Ozerath — Roleplayer Guild

Govplex Arcology
City of Andalusia
Corinthene

Lord Sir Clement Herzog von Metternich, Duke Far Maddow, Knight Indomitus of the Order of King Nikolai, Lord Chancellor of Her Imperial Majesty’s Government, cursed viciously as a carelessly positioned cup of coffee teetered off the edge of his desk and fell to the floor. The luxuriously thick carpet was enough to save the fine china cup, but the liquid spilled across the floor.

“Spears and light be damned!” he growled, even as a small drone popped out of an inconspicuous hatch in the wall and whizzed over to the spreading pool of coffee. Metternich abruptly lashed out and kicked the thing across the room. The round little drone let out a distressed beep as it bounced off the wall and fell to the floor. It took a minute to right itself, then displayed a simplistic image of a face with a single tear coming from the eye, accompanied by a series of sad beeps. Metternich pointed at the patch of coffee insistently, but the drone stayed put, continuing to beep sadly. Finally, the Lord Chancellor of the Commonwealth sighed; “Sorry,” he said somewhat churlishly. It wasn’t the drone’s fault he’d so drastically underestimated the results of this week’s vote.

The drone considered him for a moment, then displayed a smiling face and made a series of beeps that somehow sounded very conciliatory. It returned to the coffee spill and guzzled the liquid up out of the hydrophobic fibers of the carpet, then returned to its hatch. Metternich watched it go, his mood improving slightly. The outburst of violence had helped, though the drone had successfully made him feel bad about kicking it. They weren’t smart enough to learn to do so on their own; some bureaucrat had ordered them programmed that way specifically to reduce incidents of violence against them. Certainly not out of sentimentality, but the guilt factor probably reduced the number of damaged or destroyed drones, which in turn likely reduced the Directorate’s annual cleaning expenses by a solid 0.001%. 

The drones were one of the things Metternich liked about Corinthene. He was far more tolerant of the gleaming planet’s shiny-and-new disposition than many of his peers. Metternich had been born on Praetoria, his duchy was on Praetoria, and his legislative district was also on Praetoria, but he wasn’t as fixated on the homeworld’s ancient glory as some people. Corinthene represented what the Commonwealth was all about; diverse peoples building a brighter future together, under the gentle guiding hand of their betters. Oh it had its warts (and Metternich was fully prepared to admit there were some big ones), but ultimately the Commonwealth represented stability and security for its citizens.

A soft chime interrupted his contemplations on cleaning drones and national identity. “Come in,” he said absently. The doors to his office slid open soundlessly to admit his secretary, Franklin Deitricht. Metternich looked over and raised an eyebrow when he noticed Deitricht’s puzzled expression. “Something bothering you, Franklin?”

“Only slightly, sir. This just came in,” he said, offering Metternich a message chip. “It’s locked to your encryption key, and sealed under Prime Speaker Vannifar’s key.”
“And? I don’t see anything peculiar about that,” Metternich prompted.
“Sorry sir, but it didn’t come in over the network, and it wasn’t transmitted down by a normal diplomatic courier ship. Sir, this specific chip was hand delivered to me from a private Rolvian courier ship that entered orbit less than 20 minutes ago.”

That got Metternich’s attention. Low level diplomatic correspondence could have been encrypted and sent over the old Ashtar PsiNET, while more important correspondence was generally transmitted to and from the secure databanks of diplomatic courier ships. But to use a private courier, and not even use its databanks...Vannifar did not want ANYONE else seeing whatever was on this chip.

“Thank you Franklin, that will be all.” Metternich only had eyes for the chip, but his secretary gave a small bow and left the room. Metternich sat at his desk and popped the chip into his terminal. It was a simple text message, and as Metternich read, his famed temper rose to incandescent fury.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Two hours later

“She can’t do this!” Sir Cato Telemachus, Minister of the Interior, said plaintively. “Gods, the colonies are uppity enough even when they’re not starving!”

“She can and she will, and in the long run it’s better for us than if she lost her seat to someone who’d cut off the shipments permanently.” Metternich observed sagely. He’d popped down to the arcology’s executive gym and beaten several training droids into pieces before he summoned his cabinet. His preffered Neuchwanstein di gavi style of martial arts was heavily focused on striking, and his training regimens were deeply cathartic.

“Besides, the bumper shipments should last us through just fine. It’s an election, it doesn’t last forever. Even if it runs a little long we shouldn’t be looking at more than a few weeks of shortages. That’s not going to cause significant trouble...is it?” Celia Temkins, Minister of Planetary Environments, turned the statement into a question at the last second. Agriculture and food fell under her bailiwick, so she was well positioned to speak to actual logistics of the issue, but nobody in cabinet had a better understanding of colonial affairs than Telemachus, the man in charge of them.

“Well, probably not,” Telemachus admitted. “That timeline alone wouldn’t cause anything more than mid-level general unrest, but if any complications arose…well, that’s the thing; major problems tend to start from small sparks.”

“Could we...preempt some of that unrest?” Temkins asked delicately. She’d grown up on a colonial farm - as a citizen of course - and while she understood the necessity of the Civil Order Agency, she was one of the few in cabinet who’d seen them in action. She’d risen to great heights since her childhood, and Metternich was absolutely certain of her loyalty, but she did tend to get a little squeamish when discussing the realities of running the Commonwealth.

