Post by Kalgachi Envoy on Mar 5, 2018 18:21:31 GMT
(OOC: I felt the resumption of OIEC operations warranted a plotless literary vignette)
"Oy. They beat this place up pretty good, eh?"
So said Tobias Wulframberg, the OIEC's Director of Commodity Sourcing, as he surveyed the remains of the airstrip at Port Neil. The chill wind and leaden overcast only added to the grimness of the place, blemished as it was with the mangled ruins of destroyed hangars and a row of conspicuous patches on the runway where craters from Shirerithian missiles had been hastily filled to get the air traffic flowing again. Whether by hidden diplomatic menoeuvrings or sheer blind luck, the OIEC's own hangar was one of the few survivors of the Shirerithian raids that had briefly descended on this place during the recent stalled war. Through the hangar's open doors, the flicker and glow of orange light could be seen playing against the interior as salvaged metal from the destroyed hangers was cut up for scrap. These were destined for Kalgachia, whence the rumour had come that the Directorate of Labour and Economic Planning, the OIEC's partial owner and largest customer, would soon be paying generously for steel without much care for recouping the cost with the sale of Kalgachi trinkets. The word from Benacia was that Kalgachia's raids to purloin and stockpile metal from the ruins of Minarboria had finally rounded the curve of diminishing returns and other sources were being considered.
Negotiations to acquire this detritus of war for Kalgachia had been, in the cirucumstances, the only viable option to address the new demand. At the head office in Newcastle-upon-Eastmoor, OIEC chairman Aelfred Tanner had almost offered Wulframberg out for a fight when the latter suggested that the corporation was in a position to outbid most Nova English firms for new raw materials, diverting them from the repair of Nova England's war-dented infrastructure and exporting them to Kalgachia instead. The very notion of denying vital air to the glowing coals of national renewal, as Tanner had put it, was the latest in a long line of perceived insults from Wulframberg whom he had gone on to charcaterise as a "lizard-eyed Benacian yid" among other creative epithets, prompting a physical de-escalation by the corporation's legal director, Nigel Noughscytt, before the boardroom could erupt in a brawl. The following morning, after the ale had worn off, trite apologies had been exchanged and Noughcytt had suggested that Wulframberg head down to Port Neil with the director of Nova English operations, Roger Godniht - ostensibly to coordinate the resumption of goods transit with Kalgachia after its interruption by the war, but mainly to clear the air in the boardroom.
Godniht, for his part, had seen the trip as an oppurtunity to impart a few friendly home truths to Wulframberg over an ale or two at the inn where they were lodged. As with previous such excursions, this had predictably degenerated into a pub crawl along the seafront culminating sometime well after midnight with the declaration of both men to every passer-by within earshot that they were the best mates on all Micras, and anyone who disagreed could step up for the beating they deserved. Thankfully they were ignored by most witnesses, many of whom were rolling around in a similar state of inebriation due to having survived the Shirerithian onslaught or else grieving for those they had lost.
The following morning, armed with swimming headaches, the men had grudgingly made their way to the airstrip where Wulframberg had noticed the ruined hangars and made a few discreet enquiries about what was happening to those parts which were beyond repair. Upon being informed that he was "fockin' welcome to it", he had visited the nearby OIEC field office and thrown his weight around in threats and Kalgarrand until a mixture of bewildered office clerks and local labourers were suitably motivated to start moving the spagetti-like heaps of twisted girders and bent corrugated sheeting to the corporation's hangar.
It was only now, having retreated to watch the whole operation from a distance, that Wulframberg appeciated the full scale of the damage and made his comment to Godniht.
"Nothin' they won't put right in a couple more weeks, like," said Godniht, taking a nip from his hip flask and passing it to Wulframberg. "Hair o' the dog?"
"Much obliged," said Wulframberg, tipping a generous few glugs of Stalemate Gin down his throat and passing the flask back. "I need it in this cold. Did you get hold of the dispatcher?"
"Aye... he's still sortin' through what's left of the control tower. Found him by a smashed-up filing cabinet, arse-deep in cargo manifests and flight plans and whatnot. Said the radio room got a faint message from our flight an hour ago. Running late 'cause of a headwind, like."
"No news on cargo then?"
"Nope. It's a mystery. Prob'ly passengers though."
"What makes you say that?"
"Won't be a demand for gold bracelets around here, like. No bugger's in the mood. Asides, there's a few Nova English had their Kalgachi ski holidays prolonged by this war. Wandering round your mountains with their thumbs up their arses. They'll be the priority to fly back here."
"I guess that explains why I didn't get a signal about it. I can't sell passengers on. Still, they could have let me know anyway."
"Not to insult your wit, like, but they probably thought you'd figure it out yourself."
"It's no way to run a company though, is it?"
