Patience
The Igadzra. A strange people, to say the least. How and why they got involved in the Strand War is lost even to them, of course, and the few efforts anti-war protestors have made over the centuries to contact the other two Strands have resulted in receptions that make the Igadzra reputation for paranoia pale in comparison, and as such no Igadzra has ever been known to find out, through records or by asking those that they have spent the past few centuries fighting with, why exactly they are doing just that. Many Igadzra cynics (of which there are many in a species of fanatical atheists), in fact, have regarded the Strand War as one of the most hilarious things that could have ever happened to a species that, for the most part, considers itself peaceful and rural. The likelihood is, that at some point in history, there was a unified Igadzra federation which had some part, and likely not one free of guilt, in what began the Strand War. However, if that is the case (which it probably is), then no-one is really willing to expend massive amounts of effort just so they can feel guilty about a few million dead Igadzra. Ignorance, as they say, is bliss.
The strange naivëte of the Igadzra is one of the more peculiar things in the galaxy, unrecognised by ?outsiders?, as they are called. Were an outsider told that once upon a time, the Igadzra had actually been a trusting people, even to a fault, it is greatly unlikely that they would believe you. Indeed, the Igadzra have established such a reputation over the past few centuries, that such a statement would be nothing short of ridiculous. It is, however, true, although the specifics of Igadzra politics and the development of their psyche is a story so long that no Igadzra alive has ever really reached out of his or her apathy long enough to write it. That, perhaps, is one of the most consistent notes about the Igadzra: they really can?t be bothered. If they were presented with a way out of the Strand War, there is no doubting that they would take it (were they assured, that is, of the offer being trustworthy), because regardless of all the Igadzra deaths over the years, the Igadzra have always been the type of people who, when asked whether they would rather fight and die for their country to avenge their lost brother or stay at home, harvest the crops and read a good novel (one of the few novels that have ever actually been finished), would reply quite reliably that they would rather the latter. A frighteningly naďve race, the Igadzra, and a stunningly rational one.
Circumstance, unfortunately, resulted in twenty something billion Igadzra (the figure has, of course, never been tallied, although the Assembly believes it?s somewhere in the region of twenty to fourty billion, or maybe more or less) stuck in a rather bloody war wondering exactly what had got them here, and the disembodiment of the old Igadzra caste system seven hundred and something or other years ago (quite literally: it is one of the few cases of galactic history where apparently contradictory tales of the ancient burial location of powerful rulers aren?t actually all that contradictory), coupled with the firework display made out of the ruling caste?s library, proved not to be helpful whenever they made the effort to find any answers. Obviously, exitting the war at this stage would be rather difficult, so the Igadzra have resigned themselves to the situation, of the belief that, after all, even if the Assembly?s fleets are dispersed, no invaders would ever have the tenacity to actually disturb the farm lives of twenty something billion Igadzra. Particulary since most of them are armed. Probably. Not that anyone?s gone out and checked, even the Assembly aren?t stupid enough to disturb twenty something billion antisocial farmers who stand a rather good chance of being armed with something that might even hurt them.
The Assembly, as every little Igadzra knows, is the military backbone to the Igadzra race, the brave, valiant warriors often referred to in short as ?those goddamn warmongers?, ?power-thirsty big-headed megalomaniacal murderers? and other such complimentary terms. A certain animosity towards one?s military is common. The Assembly sincerely hopes.
Considering how much the Igadzra love the power-thirsty big-headed megalomaniacal murderers that save their meaningless lives on a day to day basis, it is often surprising that people join the Assembly?s ranks at all. Occasionally, though, a genetic rarity occurs: an Igadzra that actually doesn?t really like the idea of spending an entire lifetime in a semi comatose state reading half finished novels about similarly meaningless lives. When this occurs, they often present a great potential (so says the propaganda), and the Igadzra ground forces, vainly referred to as commandos because ?troops? doesn?t quite sound important enough, are the best ground forces in all of, well, Igadzra anyway.
