The Forum's Scriptorium

[Yastreb]

A bit of explanation here... What follows is part one of a story that is part writing challenge and part fix-fic, with elements of an ongoing SFRPG.

The challenge was "No One Expects the Spanish Inquisition!" My story was based on the backstory of a Player Character in a Spacemaster game, who came from the Imperial House of Kapov; the predominant culture of the House was Romanian in origin, and I decided that he was a former Investigator for the Securitate - the Secret Police. The Romanian element had led me to call him Nicolae Carpathia, after the Designated Villain of the appalling Left Behind novels, who despite being the Antichrist seems, at times, to be a better human being than the Designated Heroes (if you wish to know more about that bit, I refer you to the blog The Slacktivist).

In the novels, the Designated Heroes are employed by the Antichrist, despite being Born-Again Christians, after some distinctly contrived recruitment. I thought I'd have some fun by having a different, more logical reason for two such unpleasant characters to be recruited, or rather conscripted, by Nicolae Carpathia, who isn't the Antichrist here, but is an agent of the Secret Police. The two Formerly Designated Heroes have kept their original names, but most other names have been amended to fit (sorta) the setting.

So without more ado - Part One of

LEVERAGE

15-06-502 IMPERIAL CALENDAR

Korendor, House Kapov core world

Civic Quarter, Bucheraine, capital city of Korendor

***

TO: AGENT 769-216-732 NICOLAE CARPATHIA
SUBJECT: COVERT RECRUITMENT
FILE REFERENCE: BN 2A33-Y618

YOU ARE HEREBY DIRECTED TO SECURE THE FOLLOWING INDIVIDUALS

1. STEELE, Rayford (SSN 405331376-52)

2. WILLIAMS, Cameron (SSN 4301114578-42)

REPORT WHEN RECRUITMENT IS COMPLETE

AUTHORITY: K2

Nicolae Carpathia set aside the routine tasks he was working through and accepted the new orders.
Sitting back in his chair, he settled the brace to hold his head steady, and told his console, “Accept vox commands. Case file BN 2A33-Y618, direct optical interface, commence.”
It did not occur to him to wonder why a reporter and a pilot were being singled out thus.
What mattered was the assignment.

STEELE, RAYFORD
PILOT, PAN-STELLAR INC

LINK TO CZEPEL CIS CASE FILE H15/502 STEELE, IRINA; STEELE, RAYMOND

***

SIX MONTHS PREVIOUSLY

Rayford Steele's mind was on a woman he had never touched but who would soon be his wife. With his fully loaded K117 hyper-shuttle on autopilot he was heading back to Czepel, to where his wife and son were already dead.
Irina Steele, attractive and vivacious at 40, had grown stale, and she had given him a daughter whom he barely tolerated and a son whom he despised for his weakness.
Erzebet Dunaric was young, pliable, and drop dead gorgeous.
They had spent time together, chatting for hours over drinks or dinner, sometimes with coworkers, sometimes not. He had not returned so much as one brush of a finger, but his eyes had held her gaze, and he could only assume his smile had made its point. Rayford kept her in her place, waiting for signals from him, but always withholding them. It was how things should be.
There had been others. He'd had plenty of opportunities, such as the lengthy affair when Irina had stayed home, uncomfortably past her ninth month carrying their surprise son, Raymond.
It had been a routine flight, and he checked his message bank once he reached his car.
He ran through three mundane messages, and was startled to hear Clara's voice. "Mama? Papa? Are you there? I’m a day early. See you soon!”
You weren’t supposed to be there!
Rayford set off for home, forcing himself to drive sedately. Whatever had happened, he could not change it…

He pulled into his driveway to see the garage door open, although nothing looked out of place. He parked his car in the garage, picked up the groceries he had bought as planned, and walked to the front of the house to find his front door open.
Then he heard a scream.
He rushed in, calling for Irina, to find Clara cowering in the living room before the crumpled and bloodied body of Irina sprawled over the couch. She had not removed her veil, but then her street dress was unmistakeable; Irina had made it herself.
She cried out “They’re dead, they’re dead…” 
Raymond was lying near the back door.

The police were called.
All any of the neighbours saw was "some kind of carpet-service minivan here for about half an hour this afternoon."
The burglary was a "slick job" though the murders were committed with one of Raymond’s baseball bats. Everything of immediate material value was gone except the HV set; the jewellery, silver, and even the china.

The next seven days were a blur as he stayed in a nearby hotel with Clara, waiting for the police to allow him back into the house.
There were calls from the office to console him, and calls to Clara from her classmates.
There was a journalist who came to interview him, a brash young hotshot who insisted on being called “Buck,” and there was a call from Erzebet.

His unwanted wife and son were gone; his adult daughter would be easily convinced to move on. He had fooled the police.
He was free to claim his prize.

He collected the clothes from Irina’s and Ray’s rooms, carefully folded them and stored them in a box. He ate the last of the cookies Irina had baked before she died.
He paused before the doors to the master suite. What a beautiful, frilly place she had made it, decorated with needlepoint and knickknacks… He made a note to junk the lot as soon as he could.
He noticed a picture of himself on the bed table. He stood smiling inside the terminal, his cap tucked under his arm, a K117 outside the window in the background. The picture was signed, "To Raymond with love, Dad."
Under that he had written, "Rayford Steele, Captain, Pan-Stellar Aerospace, Oreanu."
He shook his head and dropped the photograph into the trash bag.

Nicolae dismissed the report of the Czepel Homicide Section and then called up Rayford Steele’s service file.
He was building up his personal file on the man, and it wasn’t long for him to see that beneath the outward persona a very different picture was staring to emerge.
Another file gave him inspiration.
“Link me to the office of Pan-Stellar.”

