HOW TO KEEP YOUR HEAD DURING A CRISIS: A HIGH STAKES SCI FI OFFICE POLITICS QUEST

Your grandfather named you Cylange, which in an obscure sub-planetary language means to go the way of the dogs. He named you thus for the decrepit state of the Empire. Family folklore states that he was scrolling his newsfeed when he saw something that made him go ballistic. He screamed, "alright, name the kid Cylange, because that's where the Empire is going these days." Your other father thought that it actually had a nice ring to it, and there you had your name.

For a long time, most of your childhood, your early adulthood, you thought he was just being an old man. Privileges of being old and decrepit. Nothing's as good as it was, my pension got outpaced by inflation, my knees ache and my sons are useless slugabeds who needed all my life savings just to make rent.

In recent years, you are forced to acknowledge his foresight, because he and most of your kin were killed as incidental casualties when the local system governor got funny ideas about 'local sovereignty.' Because this is a treasonous crime, the Triumvirate were sadly forced to laser him out of existence, which also sadly killed a lot of people because someone on the firing console was asleep at the beep-bop wheel.

Considering things over, you're sure that that's why some pencilnecks looped you in some plot to overthrow the military dictatorship of the Triumvirate.

---

It seems necessary to provide some background information to properly set the stage. Here it goes.

The Empire (of the Kalarans, though no one knows who the Kalarans are. Is it the name of a people? Is it simply the name of a planet, a star? Your guess is as good as any. And, for that matter, if we're an empire, where the hell is the emperor?), has gone through some cyclical political turmoil. It happens every so often, of course. Hard times, soft men, if you're feeling glib, a lot of words about elite overproduction and cliodynamics if you're feeling academic. This time, it's worse. Full on shooting civil war. And it's just the thing that the only one who could stop them died-- the Archon.

Now, death's only a word, of course. A backup comes free with your social security, here in this man's Empire, but that's only for mildly augmented civilians or state personnel. Ensuring a backup of someone, say, the head of a gens family, with uplink ports into the family AI, massively posthuman cognitive augmentations, and what-have-you is much more expensive.

Backing up the Archon (5 Endasian, as it happens), a digital ghost, the outer personality topography of a hivemind (except it's not a hivemind, because only barbarians submit to such an authoritarian trampling over the self, ipso facto, therefore it can't be a hivemind), the human(?) decision making component of a cybernetic system distributed throughout the entire imperial bureaucratic-administrative system is slightly more difficult than a gens head. The Archon isn't just a man. If it was just a man, it would be much easier to replace it. As long as it is catatonic, nothing gets done via the proper channels. Pay doesn't get sent, brain to brain data packets get turned into malware ridden gibberish, forms get lost in the electric haze.

It should also go without saying that things are going to the shit. The Empire Relative North Defense Fleet kicked out their Marquis-Admiral for some reason or the other, and now the aides of the former Marquis-Admiral are running a military dictatorship here in CENTRE, killing rebels and restoring the law. By the way, rebels means anyone who disagrees with their naked rule by force and blatant cronyism of gens Abunco and Idrine and the allies thereof, and the less said about how damn liberal they are with certain species of barbarians the better!

The other Marquis-Admirals are off doing their own thing, and since you haven't been all killed by slavering barbarians you'd say they're doing a bang up job of things.

Still, for you, Cylange, things have actually been going pretty great. If you ignore the years you spent locked in an armored safe room, cruising on baseline power draw for your body whilst hyperventilating a storm, you're in a highly profitable position. Do you know what 'brutal military rule' means to an arms company? Sales figures going through the roof, that's what. You're proud to report to the Board that the Triumvirate are highly satisfied with your work, but then again, they kind of have to, cause your company is one of the few that'd do work for the Triumvirate.

Still, things are going down, and they're going down fastly and bigly. If you had a brain, you'd pack up all your lobbyist money and flee to the ass end of nowhere, where you could drink fruity cocktails while the universe burns down. The fact that you're still here, so there must be something as to why.

