Midnight. Raindrops were sliding down Wellington's windows. The lights were on, for it was the Armed Forces' headquarters on New London, and it was never asleep. The eastern wing was scorched and partly demolished, and fully covered with scaffolding. East of it lay a small lake in the shape of a perfect circle -- a former Warwolf Cannon crater, and no doubt a very near miss.

Former Premier Mehmed Selim and former Coalition's foreign minister Michel de Grasse were two somewhat soaked and rather turbid men. They were recently deposed from power, and in a hurry, forgot to bring umbrellas. They were hiding from the rain beneath the eaves of the main entrance. There was a pompous stairway leading down to the ground. Them, watched by four soldiers who were visibly not awfully thrilled about having to do the night shift, were waiting for their saviours to come up those stairs, open the door and save them again, this time from the rain and the cold that was beginning to seep through their wet coats.

Two ships landed nearby: a Templar, and a Clydesdale. The prior spewed out Captain Pria Yberg. She did not have an umbrella either. But she neither seemed to despise rain -- she turned it her face to receive its fullest volume. Yberg was a Spacer, and water, same as many other amenities usually taken for granted, was precious to her. The rain would probably ruin her haircut, but she didn't care. Haircut was the last of her worries, and subconsciously, she liked how that displayed her resilient and pragmatic attitude.

The cargo door of the Clydesdale opened and twenty Bretonian marines poured out -- just enough for a local display of military might. They had no umbrellas either, but they were grunts, and grunts had to put up with the elements. They were followed by a black umbrella, and beneath was Captain Elizabeth Hall. Her haircut wasn't in a much better state than Yberg's, but Elizabeth usually took meticulous care about it, and the fact indicated in how great a hurry she was. With her at the helm, the procession moved towards the main entrance.

"Poor sods!", Elizabeth exclaimed when she saw the two soaked Coalitioners, to a marine that was marching up the stairs next to her and whose hat was beginning to accumulate a puddle of rainwater. She hurried ahead towards them, and when she had climbed up the porch, slowed down into something that looked like a half-hearted solo-waltz.

"Gorech utrat
Bolyu szhimayet grud
Pavshih geroyev teni kruzhat
Vals navevayet grust!"

So she sang the very symbolic stanza from the "Hills of Manchuria", somewhat shyly, on her approach, having obviously prepared it for this very occasion. She spoke some Russian, a small bit of it, as she had spent a good part of her life on Gran Canaria, but this she had to memorize on her way to Freeport One.

"Up for a waltz, gentlemen?" She took them under her arms so that the umbrella covered most of all three. They seemed happy to oblige. "A smoke?" Both shook their heads. "No? Alright..." She gave a hand gesture towards the west to the column on the stairs. "We won't enter here. Here are the offices. We are going to the barracks, where I can find you a room. Better have all the talks we need tomorrow morning, when we're all well rested, and when I'll have received instructions from the foreign ministry. Good Lord, I desperately need to fix my hair..."

Yberg did not go with them. She passed Elizabeth by at the main entrance and went in, not without throwing her a scornful look. If Selim and de Grasse were vigilant at the moment, they'd have surely noticed the smoldering rebellion in her eyes.

"Don't you agree?", Elizabeth continued rhetorically.

"Yes...", Elizabeth said as she turned away, took out a small mirror and pretended to be fixing her hair. It was unclear whether she could really see Pria in the mirror or not.

"See, Yberg, there's state matters we need to discuss, so I expect a professional attitude here, and personal we can be later. You asked me what was going on, so here's what: the Coalition premier has been deposed by a military junta. The premier was our foundation of amicable relations with the Coalition, and it is very likely the military junta is going to invalidate the Sydney Accords soon. This makes the premier an asset for us. I am dealing with this on Frederick Stewart's instructions. Ah, yes, he's our foreign minister, in case you don't know. Now, what the Realm needs you to do, is the following. I've already sent men for de Grasse, Selim's foreign minister, and they are taking him to B66 as I speak. That's second floor underground, eastern section. A bit ruined and probably leaking, but that shouldn't hinder your, well, interrogation. Options? Any options, but do leave him in a decent state. We need to maintain friendly relations with the premier, so I'll have to find a good excuse for what happens to his Gaul, but we also need to know when he's lying. What you should ask about are... transmission codes, military strength, state of internal affairs... or anything you think could be useful. I'm giving you a lot of freedom there. Any questions for me?" She turned back to Yberg and sent her a very unexpected piercing look which she had obviously been preparing during her instructions.

Next morning. The rain seemed to have stopped, but the clouds had not scattered. It was a very pale, sterile morning, much like the office Elizabeth had appropriated. White ceiling, white walls, white, smooth tiles on the floor, that were easy to clean: a hundred percent utilitarian. Or, almost. There was a bottle of Gallic wine on the desk, and if looked at from the doorway, the deathray crater was straight behind it. This was one of the few restored offices in the eastern wing, and Elizabeth chose it intentionally. The bottle of Gallic wine was there, in front of the Gallic crater, to symbolize the final, righteous victory, and Bretonian military might. Selim was now under Bretonia's protection, and Elizabeth hoped he would understand that.

She was not drinking the wine. It was obviously only there for decoration. She was drinking a cup of Ceylon with milk and reading the morning newspaper. Nothing about the Coalition yet. That was good, as it meant the affair was still watertight.

"Let him in", Elizabeth answered when the guard that was bringing Selim reported to her via the speaker. The former dictator of millions now came in not to receive, but to be received, like any lowly ordinary citizen. This, too was intentional: the premier was now a dependent party, and Elizabeth made sure he knew who he was dependent upon.

"Where is de Grasse? Why hasn't he come as well?"