It was Rayford Steele's turn for a break. He pulled the headphones down onto his neck, dug into his flight bag for his e-pad, and set to reading Elizabeth’s letters. It would not be long now….
The shuttle was on auto from Baltani to a 1600 Friday landing at Oreanu. Rayford noticed Ciprian switching from autopilot to manual.
"Initial descent," Ciprian said. "I’ll bring her in."
"Of course," Rayford said. He could have brought the shuttle in, but since the murders, they had been tip-toeing around him as if he was bone china.

Just ten minutes after his flight duty ended, Rayford received an urgent message from chief pilot Eirik Haldanea. "Come in at once. This is very important."
With his cap under his arm and still wearing his uniform coat, Rayford hurried to the office.
There was a nervous air in the office when Rayford entered. People looked self-conscious, and everyone seemed to be making a show of how busy they were. There were a lot of nervous glances exchanged when Rayford entered, and he was almost immediately intercepted by a frightened admin who told him to go to his boss' office immediately.
Scaring people wasn't Eirik's management style. Obviously, something must have changed.
He hurried to Eirek Haldanea’s office and was let in at once. Eirik was at his desk, looking nervous.
"What's up?"
"Thanks for getting back to me right away, Rayford."
"Eirik... what's happened?"
Eirik gestured towards the quiet, dark-suited figure in the corner.
“This is Agent Nicolae Carpathia of the Interior Ministry. He wants to speak to you.”
“Thank you, Mr Haldanea. Please leave us.”

Rayford stared in disbelief as Eirik walked out of his own office.
“Let us sit and talk, Mr Steele.”
Rayford sat down as Carpathia took Eirik’s seat and rested his left arm on the desk, revealing a protus on his wrist that looked top of the range... as if the Interior Ministry would settle for less.
Interior Ministry? What would they want with me?
"You are doubtless wondering why an agent of the Interior Ministry wishes to speak with you," Carpathia said before Rayford could speak.
"Well, yes, I am."
"It concerns the murders of Irina and Raymond Steele."
Rayford couldn’t hold back his surprise. But then, a visit from the Interior Ministry would cause anyone to be nervous.
"The Eye-Em is doing police work now?"
"You are former military, Mr Steele, Star Force in fact. As such the Ministry has an interest in such cases. We must consider the possibility of a personal grudge stemming from your background. That is why I am here today."
"The cops won’t like that."
"They will have to put up with it, since they have failed to catch the killer, or killers. But let us move on from that."
Rayford kept a straight face at the news. Carpathia activated his protus, opened a holo display that was opaqued to Rayford’s view.
"You came up through the ranks; cadet class, followed by basic training in Astrogation and Piloting. Promising start, though you flattened out a little towards the end and you never achieved your ambition of leading a combat squadron. Your service was entirely in Support Command… commendations for efficiency but also two citations for poor conduct… no combat decorations… finally left the service after the war but two years before due discharge date.
“Psychological profile… the subject possesses a marked sense of entitlement and poor behaviour control when dealing with subordinates; not recommended for a command position; recommend assignment to areas allowing close supervision.”
Carpathia closed the display and looked up as Rayford fought to control his temper.
“I am told that you insist on the title “Captain” when on duty, doubtless because you remained a Lieutenant and were never recommended for further promotion. For all your competence as a pilot, you never attained what you thought you could be and that you thought you were entitled to be.”
“What does this have to do with what happened to Irina and Raymond?” Rayford shouted.
“You did not make any enemies in the Star Force, Rayford. You made one or two friends – Janos Molenski stands out. I believe you saw him recently.”
“Once, in a bar, by chance,” Rayford said quickly.
He was losing control and struggling to win it back. Even though he had covered his tracks, he needed to stay in control.
“You sold him a very expensive car very cheaply. Your wife’s car, in fact; a Novarra 60PX. It is one of the standard ways to make a pay-off; it’s not surprising that he was found, and that he was ready to cooperate when questioned.”
 “That’s a stinking lie!”
Rayford leapt to his feet, ready to slam his fist into Carpathia’s calm face…

He was lying across the desk. Pain surged through his head. He could hear voices, far off…
“Captain Steele slipped and fell. See to him, please, and tell Mr Constanza to take steps to release Captain Steele from service, effective immediately.”

***

Two hours later, Rayford Steele was politely but firmly ushered out of Pan-Stellar HQ and onto the street. He had been given a holdall for his personal belongings but no farewells. No-one had even looked at him as he left. All that he had been told was, "Your name is already been taken off all duty rosters. Clear out your desk and leave. Human Resources will remit your separation payment in due course."
He was beyond anger. All he felt was a deep fatigue.
A man in black, his eyes shielded by mirrored sunglasses, was at his side.
"Follow me to the car, please."
The man led Rayford to a sleek black hover-limo and ushered him inside.
Within minutes the limo was descending into Bucheraine, heading for the Civic Quarter and the Interior Ministry tower.

"Good, we can continue," Nicolae Carpathia said, rising and coming around his desk to shake hands with Rayford Steele. "Thank you, Agent Scutari."
The agent left and shut the door.
Carpathia pointed to a chair and sat down across from Rayford.
"It seems that Pan-Stellar no longer requires your services."
Rayford did not respond to Carpathia.
"Justice would demand that you pay for arranging the murders of your wife and son. The interests of the House are better served by your continued liberty."
Rayford stayed silent as Carpathia went on. "Mr. Steele, you will be receiving an offer of employment from a small aerospace despatch company. You will accept that position.”
"And if I decline it?"
"The Czepel Police Bureau will act on information received and make arrests for capital murder."
Rayford clenched his fists on the armrests. He recalled how Carpathia had taken him down before; he would not let it happen again.
"And then what happens?" Rayford demanded.
"Until you hear otherwise – nothing will happen. You will resume your occupation as pilot. And before you ask – you will take a loss in salary, but the Service will make up the difference."