HERE
[]- COMMITMENT: You believe in the Empire. You believe in its meritocratic governmental decision making system. You respect it for being the telos of all social science, the ultimate work of political organization. If it can't do things like not-bombing-people, then obviously your interlocutor needs to understand politics. Without it, we would be nothing more than savage apes, hooting around fires. Since you were young, you joined all the youth leagues, all the student orgs, counterprotesting those filthy pacifists who are so fundamentally deluded and/or ENEMY shills that they think bombing other people is somehow bad.
[]- COERCION: Let's say you do decide to leave. Where to? The Triumvirate were quite clear where that gets you: an early grave. They'll pot you as soon as they spot your vessel leaving, because they were quite clear that the only ones that can enter or leave CENTRE are those with their military authorization, no more, no less. Leaving CENTRE now just outs you as a traitor. It leads to a sociopath mirrorshades grabbing you by the arm and growling, 'and where are you going, you grinning fuck?' No, you'll stay, where at least the break room tea is still free.
[]- CAREER: Frankly speaking, you, Cylange, are a subhuman careerist slime mold. The world is burning, babies are starving, the entire imperial edifice is breaking down and what do you think? "Gee, my boss just took a leave of absence, I'd really like to be Operations Director for Center this year." Now, your hustle is very impressive, but you may also eventually want to take note that outside of your cubicle, the fascist triumvirate are holding mass executions of gens who disagree with their tax policy. Then again, there's a lot of faces around here. Who's to say that the big cat will have to eat yours?

---

It's a tradition for conspiracies to happen under a rose. Overthrowing the military dictatorship of the Triumvirate will happen in a breakfast place called the Rose. Close enough.

In any case, you're not too sure how this is going to end. Your neck is near and dear to you, and playing romantic revolutionary will just end in an electrocrucifixion. It's frightening, being counted as a comrade to these people. Ever since a coworker dropped by you during your tea break and whispered, "yo, do you wanna overthrow the brutal military dictatorship with us? Weekends at the Rose. Bee tee dubs if you welch we'll dump your body in the gutter" you've been looking over your shoulders for scary g-men and resistance saboteurs.

Actually, matter of fact, you were thinking as you boarded the underrail to work, how do you know that the Conspiracy is that large? For all you know, it could just be a couple of yahoos, no bigger than a dissident student reading group/meme share chat. So, you conclude as you swipe the horrid ancient throwback of an access card into the reader, allowing you entrance into your office, all in all, it's better if you just don't move. Don't tell the cops, because they might end up putting you in jail for a neurotrawl. Don't go to the Conspiracy, because soon you'll be bodypacking microsingularities to make a point about freedom or something dumb.

Just freeze. Everything's fine. There's only a problem if we act like there's a problem. For instance, if we, the general we, meaning the EMPIRE in general and the Triumvirate in specific, pretend that the coalition of nineteen militias (warlords) are only just overactive system defense militias and not the de facto rulers of about a third of the EMPIRE and growing, then that's not a problem. Neither are the increasingly restless barbarian auxilae, who've taken the opportunity to run riot all over CENTRE and the frontiers, or the disturbingly large and growing criminal fraternities, et cetera.

Hey, that's really a metaphor. What for? Heh. You find your office largely untouched, and you have to say that whoever built your skyscraper didn't welch, because there's laser scarring all over the facade (a really fetching aesthetic) and there's no real internal damage. You sink into your wide, expansive desk, booting up the hastily installed physical terminal. You're ready to settle into a day slacking off, because you firmly believe that excessive top down management is what dooms organizations and you are also terminally lazy. You open your messenger app, reply to some emails, and you've just about limbered up for a hard day's work of sitting on a chair when you've come across the bad news.

Here's the bad news.

Hi, Executive Liaison Cylange. Can you come up to my office at your leisure?
Today.

