Brievitous Briefings

[Marcus O'Terra]

FCPO- Sihnon Office
September 20, 2517 – Sihnon
8:43 A.M Local Time


Marcus walked through the throng of Sihnon's gleaming city with a neutral face. Sometimes the core bother him, that all this flash and abundance was so concentrated, yet people only just got by on the border, and barely so on the rim.

But that was not for today. Today he was going to meet this organizer: Alone.

He'd specifically told the crew to remain aboard the vessel, after congratulating Lulah on her navigation. A day ahead of standard was money in the ship's funds, and a day ahead of peril.

Hopefully. He exhaled as he came up to the building.

The building looked like it did on the cortex image, less polish and shine then other government buildings, a bit of digging showed they weren't quite as funded.

This gave Marcus a good feeling, perhaps the Feds working here would be a bit more practical than the ones he'd been used to. Maybe.

He walked in and was briefly checked over for weapons. He'd decided to leave his side arm on the ship as a sign of good faith, but he'd brought his stun gun, just incase.

It was checked in at the security; he doubted he'd need it. Then he was directed, as he expected, to the top floor. Nobody stopped him as he progressed to the "Head Organizer's" office; he felt like he was being watched though, the same way he did whenever he was on a core world.

He'd opted for a more conservative look. Black work jacket, Dark grey button up and slacks. There was a time for 'Browncoat pride' and this wasn't it. He knocked on the door twice before opening it and looking inside.

"Mr. Scott?" He hoped the man was in.

[Head Organizer Scott]

Alan gave a sigh as he went through smart paper after smart paper. His desk was a clutter with sheets of paper with moving words all over them, and others that were just stacks of plain paper. There was a lot to go through that day, but he didn’t have a terrible problem with it. It was his life, and had been for many years, and with any luck, it would be for many years to come. He’d sign off on a document, then put the information in a log that was on it in a terminal that was at the center of his desk.

The room itself was not the most inviting of structures that could be found on the Central Planets. There was a single window that stretched along the wall, but it was darkened so that no one could even see what was outside. This didn’t take away from the view much since all that could be seen were the taller buildings that were around theirs, and the street. It would have been more inviting to have a static filled screen put in showing the view of a fountain, but that didn’t matter. It was a dreary, yet efficient, work environment and Alan lived with it.

The door opened up, and Alan looked up with an inquisitive look on his face. He didn’t know who would be coming to see him. He thought it might be one of the clerks with more things for him to sign off on. Fortunately it was not. Instead there was a scruffy haired man in front of him wearing rather plain looking clothing, that didn’t show he was poor, but didn’t show he was rich. Alan knew who this was, and gave a light smile.

”Mr. O’Terra…” He shook his head. ”…Captain… sorry.” Alan corrected. ”Please have a seat.” He offered. The chairs in front of him were metallic, but had a bit of padding on them so they weren’t terribly uncomfortable. ”Gotta say, when you told me you were getting here today I was surprised. Most spacers don’t show up for a full two weeks.” He began to move some of the papers he had to the side to clear some room on the desk.

[Marcus O'Terra]

Marcus recognized the man surrounded by paperwork: Alan Scott. Lovely so it all matched up then. The odds walking into two traps in a row was slim, but Marcus was grateful. The room was dim, grim, and all business. The man didn't live here and the whole room felt a little hostile to Marcus. He realized in a second why.

The room is a cage. The metaphorics of it didn't matter. Marcus knew he'd stepped into a cage. Now if it held a dangerous beast or some timid prize; the conversation would tell.

The man addressed him and Marcus nodded. "It's no trouble, ah, Head Organizer? or just Mr. Scott?" Marcus showed a little balance, not sure how to address the man. He sat down, the seats weren't back breaking but Marcus didn't want to spend any more time here than he had to.

The place was smartly designed. Get your work done, get out; it'd make overtime a soft punishment for the upstarts and slackers. Scott remarked on the time he made and Marcus put on a modest smile.

"With the right crew and equipment, a job gets done right and quickly." A little bit of professionalism. "Now then, what is it that I can do for you?" He kept his hands folded respectfully, sitting straight.

[Head Organizer Scott]

After having cleared room on his desk, Alan looked back over at Marcus. He took the moment stretch his back. He hadn’t been working for longer then an hour, but his body was already moving towards the locked up stance that it held when he was working for a long time. ”Mr. Scott’s fine.” He answered. Head Organizer was a long and somewhat useless title. It held almost no weight to anyone that wasn’t a part of the FCPO, and even then people just referred to him by his name. It only showed that he was a hard worker, but he didn’t feel an overwhelming sense of pride when it came to achieving it.

