[b][i]Mitropolit[/i] Bar and Grill, Vitrograd city, Praetoria.[/b]

It was a bright, beautiful summer day. The sun beamed down on the Old City quarter, perched on white cliffs over Konstantin bay. Sir Robert Castlereagh, Baron Mornington, Knight Indomitus of the order of St. Diae, and Minister of Foreign Affairs for Her Imperial Majesty's Government actually found himself lightly sweating, a rare feat in Praetoria’s generally chilly climate. He debated adjusting the climate field around his table, but decided against it. He’d chosen a table on the rooftop patio specifically to enjoy the heat, no sense wasting it. Vitrograd spent most of its year wrapped in a heavy layer of snow and swept by blizzards, with only a brief relent for a short, intense summer. Even to the north, in the warmer equatorial regions, Praetoria still managed to produce snow and blizzards, as if in defiance of the sun’s heat.

Overhead, traffic was fairly light, as usual for the Old City. Further away from the cliffs in the finance district and downtown, the air would be absolutely teaming with traffic of all kinds weaving between towering arcology spires. In contrast, the skies above the Old City’s low stone buildings had only a handful of aircars, a police gunship or two, and far above the hazy outline of a Imperskiy Vichnesk atmospheric defence frigate slowly circling the Winter Palace. One of the aircars abruptly turned groundwards, making directly for Castlereagh’s position, slowing to a smooth stop, and disgorging its small passenger onto the patio before leaping to the sky again.

“Thank you for coming, Cato,” Castlereagh said graciously as he shook hands with his guest. It was typically considered polite to stand and greet one’s guest, but to stand when greeting a Rhodesian only exaggerated their comically small stature, so Castlereagh remained seated. 
“Thank you for inviting me, Robert,” the diminutive Rhodesian replied as he took his specially made seat. The chair was specially designed to accommodate Rhodesians; any decent Core World restaurant made a point of having several on hand. It had a short back and a powered seat, so that Rhodesians could seat themselves and automatically be elevated closer to eye level with their table-mates. 

Sir Cato Telemachus, Knight of the order of St. Diae, Marquis of Polesia, was one of the rare few Rhodesians who’d made the transfer from the bureaucracy to the political world and been successful. He was currently the Minister of the Interior, a position with far more power than the name suggested.Telemachus’ ministry was responsible for monitoring and maintaining the integrity of the realm, a thankless task with little reward. However, the Ministry of the Interior also controlled the Office of Colonial Affairs, which gave Cato Telemachus rather vaguely defined control over the administration of the colonies. Additionally, since the colonies were a responsibility of the crown, Telemachus’ position brought him into frequent contact with Her Imperial Majesty and her court. He and Castlereagh were close personal friends, but it was business that brought them together today at a very posh restaurant in downtown Vitrograd.

“Of course. Now, as they say, business before pleasure,” Castlereagh said, tapping a button on the tabletop. A privacy field sprung up around them, shutting out all sound from the city around them and preventing them from being overheard. The [i]Mitropolit[/i] was just around the corner from Whitehall, the heart of the imperial government, and only a few blocks from the Winter Palace, the seat of the Crown and court. To better accommodate their elite clientele, the [i]Mitropolit[/i] and other establishments like it installed high end privacy fields at most of their tables. Basic civilian models only blocked sound, useful for blocking out general background noise and permitting intimate conversation. The fields at the [i]Mitropolit[/i] were much more sophisticated; blocking out sound, blurring the air to prevent lip reading, and generating full EM spectrum jamming to prevent any form of electronic eavesdropping.


“I’m drafting a report for cabinet on The Rim Worlds,” Castlereagh began. He paused for a moment, and Telemachus leaned forward in his chair ever so slightly.
“Ever since that first debacle,” Castlereagh continued, “there’s been a great deal of interest in the area. Wealthy, disparate worlds ripe for the taking. Fiercely independent people, it's true, but we’ve dealt with that before. Obviously Robspeitz’s approach didn’t work that time. The Rim may be fractious, but not so much they’ll simply let us swallow their worlds one by one. I’m working on a different approach.”
“Very interesting, but I don’t quite see what you need me for.”
“I’m getting to that. The external stuff is more or less wrapped up. In brief, we’d aim to incite a war and smash their military to pieces, force them to the bargaining table, impose military restrictions, then slowly start grabbing worlds. Analysts estimate about 1, maybe 2 years for the war, total annexation after 10. My question to you, Cato, is can we bear it? Oh I’ve had people look into it, and I know the broad strokes; short decisive wars can be an excellent way of diverting pressure outward, protracted conflicts are trouble, etc. But is there anything specific, anything being...suppressed...that would have an impact on my recommendation?”

Telemachus tented his fingers thoughtfully. Castlereagh had been right to ask for his input. Of course the Ministry of the Interior put out memos and briefing notes on a regular basis, but his colleague knew that not everything made it into those reports, and Castlereagh wouldn’t want to be made a fool of in cabinet.
“Well, Robert, these things are prone to complications, but I’d say you’re more or less in the clear. The psychosocial projections we issued last week are rated at 90% accuracy, some of our best ever. Yes we’re still dealing with fallout from Valerian integration, so the realm isn’t at its [i]most[/i] stable, but there’s nothing above a category 2 insurrection, either active or projected. Of course those are simple enough to deal with; a few black bags generally does the trick, and orbital strikes are always an option.”

Castlereagh suppressed a momentary shudder. Telemachus was so small and helpless looking, it was easy to forget just how dangerous he was. The recent integration of the Valerian Republic, complete with full constituency, had caused uproar on many colonies that felt the Valerians were ‘cutting in line’. Telemachus never so much as blinked when signing death warrants or authorizing military strike teams. He had an ability to think of people as only so many statistics, making him very good at his job.

The Rhodesian continued, thumbing the menu as he spoke. “Going forward, if you can deliver a short, decisive war, that would of course boost public morale. The Rimworlders may take some working on, but that stubborn independence of theirs could be dealt with. Push down hard on their homeworlds, start up some colony drives and spread them out among the verge worlds; the key would be to disperse the Rimworlders, but that’s my problem, not yours,” he said with a smile. “Of course, there’s always the possibility of unforeseeable developments, but if you live in fear of the unknown, you’ll never get anything done. Does that about cover it?”

“Yes, thank you Cato. I’ll be sure to mention you in my report. Now, lunch.” Castlereagh deactivated the privacy field, and the noise of the rest of the world came tumbling back in.
“Indeed. They just put bluefin growler on the menu last week; I hear it’s to die for.” Telemachus signalled a waiter over, and suddenly they were just two friends enjoying lunch.