Taijitu World Building > Modern Era Fiction

The Megatridimensional Order International Economic Summit (1983)

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bigbaldben:
Standing to the side of the window, watching the merciless morning light greedily devour the darkness, Octavius Silvercrone could not help but compare it to current events.   Yes, the darkness still had control of his republic, but it was fading fast.   He stroked at his thick black moustache absentmindedly.

“The sun always rises,” he said softly, then turned and left the room.  The two men from his security detail outside his door fell into step as he turned down the Minax Hotel hallway, leaving behind the safety of his suite.  His new suit had already begun to chafe.  He reached up to adjust his tie as he walked, but thought better of it.

“These are the best tailors in the country,” her voice chastised him in his mind.  “They know how to make you presentable.  Let them do their jobs!”  He smiled slightly and opened the doors to the conference room.

His three advisors were already in animated discussion, and he could feel the tension in the air.

“Good morning,” he said, taking his place at the head of the table.  The discussion died down as they each realized he had entered the room.

“Good morning, Prime Minister.”

“Status report?” he asked, pointing dispassionately at D’lia Terkuller.  He had already developed an affection for his new lead domestic advisor.  She was fiery, young and fiercely loyal, and she had time for little else.  As usual, she went straight to the point.

“Sir, citizens have already packed the airport to get a glimpse of the delegates.  Many camped out overnight in the terminals.”

“Security?” Silvercrone asked, and all heads turned towards Amaxia Ghent.  The light reflected from the gems on her necklace, taking the focus from her rather drab business suite.  She leaned her forward slightly, a few strands of gray hair fell across her forehead.

“Completely in control, sir.  We estimated a security force for high numbers and, as requested, doubled it.  In spite of the crowds, we have the entire airport on lockdown.  Order Guards, both uniformed and not, are already in place both here at the Minax and at the Frostoria.”  She met Silvercrone’s gaze, but faltered when he said nothing.  “There will be no incidents,” she insisted.

Silvercrone remained silent, but dipped his head in approval.

“Transportation and accommodations?” he asked, as he finally looked away from Ghent to Braise Thafter, Megatrine’s first foreign ambassador in nearly twenty years.

“One hitch with the Frostoria claiming additional ‘unforseen’ expenses due to security, attempting to weasel another few thousand trios from us at the last minute.  It’s resolved.”

“We didn’t accede, I hope,” said Terkuller.

“Of course not.  I told them we would gladly double the number of Order Guards at the hotel, and they nearly broke their ankles backing down.”  Thafter chuckled.

“I sent additional Order Guards anyway,” said Ghent, lighting up a cigarette.

Terkuller groaned.  “Seriously?” she said.  “I think they could be better utilized elsewhere than intimidating hotel staff.”

“While I appreciate your input, D’lia, it is nonetheless irrelevant,” Ghent replied.

Letting out a huff, Terkuller appealed to Silvercrone with her hands out.  Silvercrone said nothing, and he let a long uncomfortable silence fill the room.

“Were the additional Guards you sent uniformed?”

“Of course, sir, we….”

“Keep them there, Ms. Ghent,” he interrupted, leaning forward.  “But get them out of uniform.  The presence of uniformed Order Guards was, may I remind you, carefully calculated to make our guests feel secure…” He paused.  “Not intimidated.”  Ghent went pale and quickly crushed her cigarette.

“Yes sir.  I’m sorry sir.” She shot up out of her seat, knocking her notebook off of the table.  She collected herself and mustered as much dignity as she could, grabbed the notebook from the floor and excused herself.

“Just one more minute, Ms. Ghent.”  Silvercrone motioned to her seat and she sat down delicately. She shot an unpleasant look at Terkuller, who ignored her completely.

“Anything else?” Silvercrone asked the group.

“Watkins was on Spire-TV already this morning, decrying the Economic Summit and calling for a last minute repeal of the invitations,” said Terkuller. 

Thafter scratched the bald spot in the back of his head and cleared his throat.  “My guys have already put in a call to Spire expressing our dissatisfaction.”

“Typical swamper,” said Silvercrone.  “He has no idea when he’s beaten.”

Silvercrone stood quickly and the advisors followed suit.