Casimir Rostov was tall and lean, in his late fifties, with a weathered face and a shock of salt-and-pepper hair. He was chief pilot in a small haulage and freight firm with two small interstellar freighters and two in-system bulk carriers.
Rostov drove Rayford to a weather-beaten hut at Tuzla starport and chatted while running through pre-flight checks. As Rostov readied the Starstream-130 class freighter White Swan, Rayford entered the nav-plot for systems transit.
Rostov was a talker, a raconteur, opinionated but interesting.
Rayford hated him.

[Róisín]

I will be curious to see where this one goes!

[Yastreb]

LEVERAGE

(Part 2)

WILLIAMS, CAMERON AKA: “BUCK” WRITER/PRESENTER WITH KAPOV INFORMATION NETWORK

LINK TO FLORYN STRANEK AND IMRE TUREANU (REFERENCE IM-2815/AA-419, CORRUPT INFLUENCES)
LINK TO VITELIJE CIS CASE FILE P12/501 BRANOV, DIRKO

Nicolae kept the Homicide Section file open as he studied Cameron Williams’ personal file. It took only moments to work the out both the bait and the modality.
“Message begins...”

Attention: Cameron Williams
Comrade
You are cordially invited to Bucheraine for the purpose of establishing your fitness to serve on the Special Commission for Communications and Information.
Sincere regards
Nicolae Carpathia
Interior Ministry

*** 

As Buck Williams emerged from the debarkation area, a uniformed driver strode directly to him.
"Mr Williams? Follow me to the car, please."
The driver led Buck to a sleek black hover-limo and put his luggage in the trunk before ushering him inside.  Seconds later the limo was high over Bucheraine. Buck was an interstellar traveller and had been treated like both king and pauper over the years. Yet even he found this routine unsettling.
As his eyes adjusted to the low light and the tinted windows, Buck noticed a stocky man in a dark suit and mirrored glasses sitting with his back to the driver, staring at him.
"Are you with the Commission?" Buck asked, "Do you work directly for Mr. Carpathia?"
The man did not respond, nor did he move. Buck leaned forward.
"Excuse me!" he said. "Do you --"
The man shook his head and replied in a whisper, “No questions, please.”
The hover-limo settled down on the landing pad outside the Codreanu Club, an exclusive enclave for the powerful and well-connected. The bodyguard led Buck into the posh restaurant, past a long line of patrons waiting for tables, directly to the head waiter. Buck would have felt right at home in the club, were it not for the presence of his hulking guide.
The head waiter escorted them through the crowd of tables to a booth by the window that overlooked the Balaton Gardens.
Nicolae Carpathia rose to greet him.  "Cameron, here, sit down! This is a lovely place, isn’t it?"
"Indeed it is!"
Buck accepted a menu and allowed the waiter to drape a linen napkin on his lap.
"Let us enjoy the finest cuisine in Novarra, and then we have matters to discuss," Nicolae said, smiling broadly. “Agent Suchek, you may take refreshment. We will be at least an hour. Make sure that the sonic fold is fully effective.” The guard nodded and walked away.
"I didn’t think you’d brought me this far just for a lunch date," Buck replied.
Carpathia's eyes twinkled. "Cameron, you are an appealing fellow, but even I have my limits.
“However, enough of that, please – enjoy, as I said. I am ordering the shrimp scampi, and then the salmon. You should do likewise."
Buck had always made it a habit to ignore recommendations in restaurants. He realized how rattled he was when he ordered what Carpathia suggested… although it was a good choice.

During the meal Nicolae did most of the listening, building a personal dossier on Buck in his head.
An inveterate name-dropper who boasts of the high circles he has moved in – a lot of “Met him," "Know him," "Interviewed her," "Know him," "Was with her in Cluj," "Stayed in his home."
A massive ego is evident – he sees himself as a super-journalist desired by women everywhere.
Little was said during the meal, but when coffee with brandy was served, Nicolae was more expansive, inviting replies from Buck. “I recall that report on the incident on PC815; you tried to charm a security guard into letting you off the shuttle before it was sealed up.”
Buck laughed. "It's OK in a situation like that to look after Number One. That's what I was doing. When people die suddenly some rules go out the window."

Later, Nicolae said, “Your record at the KIN Central Office has caused some adverse comment.
“I am told, reliably, that you picked a fight with the acting Deputy Controller – unwisely; that you were in the wrong and you tried to bluster and bully your way out of your difficulties.”
Buck snorted derisively.  “Zora Kusic is a stuck-up bimbo who doesn’t deserve to be Station D/C, I should tell you. I’m the youngest ever senior writer for KIN and I’m the envy of the rest of the staff. Either I scoop them or I get the plum assignments. Zora’s just out to make me pay for my years of awards and stories. Hey, everyone at KIN would still think it’s a privilege to work with me. Everyone in the business knows I’m the best there is.”
Nicolae’s smile narrowed. “Humility is not one of your virtues, Cameron. I need team players for the Special Commission. You must understand that not everyone is second best compared to you. I am an expert in my field, and I do not lay claim to being an expert in yours. Please do us all, and yourself, a favour and learn to show respect.”
Buck chuckled. “It’s up to them to earn it, Nicolae. I’ve never been conventional. I don’t need to make any excuses for being unique. And please, Nicolae, you can call me Buck."”
“If it would make you feel at ease, I will call you Buck, but only between us.”
Emboldened, Buck began to speak at length, but the focus stayed on Zora Kusic. Whatever the anecdote, it ended with her comeuppance or humiliation as a punchline.

So he is a better reporter than every other reporter and a better holographer than every other holographer, even a better programmer than anyone in the IT department – not that he wants their jobs! He just wants them to admit that whatever they're doing is second best, and would have been so much better if it had been done as only Cameron Williams, alias Buck, could have done it. However, Zora Kusic doesn't adore Buck like everyone else in the KIN office, which makes her a personal enemy to be shown up and demeaned at every opportunity.

