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The Duchess is one of New London's most exclusive addresses. At the venerable age of 300, the establishment has spent three centuries perfecting their services and raising their standards. The five star business was founded by the Stevenson family, who owned the structure for some 150 years.

The family's reign came to an end with the notoriously long-lived Hugh Stevenson, who feared his daughter planned to murder him to accelerate her inheritance. In light of this, he secretly altered his will to bequeath the property to his political party of choice. Eventually, his fears proved to be justified: Emilia was subsequently convicted of murder and hung by the neck until death. Hugh Stevenson's final act of spite came to pass, and the Royalist party inherited The Duchess.

In the modern day, the establishment is run by Greyhound Passenger Transport on behalf of the Royalist party. The social club on the first floor plays frequent host to VIPs, politicians, celebrities, industry heads, foreign emissaries and the cream of New London's already elite society. Its clientèle is the very definition of 'old money'. The second floor contains rooms for Royalist MPs and high ranking party members to stay in while business calls them to Westminster. The third floor and above operate as a regular super-luxury hotel.

Due to its exclusive list of clients and patrons, security is an extremely high priority for the hotel. Dampening fields are installed to squash out fires before they can spread; miniature shield relays are fitted into regularly dispersed 'safe rooms'; state of the art scanning technology is used to discretely check for firearms and weapons as customers enter.

The front doors are locked from the outside unless the visitor has a keycard, or is accompanying a valid member as a guest. These cards are acquired by applying for club membership, or holding a Royalist seat in either of the two Houses of Parliament. More than one lower-middle class Commons MP has found their social status suddenly catapulted upwards by admission to The Duchess

Other than serving the realm and his constituents, Andrew Maloney found the aspect he most enjoyed about standing in the Commons under the Royalist banner was the small item he now had clutched in his hand: a passcard to the front door of The Duchess, Westminster. A VIP card at that. Calling The Duchess exclusive was akin to calling the Queen 'sort of posh'. For context, he hadn't been able to acquire membership during his several year tenure as Borderworld Exports' Director of Operations.

Breezing through the entrance, he caught sight of the proprietor, Lord Curtis, talking to the rather nice young lady on the front desk. Strolling over, he beamed amicably at them. At age 67, many of the establishment's younger staff had already taken to treating the old man as a grandfather figure. It was slightly unprofessional of them, but Maloney wasn't one to mind - his own children and grandchildren lived on Baden Baden, meaning visits were sporadic.

As he caught the end of the conversation his ears pricked up. "Hullo there, m'lord - Miz Rachel too, I believe? It's splendid to see you again - a jolly fine day for it too!" Both men peered out of the foyer window, through which a torrential downpour could be seen smashing against the pavement. "Well, it's a day for it, regardless," he said with his ever-present amicable smile. "I'm rather afraid I've been eavesdropping, old bean. Terribly sorry. I heard you're to host a feast here for the rest of the chaps?"

He gave the young aristocrat a knowing look. "I hear you're set to make your way in politics, sah. Make a name for House Curtis in the Lords. I believe I'll be broaching the topic of Greyhound's nationality in the Commons soon, as well." A Cambridge mega-star - some sort of triple platinum, billionaire holosinger - strolled past. Andrew wrinkled his nose. He couldn't understand why the youth of today would shower a woman with money for dressing like a hussy and wailing about her love life.

He shivered as the draft from the door caught him. "Is the smoking room open? The chairs in front of the fire there are simply splendid."

Maloney nodded to acquiesce and gently took one of the expensive tubes in his hand. He sniffed it - he could hardly be considered a concessioner, but certain the products of certain family lines seemed to have very distinct smells. He took a stab at it and guessed one of the more expensive brands.

"I say, m'lord - is this a Goldberg Rich? Much obliged in any case." He bit the correct end off, then fished around inside his dinner jacket's inner pocket for a lighter. Finding it, he offered it up to the young lord first. "After you, of course."