To be fair, however, some of the twenty something billion occupants of the something or other number of Igadzra planets (the average farmer knowing only the name of his planet and the planet he spends his entire life thinking about migrating to) present such a level of prowess, and even appear capable of following orders on occasion, that once in every blue moon, an Igadzra rises from the ostentatious rank of farmer to national militia, to Assembly trainee, to commando, to whatever the individual cell likes to call its officers, and finally to the rank of Assembly member, or agent. Or whatever they like to call it. Igadzran apathy can be bent, never broken. One such character, raised as an Assembly member through the extremely formal process of receiving a handwritten note written in ten seconds from one of the cell commanders who, while idly flicking through a report of commando officers, found someone who caught his eye, was Jalwhin Tämanos. It is highly probable that were Jalwhin Tämanos not, in fact, Jalwhin Samar Tämanos, he would not have been noticed by a cell commander idly flicking through reports. While the Igadzrans are atheistic, and always have been, they have been known to virtually deify entirely real historial figures, and Samar Vraekir being one of the most famous of these, his name was certainly enough to wake an Igadzra cell commander and self-proclaimed historian from the half asleep state two hundred monotonous reports on the progress of commando officers was beginning to have on him.
It was thus that Jalwhin ?Samar? Tämanos, not sure whether to be grateful or spiteful towards his mother for deciding upon that name, sat impatiently on a rather uncomfortable seat in a nondescript waiting room in a nondescript building in a nondescript city on a rather significant Igadzra planet, idly wondering why the Assembly never seemed able to afford comfortable seats. How, after all, could they expect anybody to go in for the chance to become a cell agent when his first experience was spending four hours (which on this rather significant Igadzra planet was, in fact, an entire day) sitting on an uncomfortable seat in a nondescript waiting room next to an old man who wouldn?t stop coughing? If the old man was here for the same reasons as Jalwhin, then he had every right to be extremely concerned about the standard the commander of this cell considered adequate for an agent. Maybe, the old man was called Samar, too.
The door opened. No, not that one, you fool, the other one, the one you came from. It smacked upon against the back wall with a crash, adding to the dent in the surface, and the scratches in the paintwork. It bounded back, only to be kicked back again, making a slightly calmer, more tranquil smash against the wall, sending flakes of paint peeling off. A cell agent stepped through the door. He was not dressed in any particular way that marked him out as a cell agent, although a long black coat, black boots and a black visor that was entirely unnecessary conveyed that this Igadzran had the impression that he was in some way important. The fact that he was entirely comfortable with slamming a door in an Assembly headquarters said something, at least. Although there are people who will dress like that, and act like that, and be nothing more than a farmer with some degree of wealth and a rather larger degree of vanity. No, what told Jalwhin that he was a cell agent, above all, was the look in his eyes, visible over the visor he had raised to his forehead to survey the waiting room coolly. Blue grey eyes, they looked like they spent the vast majority of their time open, not allowing time for blinking. A solemn flame burned in them, which spoke, quite clearly; I have just done murder, I was almost murdered, and now I intend to do some more murder. For anyone to be that cool, that furious, and that sure that they could walk into an Assembly headquarters in a mood to do murder and not find himself in rather a muddle quite quickly, he was a cell agent, or Jalwhin was Zidagar.
The Igadzra that followed was taller, stockier, and dressed like someone who only wore clothes because someone once had told him not to do so wasn?t exactly a very good idea. Jalwhin had no doubt the character he had identified as an agent had numerous weapons under his coat. This one had a shotgun quite visible, strapped under his belt, along with an array of hand grenades and a pulse laser at his other side. His face betrayed something similar to the other one?s: that he had done murder, and almost been murdered, but rather than being in the mood to do a little more murder to round it off, would rather put his feet up, read a good (unfinished) book and perhaps sleep for the equivalent of a week on this planet.
Jalwhin watched with some vague interest as the two agents crossed the waiting room, and the coolly furious one opened the other door, and walked through, having the manners not to slam it behind him before the other could follow. The second Igadzra paused, considering Jalwhin and the old man, who had coughed through the entire episode without noticing them.
?Been waiting long?? he queried Jalwhin with some apparent interest, ignoring the old man. His eyes sparkled with what seemed like bemusement.
