eyes, “but their government and social structure is controlling and corrupt. There’s a lot of good, decent people, but the system is essentially setup to suppress them, in some cases in very final ways.”
“What do you mean, good, decent people?” Stewart asks. “I mean, a lot of people, you included, have told us about how evil and bad the Imperium is, how they’re looking to kill us all, how they kill their own people for stepping out of line. Now, I don’t know about you, but that strikes me as pretty messed up.”
“It is, Jon,” Luis says, “but don’t confuse those in power with the entire population and the system with the way everyone wants it to be. For every order given to keep people in line with fear, there’s people who just signed up to defend their people or continue family traditions of service who’re being forced to carry out orders that basically contradict them, as you pointed out. It’s not everyone, but it’s enough that they have to keep their military in line just as much as the populace, and the populace is the same. If they weren’t, the Imperium wouldn’t have the paranoia and obsession with control that it does, because they don’t trust their people to violate their sense of right and wrong and do what the government wants done.”
“So, what you’re saying is that they’re just following orders?” Stewart asks. “Because, I mean, we’ve got plenty of experience with people who were just following orders, and it wasn’t much of an excuse back then, either.”
“No, Jon, that’s not what I’m saying,” Luis says, “I’m saying that they aren’t being given a chance not to follow orders. If they don’t follow orders, they’re dead. Not a reprimand, not a courts martial. Execution on the spot.” There’s gasps in the audience, and Luis looks out into the crowd. It might look like theatrics, but he’s seeking out Arketta’s eyes. She looks back at Luis, a solemn expression on her face, and nods at him to go on. “That’s what we’re fighting, Jon. A government that doesn’t trust its own people because it knows it’s not acting in their interests, so they don’t guarantee any rights they might someday want have to impinge on. They keep their people under constant surveillance and control, and use the slightest provocation as a chance to demonstrate their ruthlessness in maintaining that control. But they also don’t trust their civil servants or soldiers, so they watch them too and keep them watching each other, with more fear and force to keep them in line. And all in the service of greed, personal advancement of those at the top, and the continuation of the whole system. That’s what we’re fighting, Jon, not the people it’s keeping in check, the vast majority of them that are good, decent people, kept quiet and forced to do horrible things through fear and terror.” Luis shakes his head, “And I think we have a lot better chance of making peace if we can untangle the bonds on that majority than by trying to bunker up against the force of the Imperium’s arms.”

Stewart nods as the audience applauds. “I don’t think I can argue with that.” He gives Luis a hopeful look. “Is it working, so far?”
Luis sits back, trying to compose himself, “I think so. I’ve met enough of those good people to know they exist, soldiers upset with what they’ve been told is their duty, freethinkers in areas of power who realize the flaws in the system and want something better, but have to hide their feelings behind masks to avoid being put down like animals, citizens just trying to make a life for themselves and their families. I’ve met lots of people like these, Jon, and I know it’s just the start. Finding them, convincing them we can offer them other options, finding ways we can help each other without them having to pay the price the Imperium demands for anything less than complete obedience in action and thought...” His face darkens slightly as Angel and Tora flash through his mind, “It’s tough, and it hasn’t always worked, but it is working. We’re making headway, and every person we can reach out to has the chance of opening more doors for our efforts.” He scans the audience again, makes eye contact with Arketta again, then turns back, “The challenge is that any friends we make have been living in that system. And that means that we’ll need to do something harder than winning battles: we’ll have to understand and forgive. Some of our strongest potential allies will have pasts we’ll have to understand, and then decide if we can forgive those pasts, because if we want their support, and if we’re going to support them through everything the Imperium can throw at us, we have to accept and forgive the pasts the Imperium forced on them.” He turns to make eye contact with Arketta again. “It’ll be hard, but we can do it.”

Arketta’s tearing up and her knuckles are white from gripping onto the railing, but she doesn’t move. Jon, looking at Luis, doesn’t see this. “Well, we’ll just have to see how that goes. It’s one thing to say, let bygones be bygones, but we’ll just have to see what the others out there have to say about it.” Stewart taps his papers on the table. “Well, you’ve certainly given us a lot to think about, Luis.” He extends his hand to shake. “Thanks for coming on the show again.”
Luis takes the hand and shakes it. “Always a pleasure, Jon.”