Thanks,
Triumvir Admiral Seubi vi Markoviz.

AH CRAP
[]- Run--

"Don't be stupid," you say to yourself, staring desperately at the screen as if in hope that continued observation will reveal that your eyes have been lying to you. You're freaking out. There's no subject matter, which means it could be anything, which means your immediate future includes a shallow grave. "I can't run. I'd just die tired."

Triumvir Admiral Seubi vi Markoviz is, no two ways about it, a barbarian. An alien. Also, a prince, and therefore on top of being a symbol of where the EMPIRE went wrong, rewarding the external barbarians and enriching other states instead of our own, also a symbol of the collusion of the upper classes at the expense of the honest proletariat. Scuttlebut says that he had something to do with the mysterious retirement and disappearance of the previous Marquis Admiral of the Relative North Fleet, and his habits of taking a cut out of every single traitor's assets didn't go unnoticed. I mean, what can you do? He's a barbarian, an aristo, and a career military brute, there's no fixing any of these people. Anyway, better talking to him than the honorable Triumvir General Luca gens Abunco or Triumvir Admiral Alessandro gens Idrine.

His office is about what you expect. It was once the undersecretary of Transport's, but after that guy took several unexplained falls down a stair (colluding with separatists) Admiral Seubi took it over. You could talk all day about how nice it is, how fetching the flowing wood design is, and the charmingly personable lava lamp desk decorations and novelty mugs are, but what really gets your attention is that Admiral Seubi vi Markoviz is spinning around a pistol on his desk.

You nervously attempt and fuck up a military salute, which the Admiral snickers at you mentally, behind an stoic military visage. "So, how's the Rose?" he asks.

"Uh."

"C'mon. Don't jerk me around. How's the Rose? Heard they do great coffee."

"Yeah, they do."

"So you have been there. Great." He picks up the gun as your stomach does loop de loops. "Now, I'm fairly certain you're… actually, balls to this." He racks the slide and the pistol emits a worrying hum. "You a traitor?"

"No!"

"Grand. Then obviously you love the EMPIRE with all your heart, and you cry tears of blood every day when you see the despicable secessionists tear apart the grand state for their own selfish interests, and want nothing more than to serve the nation selflessly."

"I would say that is an aspirational interest of mine," you reply, mouth drier than vacuum.

Triumvir Admiral Seubi vi Markoviz, you notice, is a plant. A talking shrubbery. A houseplant is not so subtly threatening you with execution. The shit that happens in this man's EMPIRE, swear to the state. "Well," he says, staring at you all the while, drilling down with chlorophyll green eyes, "that's good enough. In any case, we can't abide traitors, can we? Which is why the next time they meet up, you'll join. Write down the names, faces, what have you. Questions? Actually, nah. Of course you'll do it, out of patriotism and love for the country." An almost microscopic sneer flickers across Seubi vi Markoviz's face. "I've got one for you, Executive Assistant. "How's our newest big budget item coming along?"