Upon receiving the tool back, he lit his own cigar and settled further down into one of the plush, comfy leather armchairs that surrounded the fireplace. The fire itself was roaring, being fed by actual Cambridge wood. There was nothing for a room's ambience like an actual wood fire - electric and plasma heaters simply weren't up to snuff.

"Y'know, it really is a fine establishment Greyhound administers here. How long have you chaps been at it now? 10, 20 years? I dare say the Royalists made a good decision when they gave you fellows the contract for it. From what I've heard, the previous lot rather let things slide."

Maloney rather inexpertly tapped his own ashes out into the conveniently provided tray, accidentally spilling some onto the table surface. Four decades of service as a transport captain had familiarised him with rather smaller self-rolled dogends, which would be rapidly shared around crews between shifts. It was only relatively late in his career that he'd taken the step to management and thus affluence.

He did know his whisky though. He sniffed it, then tried a sip. "Lord above! That has a magnificent flavour. A rather superb after-taste, too," he added after a moment of reflection. "I must say you do me an honour by sharing such a valuable commodity." He could feel it heating up his chest now - it was a good feeling. Unfortunately, he'd have to double his pills tonight. After his heart attack, he was theoretically banned from drinking the stuff.

Even so, to refuse MacCutcheon Premium, well... That would have been heresy. For most men, sampling such whisky would have been a once in a lifetime opportunity. He took another sip from the little glass. "Y'know, another fine brand is that of the Wright family. They had an absolutely top-notch brewery, around 9 years ago. They even managed to settle a Royal Charter to supply the Crown's whisky."

He paused for a second and shook his head sadly. "Fortunatus Wright, I believe he was called. The owner of the company, that is - their 795 brew was truly excellent. Exceedingly rare now - the brewery itself was destroyed in a case of arson, if I'm not mistaken. Poor fellow lost his wife in the blaze. After the war with Kusari broke out, the place never got rebuilt. What a waste."

A morose silence appeared to sink over the old man, as he considered a number of other things that had given him pause for thought over the years. Men who'd died and the aspirations of others which had been blown away in the wind. He mulled it over for a moment, then decided the topic was a little grim. Sipping some more of the MacCutcheon Premium made him feel much better.

Andrew tapped the cigar into the tray again, then left it there to smolder. Placing the sifter of whisky on the table surface, he leaned back and steepled his fingers. "I can understand why what you described may have happened, I'm rather afraid. Borderworld Exports - Bowex - is a very, very old company. Y'know, they were actually founded as Bretonia Exploration & Trading in 66 AS? That makes them one of the oldest, if not the oldest corporation in Sirius." He sighed. "Of course, I dare say I digress. My point is, over the centuries they've maintained their position as an industry leader through constant vigilance, scrutinising their own operations and those of their rivals."

He nodded towards his young friend. "That is where your men and the Bowex employee's wires may well have crossed. If you're shipping war or industrial goods, Bowex may well perceive you as competition. Super Alloy in particular is a staple export of Scarborough Shipyard, one of their most important facilities. Their staff can get a mite agitated and defensive about exterior contractors shipping it, from time to time." He eyed the bottle of Wright of whisky before continuing. "I suppose one analogy would be if Bowex decided to part-time move into Greyhound's own transportation affairs - the movement of tourists and VIPs, etcetera."

"I can't particularly see anything coming of it, to be honest. Your business should be fine. Even if Bowex's clerks are unhappy about it, they'll continue to sell the Super Alloy, if only because the revenue directly benefits Bretonia as a whole. They simply prefer it when the end-game profit is reaped by Bowex and thus returned to the Crown, that is all. Well, that's what my experience says to me, old bean. It could be that these new DOs and ADOs have stirred things up since my departure. Simply play it by ear, ey?" At that, he picked up the small glass of whisky and sipped a little more. At this rate, it was going to be empty within a few minutes, he reflected morosely.