----

Backstage, Barnes is the first one to meet with Luis. “Great job, Luis. Maybe a bit revealing, but you really got our point across about the Imperium.” She shakes his hand.
“No problem,” Luis says, “some things need to be said.”
“All right, well, I’ve got to take care of Gorlan, he wants to talk to Jon about his show.” Barnes turns and walks towards the door. She turns around once she’s in the hallway. “There’s someone here who wants some time alone with you,” Barnes says with a smile.

Arketta steps into the doorway, a huge smile on her face and the smudged remains of tears on her cheeks, smearing the makeup on her brown skin.
“Hey,” Luis says. “Enjoy the show?” He tries a grin, but the almost-tears in his own eyes show the truth.
“I don’t know,” Arketta says, walking up to Luis. “Stewart was pretty funny before you came on.”
Luis takes a step forward. “Yeah, well, I’ve been known to let little things get in the way of everything just because something needed to be said.” Arketta’s record comes to mind again as he looks up at her. This time, though, he’s not seeing Arketta and the soldier and trying to see them as the same person, he’s seeing the soldier and the society that made her, and the person that soldier became. He smiles, “And this needs to be said too.” He wraps her in his arms, pulling her close, “I understand. I forgive you. And I love you.”
Arketta wraps her arms around Luis in return. “I love you too, Luis,” she whispers. “After Hashateem and that silly road trip, I knew that there wasn’t anyone else I would rather be with. I will always be yours.” She hugs him tighter, her cheek resting against his temple. “I...I...” She pauses. “I never want to be without you. Ever.”
Luis enjoys the feeling of her arms around him. “Me either,” he whispers back.

Luis simply let it be for a moment, then takes a breath, “Hey, can you let go? There’s something I need to do.” Arketta backs off with a confused look on her face. Luis goes to grab something from his kit on the dressing room table, then returns and goes down on one knee in front of her. He reaches up, offering the blade from his kit in his hand. Arketta bursts out laughing for a moment and covers her mouth in surprise as Luis holds the blade out, then takes it and kneels down in front of him, more tears streaming down her cheeks. She looks deep into Luis’ eyes as she draws her hand across the blade, cutting a gash into her right hand, and passing the blade back to him, her eyes never leaving his. He takes the blade back, and repeats the action, slicing a gash in his own hand, then presses it to hers.

Arketta’s a complete mess now, tears and smiles. The tears Luis was trying to hide are coming too, but the grin is all the stronger for it. “Yes,” Arketta whispers, gripping both of their bleeding hands. “I will. Thank you.”
Luis grin grows. “You could give me the chance to say it first,” he says with a chuckle. “Will you marry me?”
Arketta laughs. “You already did. And yes, I will.”

The chance to see a ravilar widecast recording live was, for Gorlan, possibly the most exciting surprise of his visit to Narsai. Ravilar recordings are usually carefully controlled affairs; he had once been interviewed for the Hedion local Cortex, and everything, from the lights and the wardrobe to the brand of vox clipped to the ravilar's ear were carefully chose to make the pre-scripted questions Faxom-Io had provided for the ravilar seem as favorable as possible, and beyond that, no one is allowed in that is not authorized and vetted. It seemed strange to invite random people off the street to sit and watch as the Jon Stewart ravliar did his job, but it wouldn't be the strangest thing that Gorlan had seen.

Still, it was a once-in-a-lifetime event for him, and he chose his wardrobe with care for that day, making sure that everything was perfectly matched and suited for the occasion. Gorlan had always considered himself the best dresser of his siblings - Reno preferred too much flash and Tora disliked fashion in general - and now, his sartorial skills were being put to the test. A form-adjusting dark blue tunic and black slacks combination purchased from the same Napai tailor that the Great Keeper herself uses, paired with a Hedion-made vest lined with optical sensors to detect the optimal color to match with the surroundings and his other garments, allowed Gorlan to project the look of wealth and importance he wanted when meeting such an important man, while allowing him to keep his look muted. His best footwear was brought out of its climate-controlled bag - made from scrofa gene-modded to have hides as supple as possible, the shin-high self-securing footwear adjusted every millisecond to ensure that his feet were perfectly supported and cushioned. Gorlan truly felt ready to make a stellar first impression on such an important media figure - maybe if things went well, he might slip in more than the mandated quota of positive references to Faxom-Io's products on his show.