"Not much I can do about that, Tobe. Save it for Alf and his mates back in Newcastle."
"Yes but-" Wulframberg's persistence was interrupted by the sight of a bright light in the distant sky, gently descending below the cloudbase.
"A plane," said Godniht, somewhat redundantly. As its landing gear sunk into place, the plane appeared to change its engine throttle, causing a pall of thick brown smoke to spurt from its engines. "One of ours," Godniht added.
Kalgachia's flag airline, El-Kal, had recently experimented with the fuel composition on its aircraft and realised that their planes could run on the synthetic hydrocarbons produced by Kalgachia's fast-growing chemical engineering industry. It had been promised that a combination of mineral refinement, pyrolysis, nuclear transmutation, alchemical incantation and ridiculous amounts of geothermal electricity could turn Kalgachia's inert geological substrata into a product indistinguishable from high-spec jet turbine fuel, but such things seemed perpetually delayed from materialising. It had been found, however, that the rugged Jingdaoese-built engines of El Kal's planes could function on the weak, impurity-ridden kerosene which had thus far been invented - a source of infuriation to the Jingdaoese maintenance contractors tasked with cleaning the soot-caked innards of said engines, but at least the planes were running on a Kalgachi-produced fuel and the sacrifice of their engines' service life on the altar of that nation's autarky had been deemed entirely justifiable by the El Kal management, shot through as it was with the same caste of Troglodyte arcanists involved in the new fuel's synthesis.
Now the plane braced its final approach against the freezing crosswind, wobbled down and slammed onto the runway, its engines screaming in reverse thrust and throwing up yet more smoke as it slowed and lurched onto a taxiway. Wulframberg and Godniht took a walk back to the OIEC hangar to meet it - by the time they arrived, the boarding stairs had been trundled up and the first passengers were disembarking; a mixture of Nova English ski tourists whose jaws hung aghast at the sight of the half-ruined aerodrome, and Kalgachis with body warmers and stalking hats destined for game hunting excursions in the Nova English interior. The aircraft's great nose door, which might have disgorged more substantial cargo, remained resolutely closed.
"See," said Godniht. "Told you." He waited for the last passengers to shuffle down the steps before racing up them himself, followed by Wulframberg who was out of breath by the time he reached the top.
The El Kal steward at the aircraft door, a Lywaller of typically jolly countenance, recognised Godniht and braced to attention. "Ah mister Godniht!" he chirped. "Welcome aboard sir!"
"Awright Pert," said Godniht. "They free up front?" he nodded to the closed cockpit door.
"They're just finishing up their shutdown checklist," said Pert with a sheepish pout. "Can I help you with anything?"
"I want you to meet mister Wolframberg, our Director of Commodity Sourcing." He watched Wolframberg and Pert exchange handshakes before continuing. "He didn't get a copy of the incoming manifest and he wants to know what you brought us today."
"Only those jolly souls down there," said Pert, indicating the disembarked passangers filing across the flight line. "Oh and two thousand Kalgarrand in a suitcase. A liquidity aid for your head office, I gather."
"More like beer money," said a voice behind him. From the cockpit door, now open, the aircraft's pilot was smirking at Godniht. "How are you doing, Roger?"
"Nephil!" said Godniht, stepping foward to greet the pilot. "I had a feelin' they'd send you first, you old bastard! It's been too long. I'm told you have to fly through some place called Kasterburg these days?"
"Indeed," said the pilot. "And very pleasant it is too. We didn't get jetwashed by a single Shirerithian fighter plane."
There was a flutter of laughter from all present, before the pilot was introduced to Wulframberg. In the meantime, the steward Pert had briefly disappeared and returned with the suitcase full of Kalgarrand and a printed form. "I'm afraid I must ask you to sign for this, sir," he said. "After what happened last time."
"Christ on a bike," said Godniht. "I thought you Ketherists didn't like cynicism. Oh well..." he took the proferred pen and put a scribble across the bottom of the form before turning back to the pilot. "Listen, Nephil, my old cocker," he said, "I've got a favour to ask ya. You're due to take on scrap metal for your return trip but our hangar's gonna be full in an hour or two. Any chance you can fly some out immediately? We need the space, see."
"I'm afraid not," said Nephil. "The boys and I have been up eighteen hours already and we brought no relief crew for an immediate turnaround. But we can pop the nose door and let you load some on if you like. It'll get us away quicker in the morning."
"That'll do us," said Godniht. "I s'pose this means you fellahs can't join us for a drink before you turn in."
"Oh I don't know," said Nephil, smirking. "I think we can hold off the sandman long enough to sink a Fréamiht or two. Please don't tell me the bombing took out the Mariners' Inn."
"Nah, they only got their windows dashed in. They'll be glad to see you again... and yer money!"
"Money?" said Nephil, his tongue in his cheek. "Who said I'd be the one paying?"