“Well, what could I tell the stupid b**** but, ‘I’m coming over there to kick that door shut. You had better not be in the way’, and she still stood there. Well, I just stomped over there, and she just went apeshit when I kicked the door shut, and she screamed – man, I wish she’d stayed in the doorway!”
Buck looked at Nicolae, his eyebrows raised. “Didn’t I give that b**** the right stuff? What would you have done?”
Nicolae gave a short sigh. “I personally would have acted with a little more maturity each time. But that will do for now.”
He thinks he is the Greatest Reporter of All Time but his own words reveal him as an incompetent, ridiculous and arrogant fool, and a pushy, big-headed jerk.
Covert Recruitment has odd criteria.

Two hours later, Buck was directed up to a private conference room off the main suite of offices on Level 122 of the Interior Ministry Tower. Carpathia was standing in the hallway to greet him. "Cameron, we are almost ready to begin. Come and join us." He pointed into the stark and functional room, to one of six chairs around a square block of tables. 
When Buck walked in, past the two guards at the door, men in black fatigues, with Kruz pulse laser pistols on their hips, he saw that Carpathia was chatting with two men whose presence made him stop dead on the spot... Floryn Stranek, and Imre Tureanu.
Stranek and Tureanu were dressed like twins, in dark grey suits, white shirts, electric-blue neckties, and gold stickpins. They nodded to Buck, but gave no hint of recognition.
Buck fought down panic. No, everything was all right, there were no loose ends…

Nicolae waited till everyone was seated, then rose to address the gathering. "Comrades, we are here as founding members of the Special Commission for Communications and Information."
He crossed to where Imre Tureanu sat. "Mr. Imre Tureanu, please stand," he said.
Nicolae shook Tureanu’s hand. "Mr. Tureanu, you have served with distinction in the Ministry of Public Will. I welcome you to the Special Commission."
"Thank you, sir," Tureanu said, and sat down as Carpathia moved on.
Carpathia turned to Floryn Stranek, who smiled a knowing smile and stood regally.
Carpathia shook Stranek's hand. "Mr. Stranek, your distinguished and honoured service in the Finance Ministry is an inspiration. I welcome you to the Special Commission."
He crossed over to where Buck sat. "Mr. Cameron Williams," he said, "You have served with conspicuous success in the Kapovian Information network. I welcome you to your new role."
His grip was firm and strong as he looked directly into Buck's eyes and spoke with quiet authority.
Buck blinked. Somehow the words "Thank you, sir," would not come to him. After an awkward silence, Buck was able to say, “I’m honoured to be here.”
Carpathia clapped him on the shoulder and turned away.
Bile rose in Buck’s throat. Was this all some trap cynically set by Carpathia? He glanced quickly at Stranek and Tureanu… and noticed that neither had moved. They sat rigid, staring forward.
Carpathia triggered his protus. "Agent Scutari, Agent Suchek, come here, please."
The door slid open and the two guards entered. Buck now recognised the man who had escorted him to the club.
"Yes, Agent Carpathia?"
"Take these subjects to sub-level two with total discretion. Agent Suchek, keep them there until further orders. Agent Scutari, once they are secured, return here."
Buck watched in horror as Scutari and Suchek simply lugged the two men, who turned slack as they were lifted, on their shoulders and strode out.
"That was the sad but inevitable end to two corrupt and venal men who succumbed to an all-too common weakness. They were men that I had once respected and admired deeply.
"Now – we have further business."

Nicolae sat down opposite Buck. His strong, angular features were softened by a quick, seemingly genuine disarming smile. Buck wished fervently that it was indeed genuine.
"Cameron, you doubtless wish to know what will happen to you."
"Thank you," Buck replied, trying to keep some semblance of control. "You can call me Buck."
"I'll stick with calling you Cameron, if you don't mind."
"I do mind. Please call me Buck."
"I will call you Cameron. I mislike nicknames."
Buck felt his spirit shrink as Carpathia’s smile was replaced by a look of cold triumph. He held up his right hand and indicated the diamond ring. "That was quite shocking, was it not? They went to their deaths aware, but totally helpless. The record will show that they died in ignominy – two rich and powerful men who took recreational drugs and overdosed on a cocktail of Blue Myst and Yuphoria. Their deaths were agonising and prolonged, but no one was there to hear the screams."
Buck realised that the ring must have been used to deliver a paralysis dose to Stranek and Tureanu. He also realised that Carpathia was a ruthless and dangerous man of high connections.
"You’re Securitate," Buck said.
Carpathia nodded.
"What’s going to happen?" Buck asked, trying not to show fear.
Carpathia intertwined his fingers and stared at Buck, unsmiling. "Two people in positions of trust and influence were involved in serious crimes against the House, with the connivance of an egotistical and venal reporter. But now they are dead. I chose to spare your life, even though I know what you did, and why. There are laws and there are rules. Laws I obey. Rules I will ignore if the end is justified. You have forced my hand, and that is never wise." Nicolae shook his head. “You must understand that the good of House Kapov is often best served by justice being done out of the public eye, lest the public begin to doubt their rulers."
Buck finally found his voice. "What happens now?”
Nicolae looked back at him, his face empty of expression.
“From now on, you will be accounted a Securitate asset. This will not change your life in any meaningful way. You will continue in your role at KIN… but when so ordered, you will act for the Securitate and thus for the good of the House. You will receive an additional stipend over and above your regular wages and awards. You will never tell anyone – anyone – about your new role. You will report to me, or to one other agent, to be specified. If you do reveal your role, you will be killed. Do we have an understanding?”
Buck gulped and gave a weak nod. He felt ready to vomit.
“Answer me please. Do we have an understanding?”
“Yes,” Buck croaked.
Nicolae pushed a plasticard form across the desk. “Sign your name and then add your thumbprint. The form retains your DNA.”
Numbly, Buck obeyed.
“Now return to the KIN office and report to your boss. Agent Scutari will see you on your way. Good day, Cameron.”