?Four hours,? Jalwhin replied simply, not particularly the type to rant on about his problems. Another advantage of the Igadzra philosophy of not being bothered. He met the agent?s eyes calmly. He?d be one one soon, perhaps. In a way typical to Jalwhin, he began to sum the other character up, searching for any weaknesses in him.
The other Igadzra outright laughed. That put Jalwhin off guard. Agents were supposed to never laugh. They were supposed to be strictly professional, humourless, and as cold as a Tamasënian winter (Tamasënia being a region of the planet Igadzra.) More like the first fellow than the second. ?Old boy, patience is a fantastic trait, and you can?t do without it, but nothing will get you further in war than the realisation that people are screwing with you. Constantly.? With a wink, the Igadzra took the door and closed it, leaving Jalwhin to consider exactly what that meant.
Glancing at the old man, he noticed something that might possibly be amusement in his eyes too. Had he done something funny? Then, before he could contemplate this further, the door opened. No, not the one the agents came through. The other one.
?Duhay, you will be seen now,? an Igadzra clerk said. Jalwhin glanced at the old man again. Duhay was another Igadzra legend, and in fact tied in closely with Samar. Samar had waited thirty years planning to overthrow the empire which had consumed his homeland, and when he eventually achieved it, with all his allies slain and standing on the Spire of Tyraces, the highest point in the imperial palace, with the emperor?s bracelet clasped around his wrist and the emperor dead at his feet, his thirty years of planning had proved a wait too long, as the empire he had impossibly conquered was invaded by a neighbouring nation, led by a sickly old man now considered the best military strategist in Igadzra history, Duhay Matsu. Thirty years of undermining the empire had proved enough for Duhay Matsu to raise a force large enough to conquer the empire, and after all his efforts, Samar was slain. Rising to his feet quickly, and quite annoyed, Jalwhin walked to the door where the clerk stood, also looking suspiciously bemused. The old man laughed.
?You?ve waited long enough, I suppose?? the clerk asked in an infuriately polite voice. The old man laughed harder. The clerk had a bemused smile on his face.
?Let me in,? Jalwhin glared, his temper flaring as it rarely did. His embarrassment was swiftly moving to join in.
?With pleasure.? The clerk stepped aside, and Jalwhin left the waiting room after spending a rather short, but horrifically long, day there. The clerk kept his composure for a whole three seconds before he joined the old man in laughter.
Time To Act
The rather nondescript office of Ishana Tairanu, who recognised himself better as Gauntlet, his long standing codename, was the epitome of the rather nondescript building that was the headquarters of Cell 12, in the rather nondescript city of Kathal, a sprawling, ?can?t be bothered? style mass of mismatched buildings with wild, untamed plant life dotted around with no sense of order. While many cells had their headquarters in important cities, such as Vora Demais, Cell 12, which was often described since Gauntlet had taken the role of cell commander, as the clown?s cell, preferred its headquarters in a city most people had never heard of, including most self-proclaimed geographers (both historians and geographers could only ever be self-proclaimed.)
The door to his office opened to admit two members of the clown?s cell, dressed with red nose and baggy trousers in bright yellow. Well, perhaps not. Black clad as always, almost as vain as a Zidagar, the one who had been dubbed ?the Notillan Merchant? by the others (mostly because, after all, Notillan merchants were remarked from a vanity and sense of self-importance that was quite contradictory to the Igadzra way) had the look of someone who actually meant business. Well, he usually looked that way, but Gauntlet had the distinct impression that he way probably quite annoyed about the latest mission. The other agent, codenamed Short Fuse, or Fuse for short (the pun was overused), who bore the remarkable ability to go from seeming quite apathetic and passive to exploding violently and often lethally at the slightest reason, followed behind him.
?One political hierarchy lacking a head, two dozen families lacking a man of the house, and I don?t know or want to know how many died in the ?precision? bombing to clear the way to get us out,? Fuse commented icily. ?Why don?t we scrap the diplomacy and just get to the killing people next time, if this is the way it?s gonna? turn out?? The Notillan Merchant even nodded. He must be worked up, to go as far as to nod.