“I don’t have to remind you what is at stake here.  Impress this on your staff yet another time.  Things will not go as expected, but in our reactions to them we need to be decisive and flawless.  Semper tres.”

“Semper tres,” they said as Silvercrone walked out the door.

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

The limo moved quickly, but the ride was smooth.  There was an escort of flashing lights parting the Saturday morning crowd.  In the back, Thafter looked in the mirror and sighed.  His blonde hair was thinning, he had put on weight, and the early morning creases on his face no longer faded with the day.  But, dammit, he had worked his ass off the last ten years to get here, and there was no way he was going to undergo a confidence crisis on the most important day in his career – one of the most important days in the history of the country.

He lit up a cigarette, leaned back in the seat and looked out the window.  The sun glimmered off the Great Southern Ocean as they sped along the Coastal Highway.  The ocean disappeared as the buildings of the commercial district became more and more prominent.

Thafter sighed.  He was glad that they had decided to hold the summit in Nirvana, instead of at the capital.  It was a rare decision where the advisors had stuck to their guns and Silvercrone actually conceded.  The Prime Minister had wanted the summit to be held in the capital of Tabula Rasa.

“One of the main goals of this summit is to begin to mend relations,” Silvercrone had said.  “I don’t want to sweep the past under a rug – I want it out front and dealt with.”

Tabula Rasa was historic and grand, to be sure, and was a monument to all Megatrine history.  But parts were still in disrepair from the war, and the rest of the city was monument to ALL Megatrine history, the good and the bad.
 
“And the delegates,” said Thafter, “surely do not need a blatant reminder of the bad.  Nirvana is modern, yes, but also our largest city, our cleanest city, and the only city large enough to host this event that is untouched by war.”

Silvercrone was finally swayed when Terkuller pointed out it may be considered insulting to the delegates to not put their best foot forward, and Tabula Rasa was not Megatrine’s best foot.

The limo slowed as the convoy entered the city proper and edged through the traffic lights.  One of the intersections was, to Thafter’s irritation, in the midst of repair.  Construction equipment was parked neatly off to the side, and a solid fence bordered the street, but it was there nonetheless.  An administrative oversight that punctuated what was otherwise a perfect path from the airport to the hotels.  Thafter took a long draw on his cigarette and exhaled slowly.  Well, if that is the worst thing to happen today, we will be lucky.

They passed the gleaming steel and glass skyscrapers, the dramatic open spaces of the modern gardens, and the structural magnificence of the Ziggurat.  Finally, the Grun International Airport came into focus.

Thafter smiled wryly at the sign.  The Airport hadn’t been “international” for seventeen years and the Foreign Cleanse of ’66.  And in ’66, the airport was new, but modest.  The terminal came into view and the limo pulled up to the curb behind uncountable number of other chauffeured cars, one for each of the delegates.  Thafter snuffed out his cigarette, gathered himself and exited the vehicle. 

His security detail made their way through the crowds with Thafter in tow.  He straightened himself and brushed some invisible speck from his jacket as they exited the public area.  Through the window, he saw the first plane pulling up to the private gate.

Here goes … everything.

Khem:
  Grohk cracked his neck and felt the pressure that had been built up in his sinus cavity for the past four hours. Flying was the worst invention Grohk could imagine. Sure you had international trade brought to its modern rapid pace but was it really worth being launched in a tin can through the air? It certainly didn't appear to him worth the pain shooting through his back as he stretched. He wore the traditional aurulent raiment as Tsa'gum of the Holy Isles with soft Gahk'ell leather boots. The honeyed tones of his robes clashed with the silvery grey of his eyes and the deep mahogany of his skin. Stepping onto the tarmac Grohk pulled forth a hand made cigar from the pack his wives had prepared for him. Lighting it quickly he took a long drag, slowly exhaling nebulous trails of smoke. Looking around he was unimpressed, even the Funkadelian airport in Atwali was a modern marvel by comparison.

  "Looks like this is going to be a rather long day..." he commented to Ta shining brightly above the skies of Nirvana.

  A retinue of Scribes and Mundaskawanen followed behind Grohk as he made his way swiftly to meet with the other delegates, his Da'kavo heritage plain to see in the length of his stride if not obvious from his immense size. He felt the Mundaskawanen an unnecessary precaution as this time capsule nation felt about as threatening as an otter pup in a warm bath.