Stannor Bartok was seemingly in a good mood, which made the news even harder.
"I'm going to put you in the Czepel bureau. You're going to be a staff writer there, working for the woman who was Luka's assistant. I'm calling her today to give her the news. Your pay won’t be affected – I’m being generous. You take a couple of few days off, get your things in order here, get that apartment sublet, and find yourself a place in Czepel."
Did Carpathia set this up?  The Securitate could do that… but why? What did I do to deserve that?

Buck reached the Czepel bureau of KIN a week later. He had put off going to the office earlier. He didn't relish facing Zora Kusic. 
When it had been his assignment to find a replacement for veteran Luka Valentiu, he had told the militant Zora she had jumped the gun by moving into her former boss's office. Now Buck had been demoted and Zora elevated. Suddenly, she was his boss.
He remembered her saying, "Nothing was done about replacing Luka, so I assumed I’d move into her slot." Her attitude and presumption alone had made Buck say, "That's unlikely, but you'll be the first to know. I wouldn't be moving offices just yet."
Now she faced him, from behind the bureau chief’s desk. She had the nerve to face him all but unveiled, with only a scrap of silk holding back her hair and covering her forehead.
"Cameron," she said flatly, still seated. "I expected you on Monday."
"Some delays," he said. "You can call me Buck."
"I'll call you Cameron, if you don't mind, and --"
"I do mind. Please call --"
"Then I'll call you Cameron even if you do mind. Please sit down."
He sat, but seethed in silence as Zora crisply told him that he would no longer be the star presenter.
"We here in Czepel have an important but limited role in the Network. We collate planetary news and submit it to Bucheraine for posting. Offworld topics are not in our remit, sad to say."
Buck sat stiffly. "So I'm going to be assigned to the Czepel livestock market?"
"You don't amuse me, Cameron, but then you never did. You’re a diva with an inflated sense of entitlement. I promise you this; I won’t go for payback. I recall all of your insults, and especially that time you tried to smash a door into my face. But I’ll be professional, and I expect you to reciprocate. Is that clear?"
"Are you asking whether I understand, or whether I agree?"
"Neither," she replied dryly. "I'm asking whether you will comply."
"Why should I?" Buck snapped, feeling his pulse surge. "I've accepted my demotion and my relocation. You know as well as I do that relegating me to regional stuff is a waste of my contacts and my experience."
"You’ve accepted nothing. Everything you’ve said indicates that. For that outburst alone I could have you fired."
"If you'd had the power to fire me, I'd have quit."
"You want to quit?"
"I'll tell you what I want, Zora. I want --"
"I expect all my subordinates to call me Ms Kusic."
"You have no subordinates in this office," Buck snapped.
Zora laughed. "Cameron, I am bureau head here. Everyone in this office is my subordinate! Have you forgotten that already?"
Buck rose to his feet. "Now listen, Zora, stop trying to take out all your damned frustration on me. You know as well as I do that no one with an ounce of self-respect would put up with this. If I have to work out of the Czepel area, I'm going to work from home. And if you expect to see me in this office again for any reason, you'll get Mr Bartok on the line right now."
Zora stared back at him. Her expression had not changed. “As you wish – I will call him now. I will even let you have your say, but I am going to speak to him first, and I reserve the right to tell him how insubordinate and disrespectful you've been."
She triggered the comm console.
"Bartok speaking – what do you want, Ms Kusic?"
"Good morning, sir. I've got a situation here with Cameron Williams."
"Already? I thought he’d be no trouble! Who said what?"
"He made a demand for special treatment in a rude and insubordinate manner. He said that if I didn’t do as he said, he would quit."
"Did he now? Well, I don’t want to waste time talking to him. If he doesn’t do as you say, fire him. If he tries to bully you, fire him. If he doesn’t come in, fire him. Of course, if he’s fired, he never works for KIN ever again. Do you have any questions about that, Zora? Do you, Cameron?"
“I have no questions, Mr Bartok,” Zora said.
“No, no questions, Mr Bartok,” Buck replied.
You bastard, Carpathia!

[Yastreb]

And here we have the third story involving Nicolae Carpathia, this time from later in his career. This has a lot of jargon from the SFRPG campaign, for which I must apologise in advance.

THE RECRUIT

The penalty phase was over.
“Philip Hendry,” the Judge said, pronouncing the name as if it was something obscene, “it is my duty to pass sentence in accordance with the law and the recommendations of the jury.
“Your guilt on every count was established beyond doubt, and there was nothing said or shown in mitigation. I have not encountered anyone as lacking in conscience as you, or as heedless of the consequences of the crimes you committed.
“I therefore direct that you be taken in custody, and at a date to be determined by the Zone Council you will be executed and your remains destroyed in accordance with the laws of Lennos.”
He was about to continue, but Hendry spoke first. “Hey, judge, no problem. I’ll be fine. The Baron needs men like me. Every leader needs men like me. See you round, your honour.”

The bailiff and two guards led Hendry in shackles from the courtroom down the long passage to the holding cells.
“It’s a shame the Imps don’t have a way to make it so you can be executed more than once,” the bailiff growled.
“Ain’t life cruel,” Hendry jeered, and grunted slightly as one of the guards struck him across the back with his shotgun.
“You won’t be so smart when they lock you in the death chamber!” the guard jeered.
The bailiff keyed in the access code to the cell block, and was about to step through when he froze in place with a muffled oath. Hendry looked past him to see, seemingly looming over the cringing warders, three figures in black carapace armour, casually cradling heavy assault carbines.
One of them raised a hand. “Yame!”
Hendry had never bothered much with languages – Anglaman had always served well enough – but he had picked up enough Tsauranian to recognise the command to halt.
And if a member of the Baron’s elite guard, the Takeoma Special Regiment, gave a command, you obeyed.
“What’s happening?” the bailiff asked cautiously.
The lead TSR trooper looked past him, at Hendry. His visor was opaque, so that even the eyes weren’t visible. “Coronel-sama!”
A man in blue coveralls stepped into view. He was of medium height and build, with regular and otherwise unremarkable features, but the patch over his left eye drew attention.
“I am Colonel Nicolae Carpathia,” the stranger said in heavily accented Anglaman. “That man will be released into my custody immediately.”