Meeting the ravliar before his recording session was more clipped and brusque than Gorlan was expecting, but he understood; after all, he was minutes away from having to widecast, and the penalties for misreading the provided script are no doubt as severe on Narsai as they are anywhere else. It wasn't until he sat with Miss Barnes in the seats that he began to notice that something was strange. Gorlan might have only been on Narsai for a few days, but he knew proper attire when he saw it, and almost all of his fellow audience members were dressed in ill-fitting fabric shirts and cheap pants. None of them seemed to have put the degree of effort into their dress that Gorlan did, which was fair enough, but most were dressed like slobs. It was a surprise, and a bit of a let down for Gorlan. He wondered if this Stewart ravilar wasn't as important as he had been lead to believe.

When the ravilar's recording session began, Gorlan thought that the audience was incredibly disrespectful, cheering and shouting over Stewart's opening remarks, but when he started listening to the translator that Miss Barnes had provided, his initial reaction was that either the translator wasn't very skilled, or that he had an odd way of prefacing his work. When it dawned on Gorlan that this Stewart ravliar was not only providing dissenting comments, but actively mocking those in power that he was discussing, he feared for Stewart's sanity. Clearly, this was a suicide attempt or something like it - nothing like this would ever be allowed for widecast and it wouldn't be long before he was pulled off the stage and the audience ordered to forget what had happened there. When the show continued and not only did the audience continue to laugh and cheer, but Miss Barnes was laughing along as well, Gorlan realized that not only was Stewart's sarcasm and biting remarks towards those in power allowed, but the reason for the show itself. He simply sat in amazement at the audacity of Narsai's leaders to allow such a subversive production to occur as the show went on, lost so much in his own thoughts that Luis Stanhill's interview was barely noticed.

After the show, Barnes brought Gorlan up meet with Stewart after seeing to Luis and Arketta. The walk through the building gave Gorlan time to ask some of the questions that had been flying through his mind.
"Pardon me, Miss Barnes, but was tonight's production typical of what ravliars do on Narsai?" Gorlan asked Barnes.
"Typical, no," Barnes replied as they walked down a hallway. A few Narsai'i workers walked the other way, giving Gorlan a second glance as they carried on their discussion in their own language. "Jon Stewart is less of a ravilar - not that we have ravilars as such - but more like a comedian. He's very well-respected and thought very highly of for being honest and putting what is said in the media into context and pointing out hypocrisies and contradictions in what leaders and other people in the media say."
Gorlan shakes his head. "I have to say, the degree of freedom that you are allowed by your government never ceases to amaze me. I love what you are allowed to do and say, but how your government keeps control is beyond me."
Barnes smirks at Gorlan. "Well, either they do what's best for us or what we want, or they're no longer in power."
Gorlan laughs. "I suppose that would work, yes."

Security quickly empties Stewart's office for Gorlan and Barnes, and the two of them are alone with the host. Gorlan bows again. "It was an amazing experience to watch your performance tonight, sir. Thank you for the opportunity."
Barnes translates his words into her own language, and Stewart replies, which Barnes translates back into Imperial. "You're welcome, and it was an honor having you here. However, he's not sure if his little show is what you're interested in. Surely, there's more prestigious people on Earth you want to meet with."
Gorlan gives Stewart a polite smile. "All in good time, I'm sure. Miss Barnes has been very gracious in helping me meet the power brokers on Narsai. But I think that this visit has been the most illuminating of them all."
Stewart's expression turns quizzical as Barnes translates. "Why?" she says for Stewart.
"Because in the Imperium, the people's only source for information are the ravilars, and they only are allowed to report what the Imperium tells them to," Gorlan says. "They read from pre-approved scripts, and everything is planned in advance. If they were to contradict what they are ordered to report, or mock what is being reported or those in power, they would be surely put on the education matrices or killed. I cannot think of a better summary of what Narsai has that the Imperium does not than what I have seen tonight."
Stewart nods solemnly. He remains silent for a while, Gorlan's words must have had a strong impact. He has a problem saying his response, and Barnes waits for him to finish speaking before translating for Gorlan. "I'm sorry, that sounds horrible," Barnes says. Gorlan infers the inflection from Stewart's words. "That's something that we're big believers in fighting against here. If that's what I can help you bring back to the Imperium, then I think that's a really important thing." Stewart stands once Barnes finishes translating, and offers his hand to shake. "Good luck, Mr. Kesh," Barnes translates.
Gorlan takes Stewart's hand. "Thank you, Mr. Stewart."