THE ITEM
[]- OVERCOMPENSATORY ULTRA MEGA DREADNOUGHT- A FIERCE AND VIOLENT AIR: Problem: Enemies are all around. Their fleets swarm like ants, like vermin. They coil around the grand state. Solution: Fear, and the newly built ultradread, A Fierce and Violent Air, will keep the rebels and their sympathizers in line. With a spinal gun firing a linear singularity capable of tearing through just about anything, secondary armaments that would be main guns for lesser classes, a datalinked swarm of parasite craft, and roughly more missiles than there are stars in the galaxy, this ultradread is capable of going toe to toe with entire armies and winning. Of course it's expensive, and of course it's not wholly built (your company finished the main gun, the superstructure, but look away whenever the Triumvir asks if the parasite craft and armor cadding is done), but it's a solid investment. One look at this baby and the rebels will switch sides just to not be on the other side as this.
[]- NEXT GENERATION COMBATANT UNIT- VARIFIGHTER UNIVERSAL PACIFICATION: Ultradreads, your company says, are last year's business. They're not at all cost effective, they suck the national budget like a singlepayer healthcare system, and they open the operator to compensating-for-something-jokes. Instead, how about the new Varifighters your company builds? They're a mix between a mech suit, a space fighter, and wholly modular. With all the upgrade kits there are out there, you can scale Universal Pacification VFs to serve as air combatants, ground combatants, and even frigate scale void combatants. Add on all the crazy shit-- a citadel in folded space that can turn them non-newtonian, reverse time oracular tactical computers, and an FTL engine, the name isn't just a marketing ploy, not a promise, but a statement of certainty. Of course, there's only five around, the citadel sometimes cuts the connection, and the maintenance costs are so killer that it might just be better to operate a normal combined arms army, but hey, you want to be left behind?
[]- MOBILE OPPRESSION PALACE/SATELLITE- THE SELF IS NOT SAFE: The sad part about fighting a civil war is that suddenly civil rights are important. Okay, that's a lie. The sad thing is that people lie, and you can't just bomb the enemy capital to dust and raise a big mission accomplished flag. You have to put in work, you have to find traitors, you have to uncover plots. Why do that by offering a better looking political alternative when you can just orbit a stealthed searcher satellite, capable of brain scanning millions at once, plucking unruly thoughts out of brains,rewriting the very psyche of individual, free thinking people? Electronic infiltration as well, and hey, check out the teleporting modules. You can black bag people with a touch of a button, instead of doing the hard work of sending black vtols down. Just the thing to keep a restive population in check, and if you think this is bad, then what, would you rather have dissidents executed rather than just having their cognition be poked? Of course, this thing is fragile as all get out, and you know for a fact that the stealth system isn't all that's cracked up to be, thanks to the fact that the place where you usually get some is flying a red flag and talking about how the EMPIRE is structurally evil.

"Uh…" You wet your lips. Production is, of course, a little tangled. A lot of factories got offlined in the brief and spirited civil disturbance before the Triumvirate walked in, and those that weren't aren't exactly operating at full capacity. That, and the fact that a lot of the expert workers got turned to vapor, ran away, or are demanding hazard pay, means that you couldn't possibly get what Admiral vi Markoviz is asking for in less than a year. "Give me a month. I'll smooth things out somehow with the company."

Of course, now that you've promised the moon, you have to somehow trick the Triumvir to believe that the asteroid is in fact a lunar object. How are you going to do this?

PLAN OF ACTION
[]- THE SPY: Fuck it, time to slack off. Or, well, shift your focus. Obviously, ferreting out those disgusting states rights traitors is more important than making sure the Triumvirate gets their next shipment on time. You have every ounce of trust in the brilliance of the fighting man, which will allow them to stretch current stores. In the meantime, traitors don't rest, and neither will you.
[]- SICK LEAVE: Fuck it, you'll break your legs. Or, well, engage in a systematic offlining of several crucial bodily functions and take sick leave. You can't do everything from a hospital bed, so you can spend all your sick leave for two, three months, which should give you enough time for the factories to finish a regular delivery.
[]- TAKE THE MONEY AND RUN: Fuck it. It's an impossibility. You've talked about how useless running is before, but at this point, Cylange, it's your head on a platter either way. Pack some money, pack your clothes, and up sticks for more barbaric climes where they still don't have a non extradition treaty with the EMPIRE.
[]- ITS HIS FAULT: Fuck it, you have an expedited descending vertical career move in mind. Which is to say, a lot of the people in your way to Operations Director have credible reasons to sabotage the Triumvirate. It would be a convenient shame if they were discovered hindering the war effort, wouldn't it? Yeah, you like this plan.

"Grand. Oh, and don't forget. You do have a meeting at the Rose. We'll have a follow up meeting pretty soon." The fucking plant leans back with a grin you'd just love to wipe off his face, which you physically can't, because his augs are military, your's are civilian.