The bailiff seemed to shrink at Colonel Carpathia’s words. “Wh-what?”
“I believe I spoke clearly, Mr Thornton. But if I must – that man will be released into my custody. Here is my authorisation and official identity.”
Thornton fumbled for his scanner as Hendry smirked at his discomfort, and looked more carefully at Colonel Carpathia. The eyepatch was a giveaway – it marked those sworn to the service of the Asatru, the new State religion; specifically one of the aspects of Odin. There was some special reason why you had to lose an eye for that, but Hendry had never understood it properly.
Carpathia was fair-haired, and the eye remaining was pale blue. A large energy pistol was holstered on his right hip, and he wore what looked like a top-grade protus on his left wrist. His accent was distinctive, with a sonorous lilt that suggested Colos, or perhaps Hulugu; Imperial Houses notorious for heavy-handed brutality.  Hendry’s grin widened; if the Baron had men from those Houses in his service, the future looked promising.
Thornton was checking the scanner, and gave what sounded almost like a sob. “Authorisation confirmed. Check that, Zeb.”
The guard’s response was short and pungent.
“Your opinion is noted, Zeb.” said Carpathia drily. “But your work here is done. Remove the restraints at once.”
Muttering angrily, Zeb released the manacles from Hendry’s wrists and stepped back. “He’s all yours now, Mister.”
“Thank you for your cooperation.” Carpathia beckoned to the troopers. “Kare o-jisan.”
With Carpathia and the senior trooper leading and two following, Hendry walked from the Justice building with a broad grin of relief.
They emerged into a vehicle bay at the rear of the building, where a high-grade grav flitter van and a wheeled light troop carrier stood side by side, well apart from the assortment of police vehicles.
A man was standing by the flitter. He also carried a heavy assault rifle, though he was not wearing the TSR armour; his coveralls were red and black. He had a projectile pistol on each hip; large-framed types.
Carpathia gestured towards the troop carrier and said to the troopers, “Honbu ni modoru.”
“Hai, Coronel-sama!” the leader said, and the trio bowed to Carpathia before turning away.
The man by the flitter looked at Hendry with seeming disdain. He looked young, barely in his twenties, with brown hair and olive skin, and dark brown eyes that shone with amusement.
“Alik, take us to HQ. I wish to speak with our recruit.” Carpathia tapped his protus and the flitter’s passenger door slid open.
“Right away, boss,” Alik said.
Carpathia climbed into the roomy passenger space, settling into one corner as Alik kept Hendry covered with the rifle, and beckoned him to sit in the opposite corner.
Moments after the door closed, the windows suddenly went dark, and the flitter lifted off.
“For now, you don’t have to know where we’re going,” Carpathia said urbanely. “For now, let me review your record. When I read the details, I knew you were what we needed.”
A holo-display flashed into life above Carpathia’s protus.
“Born Cal, Zone 56, IY 470… extensive juvenile record, no surprises there, you should compare notes with Alik sometime. Joined the SDF mercenaries in 491, left the SDF mercenaries in 497, not by choice; made your way to Lennos and joined the Red Dog mercenary company, served until six months ago… then arrested for violations of Penal Code 121 – three counts, Code 194 and Code 206, one count of each. Not surprisingly, sentenced to death. According to your service record you are highly skilled in CQB and squad-level combat, but prone to poor behaviour control…”
Hendry shrugged. He had heard enough jargon in his time, and it only confirmed what he had always known; the eggheads had no idea.
“The rest is just padding.” Carpathia shut off the holo-display. “We’ll be at our destination within minutes. A quick check-up, and your service can begin. Welcome to your new life.”

Hendry stepped from the flitter into a starkly functional landing bay. Two other flitters were parked there in the shadow of what looked like a baseline model Trident hyper-shuttle. There was no-one else to be seen, and everything was quiet, almost hushed.
“Alik, take Mr Hendry to medical. Bring him to me when that’s complete. Strajă, grant Mr Hendry Status Tesuto pending further clearance.” With that, Carpathia opened strode from the landing bay.
Hendry shot a questioning look at Alik, who had slung his rifle. “Straya? Tesuto? What’s he talking about now?”
Alik, predictably, smirked. “You need to learn Tsauranian, sport, to get ahead in House Takeoma And maybe some Kapovian, just to humour Nicolae. Anyway, get going.”
Hendry searched his memory. Kapovian… oh right, that House that keeps getting its butt kicked by Devon but somehow never learns. Why is he in charge? 
The silence persisted as they made their way down corridors that were empty of people. On the walls were symbols of the Asatru faith and the deities themselves. Hendry looked them over, and asked, “Which of them is yours?”
“Skadhi, the Huntress,” Alik replied with more than a hint of satisfaction. “That’s enough for now. You may learn more. Depends.”
Hendry was puzzling over the images, and was about to ask more when Alik bade him halt and then ushered him into an obvious medical area.
All questions were forgotten when Hendry saw the young blonde woman in pale yellow coveralls standing by the autodoc. He had heard the stories about Chukami Takeoma’s Angels, but now he had proof…
“Well hello, gorgeous,” he said. “Hey, Alik, I may not be as healthy as I thought.”
“I’m Belinda Vandenberg.” She did not smile. The autodoc swung open. “Just lie down in there. I have to perform a full scan on all levels - infections, or contaminants, or signs of chronic injury.”
“Anything for you, babe.” Hendry lay down on the autodoc couch. “You’ll see that everything’s just perfect!”
I’ll make you smile somehow, he vowed as Belinda opened the console.
He lay in silence for a time as the autodoc cycled through the scanning process, regretting that Belinda stayed mostly out of his line of sight. Then he heard her say, “Physique acceptable. He’s all yours, Nicolae.” She added something under her breath.
Hendry felt a brief stinging in his upper arm, and he started to complain, but blackness engulfed him in mid-sentence.