"Yer a sod," said Godniht as the others laughed. "But I'm glad yer back."
So said Tobias Wulframberg, the OIEC's Director of Commodity Sourcing, as he surveyed the remains of the airstrip at Port Neil. The chill wind and leaden overcast only added to the grimness of the place, blemished as it was with the mangled ruins of destroyed hangars and a row of conspicuous patches on the runway where craters from Shirerithian missiles had been hastily filled to get the air traffic flowing again. Whether by hidden diplomatic menoeuvrings or sheer blind luck, the OIEC's own hangar was one of the few survivors of the Shirerithian raids that had briefly descended on this place during the recent stalled war. Through the hangar's open doors, the flicker and glow of orange light could be seen playing against the interior as salvaged metal from the destroyed hangers was cut up for scrap. These were destined for Kalgachia, whence the rumour had come that the Directorate of Labour and Economic Planning, the OIEC's partial owner and largest customer, would soon be paying generously for steel without much care for recouping the cost with the sale of Kalgachi trinkets. The word from Benacia was that Kalgachia's raids to purloin and stockpile metal from the ruins of Minarboria had finally rounded the curve of diminishing returns and other sources were being considered.
Negotiations to acquire this detritus of war for Kalgachia had been, in the cirucumstances, the only viable option to address the new demand. At the head office in Newcastle-upon-Eastmoor, OIEC chairman Aelfred Tanner had almost offered Wulframberg out for a fight when the latter suggested that the corporation was in a position to outbid most Nova English firms for new raw materials, diverting them from the repair of Nova England's war-dented infrastructure and exporting them to Kalgachia instead. The very notion of denying vital air to the glowing coals of national renewal, as Tanner had put it, was the latest in a long line of perceived insults from Wulframberg whom he had gone on to charcaterise as a "lizard-eyed Benacian yid" among other creative epithets, prompting a physical de-escalation by the corporation's legal director, Nigel Noughscytt, before the boardroom could erupt in a brawl. The following morning, after the ale had worn off, trite apologies had been exchanged and Noughcytt had suggested that Wulframberg head down to Port Neil with the director of Nova English operations, Roger Godniht - ostensibly to coordinate the resumption of goods transit with Kalgachia after its interruption by the war, but mainly to clear the air in the boardroom.
Godniht, for his part, had seen the trip as an oppurtunity to impart a few friendly home truths to Wulframberg over an ale or two at the inn where they were lodged. As with previous such excursions, this had predictably degenerated into a pub crawl along the seafront culminating sometime well after midnight with the declaration of both men to every passer-by within earshot that they were the best mates on all Micras, and anyone who disagreed could step up for the beating they deserved. Thankfully they were ignored by most witnesses, many of whom were rolling around in a similar state of inebriation due to having survived the Shirerithian onslaught or else grieving for those they had lost.
The following morning, armed with swimming headaches, the men had grudgingly made their way to the airstrip where Wulframberg had noticed the ruined hangars and made a few discreet enquiries about what was happening to those parts which were beyond repair. Upon being informed that he was "fockin' welcome to it", he had visited the nearby OIEC field office and thrown his weight around in threats and Kalgarrand until a mixture of bewildered office clerks and local labourers were suitably motivated to start moving the spagetti-like heaps of twisted girders and bent corrugated sheeting to the corporation's hangar.
It was only now, having retreated to watch the whole operation from a distance, that Wulframberg appeciated the full scale of the damage and made his comment to Godniht.
"Nothin' they won't put right in a couple more weeks, like," said Godniht, taking a nip from his hip flask and passing it to Wulframberg. "Hair o' the dog?"
"Much obliged," said Wulframberg, tipping a generous few glugs of Stalemate Gin down his throat and passing the flask back. "I need it in this cold. Did you get hold of the dispatcher?"
"Aye... he's still sortin' through what's left of the control tower. Found him by a smashed-up filing cabinet, arse-deep in cargo manifests and flight plans and whatnot. Said the radio room got a faint message from our flight an hour ago. Running late 'cause of a headwind, like."
"No news on cargo then?"
"Nope. It's a mystery. Prob'ly passengers though."
"What makes you say that?"
"Won't be a demand for gold bracelets around here, like. No bugger's in the mood. Asides, there's a few Nova English had their Kalgachi ski holidays prolonged by this war. Wandering round your mountains with their thumbs up their arses. They'll be the priority to fly back here."
"I guess that explains why I didn't get a signal about it. I can't sell passengers on. Still, they could have let me know anyway."
"Not to insult your wit, like, but they probably thought you'd figure it out yourself."
"It's no way to run a company though, is it?"
"Not much I can do about that, Tobe. Save it for Alf and his mates back in Newcastle."