Bustos:
The door of the G5 corporate plane opened downward, revealing steps on its interior.  An extended stairway slid down to reach the tarmac.  The megacorporation's logo of the golden lion laid on the tail of the red luxury plane.  Out stepped four typical nameless men in black suits, surveying the landscape as they reached the tarmac.  One spoke into his wrist.

A Hemlander appeared at the opening, also dressed in a black suit, but it looked sharper and clearly tailored for the Lycan.  Her black fur, trimmed short enough to reveal a scar that etched the side of her right face, from the temple down to just below her jaw.  A slight hint of white fur in her cheeks displayed her experience.  She then stepped back, slightly fading into the darkness of the plane.

Duke Valerio Alosiso, the First, of the Bustos, Governor of Valorium, Chairperson of the Allied States of Bustos, appeared at the door, in front of his personal bodyguard, Babushka.  The youngest Chairperson in its history, at 24 years of age, had just assumed his position only a few months ago.  He was very aware of his Board of Directors doubts of his grandfather's choice to retire and pass him control of the company.  The Duke looked at this summit as a chance to show his worth and create the next most profitable foreign venture since Dalarian.

He stepped down to the tarmac, followed by Babushka, a few other executives and assistants and four more nameless men in black.

Erno:
"Hope it's not against etiquette or anything to take off the coat, it's way too warm outside for me to keep it" - said Kenuje Hareli to his translator, as a moderately aged, but still working, four-engine turboprop was about to bounce, stick back to the ground, and stop in the airport. He caught a glimpse of a few more jets already parked outside - too bad they flew past too fast. Binoculars got moved - just if he can try and look through them - from briefcase to the coat pocket, Kenuje's guard helped some of the other official passengers, that would be going further North later, to relocate bags that got shaken up by turbulence on the way, and plane turned its shiny, polished metal side to the terminal building. Pilots, as their tradition demanded, slided open windows, and stuck Dalari and Megatrine flags outside to let them ripple on the wind. That is when everyone realised, that there were no bystanders on the tarmac, or by the gates of the airport. They were usually the ones this little show was put up for - well, them, and newspapers, that liked using such shots.

"Well, at least that could mean that there is no press inside. Less work for me!" - said Lesije, diplomat's guard, and got a slightly puzzled look back from most of passengers. Barely anyone, even in the Foreign Relations' ministry, knew of how well-built was the trio, soon to celebrate 11 years of working together. Soon after the craft stopped, staircase got rolled up to the open front door, and they swiftly got down to the solid ground. Kenuje thought of taking better look at other planes - alas, the stern look on most of the guards in the area made him decide against. "We'll see soon enough who is there, anyways" - he said to himself, while going through the passport check inside a building. It looked weirdly like an old T3 of Vade Central, but with moderately better signs - good enough to see the path the trio will be taking to the meeting point in advance.

Myroria:
Gilas Quarrovth looked out the window of his business jet, decked out in Foreign Office livery, and saw waves of heat rising from the black asphault. Unbuckling his seatbelt as the jet lurched to a stop, he stood up and removed his blazer and tie. A casual way to introduce himself as a member of a foreign nation's state department, sure, but in the year since the Cefnor Conference he felt like a rising star in the Foreign Office.

He coughed when the co-pilot opened the main door and the heat from outside invaded the cabin. He reached back inside his blazer, strewn upon the seat, and grabbed his inhaler. He took a quick puff and placed it in his shirt's breast pocket.

"Can I get that for you?" came a voice from behind him. He turned and saw Sondas Hlaretrovth, his aide. He must have slipped into the bathroom as the plane was landing and just come out.

"Uh, yes please." Gilas said, motioning for his blazer. Gilas walked to the front of the plane. "You'll be a second set of eyes and ears for me during this conference, Sondas," he said as he strode down the central aisle.

"Yes, sera."

Gilas put his sunglasses on as he stepped into the light and near the staircase rolled up to the airplane door. More confident since his last conference, but no less asthmatic, he took his inhaler from his breast pocket and took another puff.

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