The room was in shadow, and he was lying in the middle of it on a hard bed. He could not move. Restraints were gripping all his limbs and his torso.
It was an exercise, testing his willpower. Fine; he wouldn’t say a word. He was tough enough!
“Mr Hendry, it’s time you learned some things about the universe and your part in it.”
Carpathia was speaking almost casually over a PA system.
“The Project was set up to fight alien threats, and not like the Snee or the Yabob. These threats are not of this universe. They come from a realm that only folklore speaks of, but which can be all too real. The Werewolves of my ancestors, who founded House Kapov, are mere superstition, but now they are real.”
Hendry found his voice. “So you need me to help you fight… whatever it is. Okay, I understand that bit! You said I was just the kind you wanted!”
There was a slight chuckle. “I did not lie. You are a psychopathic criminal under sentence of death. You murdered a police officer in cold blood. You murdered two children. You committed a sexual assault with extreme violence. We don’t need you as a soldier.”
A panel slid open and a slender figure seemed to glide into the room; a man with pale skin, almost white. It moved slowly towards Hendry, its mouth seeming to gape open. Long teeth, like fangs, hung down from the upper jaw.
“We must know all the properties of those we fight, so as to be able to destroy them. That is what we need you for, my dear Hendry. Because Vampires, too, are real, and you are about to join them.”

[Yastreb]

The Elf and the Dragon

In battle I bestride a majestic steed
Wolves bred for war run at my side
A dozen staunch companions at my back
Into the thick of the fray we ride

Yet all is not war and bloodshed here
My soul can seek those softer ways
To lay down my sword and doff my mail
To savour the beauties of peaceful days

Sunlight flashes on broad and mighty wings
I look to the sky with awe-struck eyes
What creature is this that soars above
What beauty is held in those jewelled eyes?

Such power is this beyond mortal ken
Though an Elf lives long, we too pass away
Dragons live for aeons, ageless and wise
What can you see in this Elf's brief days?

Love twixt Elf and Dragon was a thing of myth
But now we together give this the lie
Let none besmirch this love sublime
To heaven and bliss let us both fly

And let our hearts be fairer jewels than would be seen in any king's crown or emperor's sceptre.

[Yastreb]

On another forum, a poster chose to start a writing thread, and offered this challenge: "A hole in a moccasin." So I offered this piece.

A HOLE IN A MOCCASIN

When I asked Sandy Dunning why his Lockheed Hudson was called Moccasin, he just grinned and tapped his nose. It was Jeff Wilson who explained it in the end.
“He worked in Boots the chemist before the war, old boy.”
Laugh? I nearly started.

There were four of us in Hudson 40-29587 Moccasin – Pilot Officer Matthew “Sandy” Dunning (pilot), Flight Sergeants Jeff Wilson and Carl Peterson (co-pilot and navigator), and me, Leading Aircraftsman Roscoe White, inevitably dubbed “Blanco,” as air-gunner, the lone Aussie with the three Poms. But we were a good crew, mates all, which was good to be when you’re cooped up in a small aircraft for hours on end on anti-submarine patrol. Sandy, Jeff and Carl were grouped up front, leaving me in the turret stuck near the tail, in Botany Bay, as Sandy called it. They watched the sea, looking for U-boats; I was the one watching the sky, looking for German intruders such as their Fw-200 Condors.
It was 1630 on 12 August 1941, our fifteenth patrol mission, and the news hadn’t been good. The Germans were seemingly crushing Russian armies wherever they went and the Desert War was going badly for us. But we stuck at it; what else could we do?
We’d been airborne five hours, and starting our home leg after yet another flight with nothing to report, when I started another rotation of the turret and stopped dead when I saw the shape ahead of us, black against a cloud bank.
“Skipper, ten o’clock low, Condor!”
“Roger that!” Sandy sounded pleased, though the intercom wasn’t exactly clear. “He’s heading home too.”
“Doesn’t look like he’s seen us,” said Jeff.
I glanced back. “We’re in the sun.”
There was a moment’s silence before Sandy said, “We’re going to take that bastard down. Blanco, I’m giving you the chance, dive on him, break right, you just rake him, tail to nose.”
“I’m ready, Skipper.”
I swung the turret to face portside, and took a deep breath. This was action at last.
The Condors were a menace. They spotted convoys for U-boats, and bombed ships when they could. For us in Coastal Command, they were the enemy as much as the U-boats. But in taking one on, we were going up against an aircraft twice our size, four engines to our two, nearly as fast, and probably better armed. We'd have only had one pass to make good.
Sandy opened the throttles and the engines roared as we began our dive. I wasn’t watching the Condor as we closed; I was looking along the barrels of the twin Browning machine-guns that were the reason I was in that turret, waiting for the moment when the Condor would be in my sights.
To my surprise, Sandy didn’t use the forward guns. He was leaving the job to me.
Moccasin broke right, perfectly judged, and I saw the swastika on the Condor’s tall tail fin, a white outline against dark green, and I squeezed the triggers in short bursts, aiming just forward of the tail, swinging the turret slowly to do as Sandy had said; rake the Condor tail to nose.
I saw the bright flashes as bullets struck, and fragments were tearing off, dropping away like leaves. It lurched to port, and there was a sudden glare from its inner starboard engine, and flame blossomed from the wing, streaming like a comet’s tail as the port wing dropped and the Condor nosed down steeply.
Suddenly there was a loud bang, and a thump, and I realised that something had hit me in the inner thigh, just as Jeff cried out, “He’s done for! Good shooting!” and we banked left, circling down as the Condor plunged towards the ocean below.
“One chute out... two... three...” Jeff intoned. “That’s it.”
“Call it in, Skipper?” Carl queried.
“Certainly!” Sandy replied cheerfully. “Great work, Blanco!”
“Uh, Skipper? I think they hit me.”