Gauntlet leaned back on his chair. Decidedly uncomfortable, but Gauntlet liked it that way. He didn?t like the possibility that he might fall asleep when he was supposed to be listening to someone or other coming to talk about something or other (the mere thought of the type of droning reports that he was often forced to listen to made him drowsy already), and besides, it was always funny when new applicants arrived with a sore backside. Put them at a distinct disadvantage. Of course, if you were to get uncomfortable chairs for the waiting room, it would be unfair to give comfortable chairs to everybody else, and everybody else unfortunately (as he often noted) included him. The chair wasn?t bad. You could get used to anything. Even these two. ?Did you see a rather young Igadzran in the waiting room?? Gauntlet asked lightly.
?Did at that,? Fuse responded. His frown fell off his face for a moment, as he grinned. ?Same ?ol trick, eh? How long did you keep me in that waiting room, Gauntlet??
?Seven hours, if I remember correctly. Quite hilarious, I thought you?d walk out after two.? Fuse glared. ?And Merchant, you didn?t even bother waiting, did you?? Merchant glared. This was going to be a longer day than he?d expected. ?He?s our new agent. I?ll interview him when he eventually arrives, although I?ve already made up my decision on that matter.?
?Not a bad kid,? mused Fuse, ?though it might take a while before he gets used to things around. Now, you?re avoiding the subject. You sent us in-?
?-on a diplomatic mission. And you shot their president.?
?Twice,? the Notillan Merchant put in coolly.
?Twice,? Gauntlet agreed. ?I don?t dispute the fact it was necessary, I understand they started shooting first, after all... but still, what?s done is done. We can?t just assassinate rulers when they fail to pay war tax a few times, and we can?t invade. I sent in the two best men in this cell, and you didn?t fail me.?
?Sheer luck,? Fuse retorted. ?Put me on a battlefield any day, Gauntlet, but if you send me out with rules about being nice to people until they start shooting at me once more-?
?-you?ll still do it.? Gauntlet was icy calm, to make the Merchant proud. He recognised Fuse becoming angry from a mile off, and decided once again to avert it. It was rather annoying that he, with the highest rank (admittedly joint with numerous others) in the Assembly, had to even bother calming down a subordinate, but Cell 12 had always been like that. The gap between cell commander and cell agent was small. In Cell 12, it was smaller. Gauntlet enjoyed the atmosphere of his cell, but sometimes it could be a pain. ?Haradrin Damos. A highly accredited researcher, Innirian born, living on Igadzra at the moment. Specialises in shield technology. I contacted him earlier about him doing some more specific research, along the lines of preventing Azdaras from regenerating. I just got a reply.?
?And?? the Merchant inquired.
?He says he can do it, and listed half a dozen other names, researchers and engineers, who he?d need to have on his team,? Gauntlet replied. ?And demands eighteen million credits a standard day to develop the device. But he says he can definately do it, and sent me a basic outline of his plan. I already have backing from Cells 3 and 11, we?ve given it the go-ahead.?
?Haradrin Damos,? Fuse muttered. ?I recognise the name. Wasn?t he the one who claimed he could increase shield capacity of ships by 400%, and blew up a Cell 2 Igazra testing it??
?Got it in one,? Gauntlet replied, his face set. They would recognise Haradrin Damos. ?He knows what he?s doing, I?m sure.?
?Look, Gauntlet, I?m not interested in this. I have a problem with-? Fuse begun again. Yes, he was definately getting angry.
There was a rap on the door. Jalwhin Tämanos stood outside, unattended and annoyance evident on his face. As he recalled, when Fuse finally realised that the seven hour waiting time wasn?t serious, he had thrown the clerk across the room, breaking his leg. He hadn?t heard a crash. Perhaps this fellow had knocked him out silently. Or just made it very clear that he should leave. He?d heard no shouting either - the Merchant never raised his voice either. Gauntlet wondered whether Jalwhin would be another Notillan Merchant, or another Short Fuse. Either way, Gauntlet had this sneaking suspicion that this was going to be a very long day indeed.
