Political Bedfellows: Circumstance

[Crash Calestorm 0]

Castle An-Thrax

New Translatshia, Northern Province

Joint Amadacia-Doman Governmental Headquarters

 

The main operations room of Caste An-Thrax vibrated with nervous and focused activity, with a dozen flat screen TV monitors following an equal number of live news broadcasts and military force movements. The modern equipment and desks were at odds with the stonework structure and ornate tapestries hung on the thick walls. Several administrative assistants and secondary ambassadorial aides worked at a steady pace at the workstations scattered about the room, or spoke quietly in groups of two and three, trading notations or news.

 

Amadacia Chief Ambassador I’Liam Kiton stood in the center of the room, keeping an eye on the incoming visual data and taking call after call, confirming as best she could what her ambassadorial offices knew. The correspondence was official, governmental representatives and the like, and she could not fault her colleagues for their concern – the intended guests for the historical events of the day, and a new and hopeful beginning for their planet, had vanished.

 

“…thank you Prefect Callen, I’ll keep you apprised.” Her wireless earpiece automatically dropped the signal when the communication ceased, the steady blue glow of the device flickering with indication.

 

A voice called out to her, from behind and towards the entry way to the ops center. “You know, that vein on your forehead is starting to pop out.” His voice still held a thick Domani accent, and carried a strong overtone of authority.

 

“Welcome to the party Kailchev.”

 

“I prefer my parties with fifty year old Bakardi Kavod and plenty of food.” The shorter, stout humanoid male came to stand beside his female counterpart, the dark suit he wore a sharp contrast to her gold ambassadorial sash and the deep lavender color of her skirt and suit coat.

 

The two government officials stood together, silently watching one of the monitors as the Domani centric news feed focused on an anti-government Domaniite who had become independently active within the last few years.

 

“There was a time when Mr. Hanahir would have been assassinated.”

 

“…I didn’t hear that.”

 

Gortin easily fell into their usual banter.”…or maybe he would have been arrested and remanded to a very dark and nasty prison. I can’t really remember.”

 

“I do hope that you wiped out all evidence of your activities and shredded any papers.”

 

“Actually, my papers are safely encoded and stored in that secret Amadacia warehouse with the wreck of a spaceship that landed on this planet fifty years ago, along with the Holy Grail of the Python.”

 

I’Liam hung her head and placed her hands on her hips, but Gortin’s statement had the desired effect – she chuckled despite the situation, and some of the tension in her neck eased up.

 

There had been a time when I’Liam Kiton and Gortin Kailchev had been rivals and bitter political enemies. Kailchev had presided over the Government of Doman at the same time Kiton had been the Amadacian president. Uncertain times, combined with a war of silence and an ever increasing arms race, had embroiled the respective countries for years, and the rivalry of the two rulers had merely been an extension of those times.

 

They had both served their terms, moving onto other duties. Kiton had gone into the ambassadorial service while Gortin went into Internal Security for his own government. The rivalry cooled as they both aged and moved up in the governmental ranks and the overall political climate between their respective countries settled down, though the two never really let go of their animosity towards one another.

 

The arrival of a crew from beyond the stars calling their ship the USS Antietam, and the revelation of an intergalactic organization calling itself the “united Federation of Planets’ had changed everything.

 

Less then twenty minutes after the space ship had established an orbit and sent transmissions signifying their intent to the various world government, Kailchev had contacted I’Liam via her cell phone (an unlisted and encoded number, mind you, but that was beside the point) and stated without preamble, “Well my old friend and rival, it would seem our respective world governments and offices will be very busy over the next few months. How does a global government grab you, eh? I suggest we meet tomorrow for tea at a little café I know in Parice and discuss things. I promise there we be no shooting. I swear.”

 

Gortin glanced at I’Liam. “Has there been any change?”

 

“None. The preliminary reports are the same – the air vehicle from the USS Comanche Creek was taken out somewhere over the Merado subcontinent, and we do have Sean Chan movement in the area. Any news from your contacts?”

 

He nodded, a simple and precise movement. “We have civilian rescue groups eager to help. Several prominent businessmen and women have also offered their assistance. My teams have been dispatched to provide assistance for the governmental search and rescue efforts.”

 

I’Liam blew a quick breath out of her stunted nose slits. Kailchev’s ‘teams’ that he had overseen and spearheaded for years within the Internal Security offices of Doman had been a feared and formidable unit of recon specialists and assassins. Nothing had ever been proven, however.

 

“Your squads are out and about for assistance, eh Gortin?” She eyed him, her expression equal parts approval and exasperation.

 

His expression was stern as he answered her inquiry. “The Se’an Chans hunt our guests from the stars. Now, my people hunt the Chans.”