Alan didn’t have any awards or things scattered around his office, even though he did have some. He had enough fear about being shut down and didn’t want to have to take them all down. The office was already uninviting, and a few placards and plates weren’t going to change that. So he left the walls empty and just kept to his work.

”Working well means working cheap.” Alan responded to Marcus point. ”A lesson our organization has become far too familiar with.” Alan said in a tired tone. It was more true then he could possibly convey with a single sentence, but he refrained from getting into detail about it.

”Right.” Alan spoke, realizing that they had to get to the point. ”Uh, do you even…” He started scooting back a bit in his chair. ”…know what we do here?” He then got a reassuring smile on his face ”It’s ok if you don’t, really I’d be surprised if you did.” He wasn’t referring to the fact that this obvious traveler from beyond the Core was too low class to understand, but was truly asking because even most in the Government had no idea what the Federal Cultural Preservation Organization was leaching off the budget for.

[Marcus O'Terra]

Marcus saw the man stretch, and the bleak cage felt more oppressive for it. Even the resident wasn't comfortable. But who is comfy in a cage? He wondered. The line of thought dimmed as Mr Scott responded to Marcus's little quip.

The money maker in him realized this meant his pay wouldn't likely be garnished with any fantastic government slush money. Not that he expected that to begin with. But the possibility was out now.

When Marcus felt them moving back to the point he felt a little embarassed, but a few things clicked. He knew this place was about cultural preservation so...

"Well I got introduced for this recovering an old Earth-that-was gun. So... picking up lost and important 'antiques' and removing it from either the dust or whoever found it first?" It was a shot in the dark, but he hoped it was a broad enough guess to get by.

[Head Organizer Scott]

A humorously confused look came over Alan’s face. He gave it a one in a thousand shot that the man would even get the answer right, but Alan hadn’t even imagined that such an answer would be on the potential list of answers to be given. ”Ha.” He chuckled lightly. ”Uh, no, we don’t deal in ancient artifacts” Alan gave emphasis to the artifact portion, suggesting that at least one of the words that had been spoken was correct.

He patted his hand on his desk and continued. ”What we do, is deal with archaic fringe cultures.” Alan explained. ”… Hence the Federal Cultural Preservation Organization.” He knew that the word ‘cultural’ could pertain to a great many things, but that’s he was explaining.

”What the FCPO’s job is, is to make sure the human culture is protected, and preserved.” He paused. ”All human cultures.” Alan noticed a paper sticking out loose from one of the stack and moved it back in, just because he liked having the stacks organized. ”For the most part that’s not a problem for the big groups that made the exodus. Pretty much the dominant culture of any thing that was a country back five hundred years ago has managed to find a way to keep hold.”

As Alan explained, he recognized the irony. He wasn’t same great student of history and cultures. He was really just an administrator in a government funded organization, and all he knew about the cultures they handled was just because it was part of his job. ”The problem is that a lot of smaller groups came through. Tiny little groups that had strips of land maybe ten miles square, or just a spec of dust island.” He leaned back in his chair. ”And it’s our job to make sure that about six hundred million individual cultures have their own place here in the verse’, and are as far away from extinction as possible.” He was of course exaggerating, but with how many they had to handle, it might as well have been that many.

He looked at the man, sizing him up a bit. Just looking at where he’d come from, and not really knowing anything else about him, Alan decided to ask. ”Did you fight in the war?” Alan didn’t really care which side, though he was curious as to where he was during, but he just wondered if he was dealing the soldiering type.

[Marcus O'Terra]

Marcus shrugged when his guess was as far off the mark as he could venture. It was a shot, if nothing else. Though the whole explanation got Marcus well interested. He really didn't understand what the man was getting at. But he decided to listen more intently.

From the gist of it, he was talking about minority nationalities who waned rather than waxed during the exodus, and their 'diversity' was to be preserved. He wasn't quite sure why though. Then again, the government looking after fringe groups struck against alot of what the propaganda machine had spouted out during the war.

So his thoughts were on the war when the man asked that penultimate damming question. Marcus simply nodded and said. "I did." Leaving it there.

[Head Organizer Scott]

The answer to his question was very short, which wasn’t a problem. Alan still wondered which side but wasn’t particularly concerned. He himself had not actually participated at all. He’d been sitting in the same chair during the war that he was right at that moment throughout most of it, and before that he’d been a few floors down. Like many on the Central Planets, the only reason he knew a war was going on was the news and the fact that some people had left work to go fight it.

Alan had not been so patriotically motivated, and he’d been a bit older then the draft call. Even if his name had been called, he’d probably be able to get a waver because he was Federal employee. In general politics didn’t matter to him. He was just concerned about getting the job done, and getting through as many papers in a day as he could. It was his lot in life, and it allowed him to live comfortably.

