Gregory Bayliss looked down over the streets of Planet Cambridge's principle city, watching the rain pour down. "The usual weather for this place," he thought to himself, turning around to look at the mountain of paperwork on his new oak desk. The office was well appointed, not by the purchasing office of the BIS, of course, but out of his own pocket. Facilities at Bletchely Park didn't run to large leather chairs that a good old fashioned spy movie villain would be proud of. The Bretonian flag was an original though, perhaps the only thing in the room that was.
Gregory sat at his desk and picked up a sheaf of papers. War reports, and not good ones. "We're getting hammered out there," he said to no-one in particular. He mused a while, pondering how he'd got back here, why he'd got back here. What on earth had possessed him to say yes? The Duke wasn't that persuasive, was he? No, but boredom was. The IND was a great place to while away the hours with booze and cheap hookers, but frankly it didn't provide any action anymore. His vast trade fleet wasn't the be all and end all of life, and he needed something to stimulate his aging neurons. This was it.
Saint Del is considered a holy healer of diseases of children, but also as a protector of cattle.
Greg sat in the gutter, his clothes sodden. Drunk again, and feeling more than a little sad for himself. He was reminded of the saying he had emblazoned on a placard. Probably somewhere in a box at Whitehall. "We are all lying in the gutter, only some of us are staring at the stars." It was never properly attributed, and he was most certainly not looking at stars right now. He retched, vomiting into the gutter. "Great," he thought, "now I stink of vomit too."
Standing up proved difficult. Very much so, in fact, taking three attempts, one of which resulted in vomit being all over his trousers. He checked his neuralnet account. Flat broke again, and unable to access his vast funds he knew he'd put somewhere. He just couldn't remember where. The password would likely be written on the back of a cereal box somewhere, one he'd no doubt thrown out years ago. "Typical," he thought, just before a fresh wave of vomit forced him to retch again.
He stumbled along, walking into poles and posts alike, before finding his way to his run down apartment building. Searching for the key to the door, he realised he'd lost it. "Well, bugger," he thought, before passing out in his own doorway.
Saint Del is considered a holy healer of diseases of children, but also as a protector of cattle.
Waking up, Greg realised he was not where he'd fallen down. This was indoors for a start, and not his room either. It was white walled with a small painting on the far wall, next to a small table on which was a potted plant. Greg sat up from the bed he was lying on, a comfortable affair rather unlike his own bed.
"Good morning Gregory" said a voice from beyond the doorway, female and of Bretonian origin. Given the surroundings Greg assumed he was certainly in some form of hospital or rehabilitation centre. "What do you want," Greg asked through his headache, "I'm not in the mood, quite frankly." The voice became a figure, shapely enough, back end of a bus for a face though.
"Who are you? " he asked, "Don;t recognise your face."
"Michelle Garibaldi, attache to Evyn Hunter, you know Baroness Snowdown. We've been watching you for a while, Lord Bayliss. Or did you not think BIS remembers it's former staff?"
Gregory just groaned and fell back on the bed. This was not going to be a good day, not a good day at all.
Saint Del is considered a holy healer of diseases of children, but also as a protector of cattle.
![[Image: Del1.png]](http://i14.photobucket.com/albums/a344/Spiderjerusalem1979/Del1.png)