One of the Condor’s gunners had got off a last burst, probably from one of their beam guns, and a single bullet had struck just below the turret mount and nicked my inner thigh; enough to draw quite a bit of blood, and close enough to have been, as Jeff put it, The Unkindest Cut Of All.
Laugh? We all did... well, I did join in, eventually.
But in the end, we’d done our bit, shot down an enemy aircraft, and leaving aside my slight wound, the only damage to our side was a hole in the Moccasin.

[Yastreb]

And now, some more doggerel induced by casual comments on Skype. I make no apologies.

Once again chatting on Skype with my friend Mr B
And I told him of something that on YouTube I did see
(Or rather hear, but that's not the point
Lest in making that quibble I should put his nose out of joint)
In I’m Sorry I Don't Have A Clue the presenter did mention
"Getting on like a horse on fire" - whatever was his intention
Mr B, sadly, the joke did not get
He deadpanned me, which I was sure he would soon regret
So I reminded him, "Remember, in gambling, the horse always wins!"
But that prompted a charge of making platitudes and banalities and other flagrant sins
And then he said that the horse always wins, which was a foolish things to say
The question is which one to bet on that day
Then I challenged him with "What about greyhound races?" And I'm sure he had turned pallid
As I went on, unstoppable, "Horses can't win greyhound races! Your argument is invalid!"

[LooNEY_DAC]

* LooNEY_DAC crawls out from under his rock

So, I updated this to reflect the feedback which I've received; hopefully, the addition serves its intended purpose.
Also, I put this up for you to ignore.

* LooNEY_DAC hides back under the rock again

[thegreyarea]

* LooNEY_DAC crawls out from under his rock

So, I updated this to reflect the feedback which I've received; hopefully, the addition serves its intended purpose.
Also, I put this up for you to ignore.

* LooNEY_DAC hides back under the rock again

*Lifts rock where LooNEY_DAC hides*

So. you got me hooked on this. I still didn't have time to read it all carefully, but I promise that I'll do it. So far it looks amazing.
And I envy you (in a good, positive way).

*Lowers rock*

[Róisín]

Perhaps you could find a more comfortable rock? This is very fine. And has a nice mythic tone.

[Róisín]

I like Gellert’s work. But I also remember that you are still learning tonavigate the Forum. The Scriptorium is for your own writing. There is a thread called something like ‘Favourite Poems’ for other people’s work which you like. I will try to work out where it is and tell you.

Edit: it is presently near the bottom of page 4 of this this board, called ‘Share Your Favourite Poems’, started by Laufey.

[Yastreb]

Róisín: thanx for the tip. I put the poems in a new thread - the one you mentioned hasn't been updated for more than two years, and didn't react well to my trying to post in it.

[Róisín]

No problem mate. But I am not by any means expert at navigating the Forum - perhaps the Forum skalds could help?

[Keep Looking]

I wrote a poem based on 1. my first (very minor, thankfully) car accident, today, and 2. the somewhat surreal experience of watching huge chunks of the world fall apart and being very, very far away from it all.

...

on living in one of the world's most isolated cities, 2020.

there are benefits to our isolation. it is only when the world starts to crumble that the endless sky that surrounds us becomes not a cage but a shield; the water’s expanse a fortress, a wall behind which we can hide. the world comes to a standstill - but here, in this little corner of nowhere, the clock starts to creep forward. we piece our lives back together as the rest of the world falls apart.

across the oceans masks are donned, as death’s bells toll and the swallows take their flight. fear is a creeping infection that spreads through the city streets, bearing its cloak of silence and its sword of misplaced words. windows are sealed with rumours and supermarket shelves run dry. but here, in this little corner of nowhere, our tight-shut doors start to open.

on the other side of our tiny globe, an innocent man cannot breathe. the streets are a torrent of voices as black lives stain blue jackets red. but here, in this little corner of nowhere, i forget how to turn the car left. panicked, i back into another man’s car, crying over insurance and a dented numberplate. trivial, really, when elsewhere in the world, blood is still spilled into soil.

innocent blood runs in our soil too, though we like to think that we’re better. our past is a stain that we’d like to forget, a stain that still colours our future. but at least the stolen streets are quiet here, in this little corner of nowhere. And as the rest of the world falls apart at the seams, we watch and we wait, in this fortress of our own isolation.

[RanVor]

I wrote a poem based on 1. my first (very minor, thankfully) car accident, today, and 2. the somewhat surreal experience of watching huge chunks of the world fall apart and being very, very far away from it all.

...

on living in one of the world's most isolated cities, 2020.

there are benefits to our isolation. it is only when the world starts to crumble that the endless sky that surrounds us becomes not a cage but a shield; the water’s expanse a fortress, a wall behind which we can hide. the world comes to a standstill - but here, in this little corner of nowhere, the clock starts to creep forward. we piece our lives back together as the rest of the world falls apart.

across the oceans masks are donned, as death’s bells toll and the swallows take their flight. fear is a creeping infection that spreads through the city streets, bearing its cloak of silence and its sword of misplaced words. windows are sealed with rumours and supermarket shelves run dry. but here, in this little corner of nowhere, our tight-shut doors start to open.

on the other side of our tiny globe, an innocent man cannot breathe. the streets are a torrent of voices as black lives stain blue jackets red. but here, in this little corner of nowhere, i forget how to turn the car left. panicked, i back into another man’s car, crying over insurance and a dented numberplate. trivial, really, when elsewhere in the world, blood is still spilled into soil.

innocent blood runs in our soil too, though we like to think that we’re better. our past is a stain that we’d like to forget, a stain that still colours our future. but at least the stolen streets are quiet here, in this little corner of nowhere. And as the rest of the world falls apart at the seams, we watch and we wait, in this fortress of our own isolation.

I have only one question: why on Earth is this not in the comments where I can properly upvote it as is deserved!?