“You mean a Duquesne iteration?” Telemachus looked thoughtful for a minute, then shook his head. “No, it would be a rush job, and rush jobs are sloppy. A poorly executed Duquesne could hurt us worse than any food shortage. Certainly I keep tabs on likely candidates, but these things take a lot of groundwork, the kind that you can’t stop once it starts. All that to say I can’t pull one off for this.”

Duquesne iterations were an old standby trick of the Ministry of the Interior. Sometimes the best way to stop a rebellion was to start one of your own. That tended to start a wave of ‘legitimate’ rebellions, which could be dangerous, as the Troubles had proven. Then it was simply a matter of making your rebellion commit heinous atrocities, to justify bringing Civil Order in to hammer ALL of them. The key was timing; letting the ‘legitimate’ rebellions grow large enough to include as many troublemakers as possible, but not so large that Civil Order couldn’t contain them.Telemachus’ predecessor had almost ended the Commonwealth when he got the timing wrong during the Great War iteration, but Cato was notably more adept at the job, mostly because he understood his own limitations.

“I’m just throwing this out there: invasion.” Lord Sir Mathias Bosch, Minister of Defence, was an old warhorse whose constant suggestions of invasion had become something of an inside joke for Cabinet. There was a murmur of laughter around the table, and Bosch gave them all a quick grin. “In all seriousness, I know that has to have crossed some minds, or it will when the shortages kick in. I can ask Kyarguin to do a touch of wargaming, but off the top of my head it’s a hard no. I’m quite confident of our ability to seize the orbitals of any worlds we might choose, but I’m not nearly so optimistic about our success in surface invasions. By some accounts, the Rolvians have been playing around with their biological bag of tricks since the War, and I very much doubt any of us would care to play fetch with whatever may have come out of that.”

“And orbital strikes are out because we’d need the agricultural infrastructure intact.” Sir Robert Castlereagh added grimly. He may have been Minister of Foreign Affairs, but he’d been a naval officer before that, and understood the realities of such things. “I’m afraid I don’t have much to offer today, other than we’d best pick our battles carefully with the Rolvians, especially when we don’t know what the Taulron want out of us. And they most certainly do want something. I can’t understate the significance of Valensa being shipped here rather than Praetoria, so they’re buttering us up for something. Can’t yet say what, but I expect they’ll let us know before too long.”

Metternich nodded slowly, but put the Taulron question out of his mind for the moment. He would have liked to sag into his chair and rub his temples, but that wasn’t a suitable option with his full cabinet in attendance. He looked over Vannifar’s missive once more, the words no longer inspiring fury. “Could she be lying?” he speculated absently, looking around the table with an expression that suggested everyone consider the possibility.

Lady Captain Commander Shanessa, Minister of Commerce, rolled her shoulders in a slow shrug. “It’s possible, of course, but I don’t think likely. She has to know what this will cost her economy; even a temporary blockade will more or less force us to increase our food sovereignty, cutting into the Rolvian profits in the future. Certainly I can think of half a dozen plots and schemes off the top of my head that might give Vannifar reason to cut off food shipments and blame it on political opponents, but none of them are really worth the risk. She’s fully aware of how...strident our response to such deception might be.”

Bosch barked a laugh. “You mean we’d roll right over her navy and torch every one of her bread-basket planets without ever landing a single soldier.” He raised a hand when it looked like Shanessa was about to give a pithy response. “I know, I know, it wouldn’t be that easy. And of course there might be other forces at play that we know nothing about. But as a general rule, it’s a bad idea to let fear of the unknown paralyze oneself into total inaction. Really I’m just agreeing with you that the situation as we know it means that Vannifar almost certainly is telling the truth.”

The table fell silent for a moment, until Metternich pushed his chair back and rose. “Very well. I think we’ve tossed this problem around enough, and with all things considered, Vannifar’s already outlined our best course of action: buy all the food we can, then brace for shortages. Celia, I’ll want some recommendations on rationing strategies, but this has to be kept quiet, so make sure your analysts are convinced it’s hypothetical. Cato, please put together a report on likely hotspots once the shipments stop. Again, this has to be kept quiet, so keep your team small. I’ll put together a response to Vannifar and pass it to Ambassador Tovin, then I’d best get started on my briefing to Her Imperial Majesty, I’d like to get it out on the evening courier. Anything else I should include?” Metternich looked around the table, but saw only shaking heads. “Right, well you all have until 18:30 local if you want to send anything in writing, or speak to the Imperial Queen yourselves in a few weeks time when Parliament migrates. Good day to you all.”

While I cannot say that I am delighted by the contents of your missive, my Queen, my cabinet, and myself all understand the realities of domestic politics. Regrettably, our long term economic relationship will suffer, as the Commonwealth will be forced to become at least somewhat more self sufficient. However, I agree that this is the best course of action available to us, and I believe our diplomatic relationship will grow stronger as a result.

Naturally you are aware that this affair must be kept as quiet as possible, but I feel this point can not be stressed enough. Not one word of this must reach the colonies, certainly not before the shipments actually stop. Loose lips start riots, as they say.
I would advise not responding to this letter unless absolutely necessary, in the interest of discretion.

Yours in confidence,
Lord Chancellor Clement Herzog von Metternich

P.S. Incidentally, feel free to deport our Ambassador Tarkovsky if you think it might win you some votes among your more nationalistic citizens. I’ll send him a separate dispatch through official channels, but he’s always had a flair for the dramatic and can be counted on to act suitably outraged if you do decide to give him the boot.
Ozerath Member

U WOT M8?

Status

Bio

Most Recent Posts