As the group returns back to the hotel, Davis, Hugh, Kadi and Swims-the-Black go their separate ways. Davis has a word with Zaef as they leave about Zaef keeping an eye on Kadi, and then heads up to Swims-the-Black’s room. The door opens on the second knock, and Hugh welcomes him into the room. Davis surveys the room and immediately notes that in the next hotel, they need to ask for a bigger bed for Swims. The sheets have been pulled up out of the end of the bed, and Davis knows that the wherren’s feet have to hang over the edge.

“Okay, we’re all here,” Hugh says, seeming a bit nervous. “Great. Let’s go. First point on my agenda is -”
“Hey, not so loud,” Davis says. “Follow me.” Swims-the-Black is already waiting by the bathroom door, and Davis leads Hugh inside the smallish bathroom as well. He turns the faucet on full blast and takes a seat on the counter as Swims-the-Black sits on the other side. “Okay, better. Sorry, but you never know.”
“As I was saying before we were interrupted by the president of the Jason Bourne fan club,” Hugh begins, “there’s an agenda. I’m getting to the first point. Objections?” He looks around, then continues. “Point one! The Sergeant Major. I think we’ve danced around that long enough, we have to figure out where we stand with her. Swims, you watched her for a while, right?”
”And we had a very illuminating talk,” Swims signs. ”She is hiding something. She was falling over herself to prove that I was hiding something of my own from the team. Implies that she has something big that she’s hiding as well.”
”Okay, but she’s been secretive and evasive from the word ‘go’,” Hugh signs. ”I’m actually not particularly interested in what she’s hiding right now. I mean, we can spin conjecture all day and night long, but the bottom line is, is it going to screw us? So I’m really more interested in your gut, Swims. Do you think she’s our enemy?”
”My gut agrees with Arketta and Ngawai,” Swims replies, ”she is lying about why she is here with us. My experience tells me that she is very likely here to spy on us. But I don’t know if she’s here to do us harm. She mostly just seems...curious. She never accused me of plotting against Narsai or anyone, not even indirectly. She wanted to see what we were doing behind her back.”
”Not exactly the best justification for that,” Davis adds.
”No, it’s not, but I...my training and my instincts are not sure if she is here to actually do us harm, and they have rarely steered me wrong before.” Swims signs.
”Fair enough,” Davis replies. ”Well, Hugh, what do you want to do?”
”Go to her and lay our cards on the table,” Hugh signs. ”We know you’re working for someone, we’re pretty sure you’re not here to screw us, we won’t keep sneaking behind your back because it’s best if we all keep eyes on each other, and frankly we’ve got bigger fish to fry right now.” He pauses to look at Davis. ”Is it just me or did I just sound like I was inviting her to double-tap me while I’m sleeping?”
”I’m sure you’ll draw your .45 from under the pillow first,” Davis replies with a smile. ”However, I think that we should get a bit more out of her while we’re dropping bombs like that. We need to know who she’s working for, or if nothing else, if she’s not working for Russell or anyone above him.”
”Ah, you’re such a spy, Davis,” Hugh replies. ”Trade information for information. I’m just a dumb grunt trying to secure a flank. Having one less front I need to worry about is a gain for me. But hey, if we’re going all in, we might as well see if she’ll throw something in the pot, too.”
”And we will completely include her, then?” Swims asks.
”Friends close, enemies closer, unknowns don’t leave my sight,” Hugh signs. ”It’s worked for me so far.”
”And I will be standing behind you when you ask,” Davis says, the smile returning.
”As will I,” Swims says, his smile a larger and ragged-toothed version of Davis’. He stands up off the counter and claps Hugh on the back. ”Good luck, Hugh.”

---

After the magical mystery road show returns from the stellar success of its DC powerbroker tour, Kadi heads to the hotel's bistro looking for something to eat.

Her mood is desultory as she eventually settles for the spectacularly American variation of turkey and bacon lasagna. What the hell, you only know how bad things are after you try them. She makes her way to a table with her dish and a glass of club soda and sits down, back to the wall, as she surveys the lunch time crowd.nNothing much is going on, business workers in from all over the country eating a convenient and late lunch, most of them unaware of who else is staying in the hotel, and largely unconcerned with the issues on Kadi's mind. She hears one of the businessmen say something to the woman he's probably travelling with about seeing Kadi with some kind of giant walking ape, but that's about it.
Wookiee! the nerd inside her corrects the overheard remark. Big hairy things are wookiees.