"Yes but-" Wulframberg's persistence was interrupted by the sight of a bright light in the distant sky, gently descending below the cloudbase.
"A plane," said Godniht, somewhat redundantly. As its landing gear sunk into place, the plane appeared to change its engine throttle, causing a pall of thick brown smoke to spurt from its engines. "One of ours," Godniht added.
Kalgachia's flag airline, El-Kal, had recently experimented with the fuel composition on its aircraft and realised that their planes could run on the synthetic hydrocarbons produced by Kalgachia's fast-growing chemical engineering industry. It had been promised that a combination of mineral refinement, pyrolysis, nuclear transmutation, alchemical incantation and ridiculous amounts of geothermal electricity could turn Kalgachia's inert geological substrata into a product indistinguishable from high-spec jet turbine fuel, but such things seemed perpetually delayed from materialising. It had been found, however, that the rugged Jingdaoese-built engines of El Kal's planes could function on the weak, impurity-ridden kerosene which had thus far been invented - a source of infuriation to the Jingdaoese maintenance contractors tasked with cleaning the soot-caked innards of said engines, but at least the planes were running on a Kalgachi-produced fuel and the sacrifice of their engines' service life on the altar of that nation's autarky had been deemed entirely justifiable by the El Kal management, shot through as it was with the same caste of Troglodyte arcanists involved in the new fuel's synthesis.
Now the plane braced its final approach against the freezing crosswind, wobbled down and slammed onto the runway, its engines screaming in reverse thrust and throwing up yet more smoke as it slowed and lurched onto a taxiway. Wulframberg and Godniht took a walk back to the OIEC hangar to meet it - by the time they arrived, the boarding stairs had been trundled up and the first passengers were disembarking; a mixture of Nova English ski tourists whose jaws hung aghast at the sight of the half-ruined aerodrome, and Kalgachis with body warmers and stalking hats destined for game hunting excursions in the Nova English interior. The aircraft's great nose door, which might have disgorged more substantial cargo, remained resolutely closed.
"See," said Godniht. "Told you." He waited for the last passengers to shuffle down the steps before racing up them himself, followed by Wulframberg who was out of breath by the time he reached the top.
The El Kal steward at the aircraft door, a Lywaller of typically jolly countenance, recognised Godniht and braced to attention. "Ah mister Godniht!" he chirped. "Welcome aboard sir!"
"Awright Pert," said Godniht. "They free up front?" he nodded to the closed cockpit door.
"They're just finishing up their shutdown checklist," said Pert with a sheepish pout. "Can I help you with anything?"
"I want you to meet mister Wolframberg, our Director of Commodity Sourcing." He watched Wolframberg and Pert exchange handshakes before continuing. "He didn't get a copy of the incoming manifest and he wants to know what you brought us today."
"Only those jolly souls down there," said Pert, indicating the disembarked passangers filing across the flight line. "Oh and two thousand Kalgarrand in a suitcase. A liquidity aid for your head office, I gather."
"More like beer money," said a voice behind him. From the cockpit door, now open, the aircraft's pilot was smirking at Godniht. "How are you doing, Roger?"
"Nephil!" said Godniht, stepping foward to greet the pilot. "I had a feelin' they'd send you first, you old bastard! It's been too long. I'm told you have to fly through some place called Kasterburg these days?"
"Indeed," said the pilot. "And very pleasant it is too. We didn't get jetwashed by a single Shirerithian fighter plane."
There was a flutter of laughter from all present, before the pilot was introduced to Wulframberg. In the meantime, the steward Pert had briefly disappeared and returned with the suitcase full of Kalgarrand and a printed form. "I'm afraid I must ask you to sign for this, sir," he said. "After what happened last time."
"Christ on a bike," said Godniht. "I thought you Ketherists didn't like cynicism. Oh well..." he took the proferred pen and put a scribble across the bottom of the form before turning back to the pilot. "Listen, Nephil, my old cocker," he said, "I've got a favour to ask ya. You're due to take on scrap metal for your return trip but our hangar's gonna be full in an hour or two. Any chance you can fly some out immediately? We need the space, see."
"I'm afraid not," said Nephil. "The boys and I have been up eighteen hours already and we brought no relief crew for an immediate turnaround. But we can pop the nose door and let you load some on if you like. It'll get us away quicker in the morning."
"That'll do us," said Godniht. "I s'pose this means you fellahs can't join us for a drink before you turn in."
"Oh I don't know," said Nephil, smirking. "I think we can hold off the sandman long enough to sink a Fréamiht or two. Please don't tell me the bombing took out the Mariners' Inn."
"Nah, they only got their windows dashed in. They'll be glad to see you again... and yer money!"
"Money?" said Nephil, his tongue in his cheek. "Who said I'd be the one paying?"
"Yer a sod," said Godniht as the others laughed. "But I'm glad yer back."