”Well that’s good.” Alan said. ”Makes me feel better then just the recommendation.” He mentioned, explaining his own peace of mind that was brought about as a result of it.

”The reason we need your help is that one of these tiny cultures of people is in some serious trouble.” Alan began to get to the point. ”The…” Alan grabbed a smart paper, which had the information he was looking for. ”Dolgans, for the most part all assimilated into the more general societies… but.” Alan said, almost looking like a headache was forming in his mind. ”A certain group of them wanted to maintain a more traditional way of living.”

He looked over the smart paper in front of him again and continued. ”We set them up on Muir in a climate that was very similar to what they’d come from. And they live out there in isolation by themselves.” Alan then leaned back in his chair, now that the information had been refreshed in his mind. ”The problem is a set of slavers has come into the area.” Alan mentioned, which in a nut shell showed the antagonist of the venture he wanted Marcus and his people for.

[Marcus O'Terra]

Marcus listened to the man explain he started to respect the man a bit more. If the feds were willing to give folks a chance to be themselves. Then again this was back during the exodus era, before the war and unification and all that.

So it was a different time, but it seemed this arm of the big bad government was honoring the promises of the old. Muir, he remembered was Blue Sun System in the rim, near Highgate, and from what he remembered some of the rougher edges of the Verse.

There was a nagging at his head but when slavers came to mind his sense of vendetta rose and he was already set on the job. Still, some propriety had to be established.

"Any ID on the slavers? Witnesses to the attacks?" Any information they had would be brilliant. "Also, anything I should know about the Dolgans?" It would help if he had a brief of what he was getting into, or at least know how to help. "If their preserving their old culture, I don't want to tread on any customs trying to help them." Really he was worried that if he caused to much harm stopping the slavers it might get back to Scott and the crew wouldn't get paid.

[Head Organizer Scott]

When Marcus suddenly started opening up with a battery of questions, Alan was a bit unsure how to go about them. He wasn’t used to being hit with so many. But then he thought about them being asked, and he took it as a good sign. If he’s asking these questions, He thought Then he must be experienced and see them as important. Really Alan wasn’t very familiar with dealing with rim world gun slinger types, but it was nice to know that he’d found one that knew what he was doing, rather then some drunken piece of trash that they were all typically viewed as.

”No idea who the slavers are… just… slavers. We have a cultural expert out there with them. They make sure they’re maintaining a sustainable way of life, and that there isn’t anything really bad going on... like cannibalism and sacrifice.” Alan had had to deal with things like that before, and it was a real mess. Fortunately this group of people weren’t that sort of culture. ”They were the ones that made the call, and just said they were in an imminent need of help.”

Alan got then to the portion about the culture itself. ”The Dolgans themselves are a… funny group of people.” He started trying to find the best way to explain it. ”They live in freezing temperatures year round and they… herd reindeer.” Alan laughed. ”It’s like Santa’s village meets the Zulu’s out there…” Alan had gotten a grasp of a certain amount of diverse cultures of the verse’ just doing his job, but he didn’t know nearly as much as many of the other people with the FCPO, most certainly not the field workers.

”I don’t really know much more then that and I don’t have all that much time to talk about it.” Alan admitted. ”The field expert can tell you all you need to know though when you get there. They did mention that you’ll have to land, and keep your ship in town away from the Dolgan people though. Apparently it spooks the reindeer… other then that they’re fairly easy going people.” Alan concluded. That was all he knew, but Marcus could probably get what he needed from the cortex.

[Marcus O'Terra]

Marcus nodded at the man's response, if the slavers didn't leave survivors or moved at night any sort of identification wouldn't be plausible. Most people would be running, or maybe fighting back. Either way not in a position to be getting information, or being alive to give it.

Scott mentioned a cultural expert and he relaxed his shoulders. If an expert was there any risky taboos might be avoided. Yay. The prospect of leaving the ship away from town though. That irked him.


Scott explained the basics and it got a little smile on his face. reindeer. Actual Reindeer. The little kid that was in him let out a tiny shout of assent. But it was muffled behind all the other thoughts in him. All Marcus felt was a warm throb in his chest, like a good memory he couldn't quite recall.

"Are all engine transports off limits? Like hover mules and the like?" He waved his hand. "I'll ask the expert when I get there. On that note, who is the expert?" He should like to know the name before he set out.

[Head Organizer Scott]

Alan was glad that Marcus had waved his question. He had no real idea of what the exact procedures were around the people. He knew though that if the Dolgans saw a hover vehicle that they wouldn’t likely start panicking and trying to spear the craft. Still he didn’t know if it would bother them as a whole. But the second question he could answer.