The meal is surprisingly edible, though the turkey is perhaps a little rich compared to the usual shredded cow option. The distinctiveness of the bacon is somewhat lost between that and the ketchupy tomato sauce. As Kadi contemplates what kind of person would attempt to live off of food like this on a routine basis, she hears a few gasps of surprise and hastily rearranged plates, and looks up to see Swims-the-Black walk into the restaurant. The diners that don't just get up and move all try very hard to avoid being noticed by the wherren, as if he could snap and start tearing people limb from limb at any moment.

Swims pulls the chair out across from Kadi and takes a seat. The chair looks about a half-size too small for him, but he manages it just fine. "Hello, Kadiatu. Do you have a moment?" he asks. She notices that the restaurant seems to have lost a quarter of its customers all of a sudden, and the rest are all staring at Swims-the-Black with varying degrees of subtlety and a good amount of worry.
"Please tell me one of the others hasn't shown you Star Wars yet," she mutters as she observes the reaction his entrance causes. "Yeah, I think I can fit you into my busy schedule," she answers.
"We're going to watch Luis' appearance on the widecast tonight together, and I - we would like to invite you to be there with us," Swims signs. "We need to think about what we will be doing next as well, in light of what we've learned today."
"Sure, sound fun," she responds.

Swims nods, but doesn't stand up. Kadi can tell that he's considering something as a few shades of color bubble up.
Kadi doesn't seem to mind; she just goes back to her lunch.
Swims gives a huffing sigh. "I suppose I must. There is one thing I miss about being off Narsai," he says, and stands up. "Not being treated like a wild beast. I will see you later, Kadiatu."
"Yeah, I can get that," she nods sympathetically. "So, is it just Whirr who don't care who people shag or is it the Imperium at large?"
Swims-the-Black cocks a shaggy eyebrow as a greenish-yellow tint frosts his fur. "That's a strange question to ask right now," he says. "But no, it's by and large considered that whoever you want to...'shag' -" his usual smooth integration of foreign words into his speech hangs up for a moment, "- is your own business. Of course, as long as it is not a child or non-consentual, if you're looking for a sign of the Imperium's depravity. If same-gendered encounters were taboo, most of the Court of Worlds and nearly every noble would be in serious trouble."
The Englishwoman chuckles. "Actually, I was thinking we need to take you to a bear club." Seeing her teammate's expression, she goes on. 'A 'bear' is a slang term for a hirsute gay man and the surrounding subculture. It's been my experience that they're some of the nicest most welcoming people you could hope to meet. If I took you to a bear club, they'd take one look at you and you'd never have to worry about buying a drink." She flashes a grin.

An interesting couple of expressions roll on Swims-the-Black's face, until he settles into what must be the Wherren expression for "awkward embarrassment" and his fur turns a deep indigo from his head to his toes. "Aah, thank you for the offer, Kadiatu, but...I prefer the company of females in...in such circumstances. Thank you for trying, though."
"I was thinking more about finding somewhere people might be interested in your company instead of fearful of it, rather than trying to hook you up with a date. Probably for the best anyway; the conservative whack jobs would probably have a field day if they found out 815 were frequenting gay bars. But I can tell you without fear of contradiction that once more of you start integrating into our societies there's going to at least be human interest in pursuing cross-species relationships. If nothing else, there will be porn even if they have to fake it."
"Yes, of course." Kadi can tell by the deepening shade of purple on Swims' fur and the expression on his face and body that he would like to exit this conversation as soon as humanly - or rather Wherrenly - possible. "This is rather not the place for such a discussion, though, and if there's not anything else..."
Kadi nods and waves him good afternoon before returning to her lunch. "See you tonight."

----

Kadi hears a loud knock at her door, and when she looks through the peephole, she sees Swims-the-Black waiting in the hallway.
He peers back through the peephole in response. "The show is about to start, Kadi."

Kadi looks about, considers the security of her room. "Be there in a minute!" she calls back and pulls open the drawer in the night stand to retrieve a small web cam from its charging cradle. Grabbing a chair, she goes to the corner with the best view and sticks the camera in place. Turning it on, she returns the chair and goes out to meet Swims, tablet in the thigh pocket of her fatigues.

Swims already has a beer in one hand. "Are you ready? I don't want to miss the start." He looks fairly uncomfortable standing there with Kadi, his fur slightly on end and the same shade as it was before.

She cocks an eyebrow. "Don't worry, I shan't troll you with more deviant Terran sexuality," she teases. "Lay on Macduff," she indicates he should lead the way to where everyone will be watching.
Swims walks down the hallway with Kadi behind him. "Another one of your nation's sayings?"
"In a manner of speaking," she explains. "It's from one of our great plays of centuries ago. It's lost some of its meaning over the years, but generally it means 'Take me where fate has decreed I must go'."
Swims grunts. "I can relate to that feeling." His fur relaxes, but a few spots of orange pop up for a moment, then shift to green before fading back into the rest of his fur.

