The arrival of a significant portion of the Collace Home Fleet was a pleasant surprise. The arrival of Harold, however, seemed ominous. The boarding party that arrived to escort the party back to the flagship was also not considered a good sign.

Alexander was hurried off to the Battleship's medical center for preliminary treatment. The rest of the party was separated, assigned debriefing officers, and began a process that was almost as unpleasant as it was long.

The following is an email I sent to Chris that detailed the specifics of Alexander's interview.

___________________________________________

A part of you knows the exact dosage and drug that was given to you. The symptoms are obvious, blurred vision, paralysis of the major muscle groups, feelings of goodwill and peacefulness - you have prescribed it on a number of occasions yourself, mostly during your residency days dealing with borderline psychotic patients.

You are strapped into a gravchair, being escorted through the corridors of a large ship. You can hear the beepings and electronic chuckling of a medical diagnostic unit, and the warm feeling in your arm as it delivers it's various drugs into your system.

A part of you doesn't care what is happening - succumbing to the chemical embrace of the drug.

You take in the uniforms of the men surrounding you, all members of of the Grissom Household Guard. Some of the faces are familiar to you - all members of Harold's personal retinue, none of your own are present. They bring the chair to a halt in front of a cabin door, one that is well known to you.

A part of you is screaming.

The diagnostic unit chuckles a bit more, and adjusts your medication.

*********

You are moved into position in front and to the left of Harold's desk, there is another grav chair on the other side. Harold sits at his desk, going over a report of some sort. One of many that cover his desk, you can see a pile of papers off to his right under a paperweight. There is what appears to be a missile seeker head and other pieces of equipment on a cart on one side of his desk, another cart holds a array of charred, twisted equipment.

In an idle sort of way, you note that Harold looks a bit stressed ... pale. Perhaps he should get to spend some time in one of these really cool chairs.

"This is a farce." he hisses, picking up one of the documents in front of him, "Did you truely expect _this_ to protect you once this mission was over?"

With a start you realize that this is not how Harold looks when he is stressed, this is how he looks when he is angry. Really, really angry. As your vision sharpens on the moment, you note that the paperweight is a autopistol and his hand, while fisting and pounding on the desk in emphasis to his words, nevers strays far from it.

The diagnostic unit chuckles again, and adjusts your medication.

Harold really needs one of these.

You hear some mumbling from the other chair, it's the Darrian woman, from the low berth. The sheer volume of medical equipment piled on the back of her chair is ... daunting. You feel the sudden urge to peek over your shoulder and compare loadouts.

Harold is suddenly standing, leaning over the desk, "Your legal officer be damned and so are you!" His hand is wrapping itself around the pistol - at his side a staff officer is urgently talking to him.

Harold glares at him for a moment.

He sits, releasing the pistol.

"If Thresson signed this, he was an idiot. I don't think he was, but we can't prove that now, can we? Since it appears to have been legally registered, then I'm informed we must abide by it.

I am also informed by my medical staff that the information that you have given them regarding my brother's ...condition... has proved invaluable with regards to setting up a recovery program. A point in your favor.

However, and you may tell this to your Arbitrator, or whatever you call your commander - you made a mistake coming here to hunt Grissom. Don't bother telling me you didn't know, I don't care."

Harold sits back, glaring.

"Major!", he barks.

"Sir!", the officer at his side snaps to attention.

"Official pronouncement - record this."

The officer makes an adjustment to a unit on his belt, "Ready, Sir."

"I, Harold Grissom, speaking for my father, the Count, as his Voice, do name Maryem Tale Fornada a persona non gratis. Effective at 1800 hours on this date. End recording."

The officer makes another adjustment, "It's off, sir".

Another mumbled statement from the other grav chair.

"Yes, you may appeal this pronouncement to the Count, my father. I expect that the courier ship carrying your appeal will take anywhere from eight to sixteen weeks to make the round trip." Harold glances at his watch, "I'd recommend that you pay for rush delivery."

More mumbling from the grav chair.

"Ahhh. Paragraph 14. Yes, there is a guarentee about repatriation to the nearest friendly or neutral territory in the event the host government turns hostile."

A glance at Harold would convince anyone that the government has, indeed, turned hostile.

"Your Starmerc unit is registered through the Darrian Confederation, and you yourself are listed as a Darrian citizen. As it happens, your government maintains a consulate here. That consulate is, by definition, Darrian territory. You will be delivered there immediately."

More mumbling.

"Unfortunately, our application to the Imperium has not yet been approved - indeed, if my read on Imperial politics and current events is correct, it may never be approved. Therefore I feel no pressing need to follow the interpretation of an Imperial Court over the definition of 'Territory', and my legal officer has informed me that there is no pre-existing District definition of territory. In the absence of an established precident, you will have to accept mine ... however, if you wish to appeal to my father, the Count ... no?

Take her away."

Two combat-armored troopers come into the room and remove the grav chair. Harold taps a control on his desk, "Lt. Marcusson, come in here."

The door opens and another officer enters the room and braces to attention.

"Prepare a Note to the Darrian ambassador expressing our Count's displeasure at finding a Darrian unit involved in this matter. Attach the file that links the Sword Worlds as the employer of the unit. Record everything, I doubt a Darrian unit could be operating here without *someone* in the consulate being aware of it ... but I want to know how much the ambassador was aware of.

