'The Administration cannot survive like this!' Rarael Om-Maxicaliel looked around at shocked faces, eyes wide at his sudden outburst. He gritted his teeth in frustration, angry at the stupidity that had brought them to this condition. ‘You know the situation as well as I do. We have barely enough food to support a third of our population. [i]A third![/i] Do you know what would happen if we were blockaded?’ He stared at them. They were surprised at his outburst, but not at his speech. This was a crisis they’d been dealing with for years now. The Solaran Administration was an arid, desolate place, with only a few regions efficient to farm in. Yes, the deserts could be farmed with extensive irrigation and advanced techniques, but it would be ludicrously expensive to start watering the entire country. It had been quicker, cheaper and easier to trade for food, exchanging mass-produced cutlery for the life of their people. It was humiliating. But far, far worse than that, it was dangerous. ‘Being blockaded isn’t our only problem. What happens if our trading partners decide that trading with us isn’t profitable anymore? What if their [i]priests[/i] tell them that helping us will anger their fairy-tale masters? What if one day we cannot make goods any more, or we run out of resources?’ Now he wasn’t the only one gritting their teeth. More and more conference members were nodding their heads now. Maybe they’d finally be able to sort out this mess. ‘Fine. Tell me what we’re going to do about it.’ Rarael sharply turned his head to the speaker. He spoke in a low, calm voice, ensuring that he didn’t offend anyone. He had to, in a job like his. ‘I’m sorry, Chairman Azaliel?’ ‘You’re the Head of Agriculture, Rarael. What should we do to stop this crisis?’ Rarael’s shoulders sagged. Slowly, he sank down into his chair. ‘I don’t know. I don’t...I’ve tried everything. We’ve looked at irrigation; it’s too expensive. We’ve looked at making the Oriental Region more efficient in farming; it’s too time-consuming. We’ve even looked at growing food from bacteria, like in those awful science-fiction books you can get at the station. It turns out it would be too impractical to set up the factories necessary to produce the food. There’s nothing the Department for Agriculture can do.’ His face was granite. ‘That’s why I’m asking you, the rest of the Conference. If we don’t sort this out soon, we could suffer the greatest famine since the Unification at the whim of our [i]allies[/i].’ The room lay silent. Slowly, the conference members began murmuring among themselves, trying to draw up a solution. Rarael lay back in his chair, closing his eyes. The chair was hard, and uncomfortable. Some days it seemed like everything in the Solaran Administration was. Hard, uncomfortable, mass-produced and cheap. But it would last you forever. He was just worried that the Administration wouldn’t. A voice called out. Rarael woke up with a start. It was Solarael Mir-Meziel, Head of the Board of Cartographers. Of course, as anyone in the High Conference knew, the Board of Cartographers was anything but an atlas-maker’s society. Well, that wasn’t quite true: they did make a lot maps. Mostly of enemy troop movement and the weaknesses in fortresses. Something about their work made Rarael wince: it seemed [i]wrong[/i] to have a department devoted to spying on their neighbours. ‘I believe, ladies and gentlemen, that I may have a solution.’ All heads turned towards the small, unassuming man. ‘It seems to me that not only do we have an agricultural crisis, but we also have an overcrowding crisis too.’ The conference members set their teeth. Some days it felt like everything was in crisis. ‘Well, how about we move to the south-east. There is a huge swathe of fertile land, relatively undefended- save for natives, who I imagine won’t be too happy. But there aren’t any nations who lay claim to it. I suggest we move colonies into the newly-claimed territory, and start farming. Of course, until the rail-way tracks are built we’ll have to fly supplies in and food out, but this seems like the least expensive of our options. It kills, aha, two priests with one stone, as it were.’ --- Tactical General Tulael Ur-Gerliel looked up from his book. ‘I’m sorry?’ ‘It’s the Head of Cartographers, sir. Says he wants to speak with you.’ Tulael sighed. This probably meant another death-trap for his soldiers to walk into- always as a distraction, while Solarael’s men and women worked their quiet, bloody business. He walked over to the two-way radio and picked up the microphone. ‘Hello comrade. This is Tulael, as requested.’ ‘Good. I have new orders for you. You are to accompany colonists on a journey to the south east.’ ‘What? Why?’ ‘Well, I believe in order to set up new farmland-‘ ‘Why does this warrant full mobilisation of an entire Tactical Armada?’ ‘You don’t think the natives are going to be a problem for the colonists?’ ‘Don’t play that game with me, Solarael! You don’t need a Tactical Armada to defend yourself from bows and arrows. What’s really going on? Do you want us to babysit some colonists in the middle of nowhere? I must say, this is a nice break from what you normally give me. At this rate, we probably won’t see any action worse than a few thrown spears for months!’ ‘Oh, Tulael, I don’t know about [i]that[/i]…’