”The expert.” Alan echoed looking forward onto his papers. He found the one which had requested the assistance, and was inevitably going to be the appropriation of funds to pay for it. ”Joel Winstead.” Alan read aloud when he found the name. There was no other information about him listed there and so he looked back up.

”I don’t really know him personally. I just know he’s been living with the Dolgans for about two years, and hasn’t requested a vacation at all in that time.” Alan’s mind began to fill in the blanks as to why. ”I imagine he’s one of those types that’s so caught up with living with these kinds of people he’s probably been made a member of the tribe, and doesn’t want to leave.” Alan’s face dropped a little. ”Which is good and bad. Good since we’ve always got someone keeping and eye on them, and bad because virtually all the money for aid to these people goes directly to his salary.”

When Alan mentioned his salary, he immediately wondered what the man did with the money. He knew it all went to his account, but he had no idea what a man who lived with that sort of society would do with it. ”But that’s about all I can tell you about all of what your doing.” Alan concluded. ”I’ll send Joel your listing information, and he’ll probably contact you on the way there.” Alan wasn’t sure exactly how that process would work, but at least he was able to stay in contact with the field expert at all times.

[Marcus O'Terra]

Things seemed to be wrapping up, as far as Marcus was concerned, and shifted in his chair accordingly. He leaned forward a bit and kept his buisness face on.

"So to be clear. My job is to head out there, make contact with the expert, and render whatever assistance necessary to help the locals."

It was very plausible they might move them to a more isolated part of the world, somewhere even slavers would have a hard time reaching. He wasn't familiar with the planet, so he didn't know what to expect in terms of topography. He imaged in must be like St Albans, all snow and mountains in most of it.

He certainly had room to ferry a whole herd of reindeer, as long as they packed in as tight as cows. The antlers might be a problem though. Did they fall off or get clipped if they got to big? Marcus didn't know but he'd read up on em. There was the good chance a bunch of them in a tight place would be a bad scene, but if their handlers were with them... it'd be a very stressful time.

Marcus waited to see if Scott had anything to add. Probably not. "Oh." He realized. "What's the estimate on this job, should we deal with these slavers before too much damage is done?"

That must have been what was nagging at him: the Pay. What else could it have been. Bit short sighted of Marcus to forget that, but he'd caught it.

[Head Organizer Scott]

”Pretty much.” Alan answered when Marcus ran down the job details That was about all he knew. He guessed that if they were calling in a person that was supposedly handy with a gun, they probably had intention on having them use it. Fortunately this wasn’t necessarily illegal since he could write off Marcus and his group as a private security detail, which was fine. The problem was that they weren’t registered or anything of the sort, but Alan knew enough about the bureaucracy that he could hide that.

He really didn’t know for absolute certain how they were going to handle this. He could only assume that they were either supposed to guard the herd, or maybe go out after the slavers. But he could only speculate. This place was so far away from Alan’s world, it might as well not exist. That was the fortunate thing about being in his position, not having to really go anywhere.

When Marcus came back with a last item which was the pay. Alan knew that topic would be coming, and it was something he wanted to handle. ”The pay.” Alan chirped. He didn’t have too look over anything for this one. ”Like I told you our budget is extremely thin, but I am able to divert a certain amount of the month’s allotment over to you, and write it off with added necessary assistance to these people.” Alan moved his hand off the desk and onto the arm of his chair. ”I can give you… well…” He paused. ”Joel, will give you one thousand credits upon completion.” Alan corrected. ”The money is set up in an account that only he has access to, so he’ll be the one responsible for that.”

As he finished Alan nodded. ”But yes, you should probably move out as soon as possible, since I don’t know to what extent the damage is being done.” He reached his hand forward to shake and left it there. ”It was good to meet you in person Captain.” He added to his conclusion.

[Marcus O'Terra]

Marcus was glad he'd gotten the job's gist down and marked it off in the back of his head. He'd talk to Ray about coordinating a plan. He hoped it might be the sort of thing to patch the gap between them and maybe get some damn respect started.

When the matter of pay came up, Marcus nearly chocked on his dry throat. It'd be a mean feat but he managed to avoid it. 1000 credits? Not a bad pay certainly. More than the gun pickup mission. Still split about the group, with ship means to pay for, it was still a decent pay as far as Marcus was concerned.

"Well and good enough." Marcus said in regards to the pay. He stood up and took Alan's hand, shaking it in a friendly grip before letting go and heading for the door. "Have a good day, Mr Scott." He headed out, and through the office.

In only a few minutes he'd had his stun gun returned and rejoined the throng of the crowds and headed toward the port.