Also, I want 4 Marines at every entrace to that Consulate. They are to be polite to anyone entering or leaving and not to interfere with legitimate consulate business ... but if that woman tries to exit the grounds in anything but the diplomatic bag, I want her arrested and taken back to Collace for trial.

Dismissed."

"Sir!"

"Everyone out. I need to ... chat ... with my brother. Sgt. Major, attend me for a moment, if you will."

There is a pause while all the officers and medical staff file out. Harold goes over to a fish tank in the corner of the room and adjusts the filters.

"S'Maj, put together a team. This could get ... dirty, and I want to clean house."

"Aye Aye, Har...", the Sgt flicks his eyes over to you, "ummm, Yes my Lord."

"Don't worry about him. But I want this starmerc unit to know that when they take a hunting license out on Grissoms, they are going to get burned. Remember though, you'll be shooting over the shoulders of some good men out there, so pick a good shot."

"Well, now that the Colonel is back ..."

"Not him. He's too involved and too likely to be recognized. Did we bring Ramirez with us?"

"No, his daughter was getting married, he requested leave before we left. We have Appleton and Ferris along."

"Appleton is an explosives man, he needs too much setup time for this type of job. Use Ferris."

"Yes sir."

"She has to be off Darrian Territory before the shot is called - make sure you have a good spotter for this S'Maj."

"No prob, sir."

A pinch more food into the tank

"Put Appleton on standby. If the Ambassador was in the loop ..."

Unnoticed, the can of fishfood is crushed as Harold makes a fist.

"Then we'll really clean house."

"Sir."

The Sgt. Major exits the room. Harold tosses the deformed can of food into a waste bin, and brushes off his hands.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

That was, essentially, part 1. I sent the second half a bit later

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Harold brushes the last of the fish food from his hands and resumes his seat, looking at you intently.

"Alex ... I won't ask how you are. The drugs my doctors have you on, unfortunately, preclude civilized discourse.

I'm also told that this meeting could possibly play to your worst fears. I am to calm and reassure you. Be reassured. You are among family, no one can get to you here."

A slight sneer flickers across his face, possibly a smile?

"And if that medicomp hasn't calmed you down as yet, you have a better constitution than your records indicate."

Casually he picks the autopistol up from the desktop and deposits it into a drawer. He then walks over to a viewport and stands a moment, looking out at the stars. When he speaks, he has his back to you.

"Father was a bit put out with me, when he returned. He had expected to find you on Collace, where he could discuss the alliance and it's implications for the District to you himself.

I think it bothered him as much that *I* sent you here, as that he hadn't considered you might be able to resolve this ... mess ... on your own. I will admit that he was right, more than one small ship was needed to stabilize the situation." Harold turns around and faces you, "but _you_ pretty much had the planetary situation in hand. If I had dispensed with the advance team and had sent you straight here, my task force may well *not* have been needed.

Don't forget that, little brother. You did quite well."

He turns back to the view port, hands clasped behind his back.

"Father has also become increasingly concerned about the rumours that I might be ... concerned with your health, as it were. I must admit, such talk doesn't bother me, and it promotes an image and perception of me that I find ... useful. Most people are not quite sure whether or not they are true, and have no wish to find out for sure."

He is silent for a moment, turning to look at you through narrowed eyes.

"We talked about you at length, and this show of force was intended as much to quash those rumours as it was to shore up the defenses in this system."

Harold gestures vaguely out the port, " Father has been increasingly uneasy about the Imperial situation ... and again, he was right. So we are on our own out here, Alex. With what we have, right now ... and it's not enough."

Harold leans back in his chair, quiet for the moment.

"We need the starport at Flammarion, Alex. Between the Sword Worlds up here and the Aslan down there, we need that third shipyard putting hulls into space. And ..."

Harold gets back up and walks over to the viewport.

"I am our father's heir, Alexander. When he passes on, I _will_ inherit the Countship." he turns, facing you, hands clasped behind his back, "I will not allow *anything* to come between me and that ... I hope you understand."

He turns back to the port.

"But Father has pointed out, rightly so, that I will never have children of my body.

Oh ... there are surgical procedures that would result in the child being 'mine', but there are some in the District who would never accept that.

Myself included. That chance for me died with Elyn."

He is silent for a moment.

"This is difficult for me, so listen to what I am saying, not how I say it. Father has instructed me to tell you that, as a condition of our alliance with Flammarion, any child born of your marriage will be considered as my heir."

He turns again, facing you. "Your child will inherit the Countship from me, Alexander. I will see to it that he or she inherits a strong District. And if you allow me to see to the child's training and education, I will promise you that no action of mine will prevent you from seeing that happen."

Harold walks over, by your chair. "There will be much to do, over the next few years - and as you have proven yourself capable of dealing with problems, I imagine you will be kept quite busy. But I think you will find the work ... challenging. And worthwhile. Not all of it will be safe, not even I can promise that.

Would you see your child hold the District? Think on it, talk with me when you are able."

He walks around his desk and touchs a control.

"If it helps at all ... Father had this much worked out before he left - before you came to Elixabeth. Maybe not about using you as a district troubleshooter, but a good share of it."

He nods to the two uniformed men, "Return him to sickbay, if you will. I'll see the Marquis' widow in five minutes." He returns stand to before the viewport, his back to you as you are whisked away.