"So, do they have this sort of thing back home in the Imperium?" she asks.
"What sort of thing?"
"Talk shows."
"Yes, but they're all between ravilars and either nobles, holo performers or Arena combatants," Swims-the-Black says. He waves his free hand in the air. "It's all safe, pre-scripted pablum to keep the citizens comfortable and focused on whatever meaningless inflated non-events are going on at the moment." He pauses for a second. "Okay, maybe not so different from here, but I doubt they're forced on script under pain of death."
"Nah, that's Fox News," Kadi snarks deadpan.

----

When Stewart leans towards the camera and pretends to whisper "It’s a little freaky", Kadi gives a mental 'fuck yes!' of agreement. Once Stanhill hits the stage she sits back a little to observe the expressions of the others as much as the show.

"He's not one to beat about the bush, is he?" she asks semi-rhetorically as the first questions home in on the cybernetics, but her expression hardens and she makes a "tt!" of disaproval as the show goes on and the sergeant is a little too blase about the whole thing while he performs the party trick with the lap top. What he's had done to himself is massive and troubling by any number of human standards, and by acting like it's little more than plastic surgery on a show like Stewart's... it's just gifting the mouth-breathing Foxites and the GRHDI's enemies with "gone native" ammo!

Her mood improves when the conversation shifts to Imperial culture and repression, but not for long. When Stanhill fails to really take advantage of the 'following orders' line, she lets out a disappointed groan and a "No no no! The Nazis and Eastern Europe are the perfect analogy of what we're fighting and why America has to think outside its borders! Remind them of the Stasi! Bring this home, ground it in the human experience!"

Hugh watches Luis's Daily Show appearance with a mostly personal interest. After all, he's known Luis since Iraq, and while the two don't get to talk it over a lot, Hugh is quite proud of how far his Sergeant has come. He's a bit unaccustomed to Stewart's brand of humor, though it does wring the odd chuckle out of him. The content of the interview hits the talking points they discussed, but Stanhill's sincerity and obvious passion works for him, Hugh thinks - this Stewart guy throws his quips, but he seems quite moved and overall on their side. If this is what the media-savvy lefties are going to watch - well, they could've done a lot worse.
Zaef thinks it was pretty illuminating-especially when the audiance members displayed shock at being told how the Imperium works. Apparently they haven't been told very much about who they've been fighting.
Davis seems to be pretty much just enjoying the show, laughing along with most of the jokes, but when Luis comes on, he leans forward and not only watches Stewart's expression, he takes notes. Kadi notices him sneaking some looks in her direction as well, while Ngawai simply watches the show, both hands crossed on her stomach.
"Luis, you ever consider just buying a really expensive pair of sunglasses, solve this whole thing?" Angel asks the TV, but he nods in appreciation and looks relatively pleased with how things go.
"Or some cosmetic contact lenses," Kadi nods in agreement with Angel's cat call.

When the interview ends, she shakes her head. "I think that could have gone a lot better, but at least he didn't make it sound like the current Middle East clusterfuck."

"Not to contradict your backseat coaching, Sergeant Major, but on this side of the Atlantic, you generally bring up the Nazis when you want to tear someone down for following orders," Hugh says. "Also, we hate the Reds as a matter of course and I doubt you can find ten people off the street in as many minutes who know what the hell the Stasi is."

Hugh thinks for a moment. "And is Afghanistan still Middle East? I always thought that already counted as South Asia. But I'll admit to having used an atlas or two for gift wrapping."

Gatac wrote:

"Not to contradict your backseat coaching, Sergeant Major, but on this side of the Atlantic, you generally bring up the Nazis when you want to tear someone down for following orders," Hugh says. "Also, we hate the Reds as a matter of course and I doubt you can find ten people off the street in as many minutes who know what the hell the Stasi is."

Hugh thinks for a moment. "And is Afghanistan still Middle East? I always thought that already counted as South Asia. But I'll admit to having used an atlas or two for gift wrapping."

"Also Nazi's are cliche. You're a Nazi, no YOU'RE A NAZI. Pretty sure I saw an ad yesterday that said 'You know who else shopped at BestBuy...Hitler!"

Angel shrugs. "Gotta go with something new."