Hopping out of the night-blue taxi skycar, Captain Lucas Mitchell quickly surveyed the situation in front of the gate of the Auroran Embassy, the backwash of the ‘car taking off again fluttering his caramel-coloured day dress overcoat. As a courtesy from the Myndowan Reichstag, the Embassy had been allowed to rent a walled manor house in west central Lemberg as their main embassy hub. Naturally there were numerous Auroran consulates spread across Tschornohora, since it was a planet with a population of around eight hundred million people, but the main embassy was located in Lemberg. An Avant-Gothic architectural building complex with small spires, tall archways, and crenelated awnings in an almost Venetian Gothic style, it also had a crenelated, mostly decorative wall surrounding the buildings and the gardens within. Six hundred people worked at the Embassy, but only about a hundred and fifty were Aurorans; the rest were carefully vetted locals or a few foreign specialists from the Royal Union, like a few Antiochenes, Corinthians and Valerians.

The security detail Captain Mitchell was in charge of was a hodgepodge mix of about twenty soldiers from the Royal Auroran Army and some sixty local private security personnel. These were in charge of protecting the embassy itself and its personnel, while the Lemberg Polizei had the overall responsibility of ensuring the safety of the outside of the embassy and restrict access to it. But at the closed embassy gates, there was a lot more police than normal. As Mitchell walked up the piedway towards the gates from the small skycar landing pad he counted no less than nine police ‘cars and five unmarked big black groundvans, plus a throng of about forty Polizei and a few unknown people in black unidresses that looked a bit like the base battle dress of the Royal Army, but they lacked any sort of insignia. They were mobbing the gate, which was closed and behind it Mitchell could see the steely-eyed faces of Private Zhukova (2nd Btn, New Kherson Regiment [Royal Kitezh]) and Lance Corporal O’Malley (1st Btn, Royal Auroran Irish Light Infantry [The Royal Findias]), and the slightly more panicked face of his 2-i-C, Lieutenant Banner-Smyth (19th Field Battalion, Royal Drone Regiment). Still wearing his caramel-and-red dress uniform, Captain Mitchell elbowed his way through the crowd of local constables, the shouts of protests devolving into angry grunts as they recognised his uniform and rank; the three golden Auroran stars on his shoulder straps and arm cuffs made them stifle back their comments.

“Embassy chief of security,” he said in a voice that was used to being obeyed, “coming through, stand back please.” Mitchell didn’t bother being polite and use German, he was thoroughly miffed at having his evening ruined and even more annoyed at this unseemly gathering in front of a sacrosanct diplomatic location. A particularly large unmoving policeman that towered over him, wearing a night-blue plate carrier over his black uniform, stared down at him. Mitchell stared back for a full three seconds before the police brute sneered and stepped aside.

“Much obliged,” the captain replied with mock courtesy, and stepped up to the closed gate. Lieutenant Leon Banner-Smyth hurriedly walked over. Mitchell noted that all three of the Auroran soldiers at the gate were dressed in their multi-shift pattern camo battle dresses, protection armour suits, and plate carriers. They still wore their respective regimental berets on their heads, but their integrated tactical helmets hung from their harness belts, and their long SLARA battle rifles were unslung. There were a also half a dozen unarmed private security guards dressed in deep green uniforms and civilian variants of the Myndowan Imperial Army’s plate carrier, but they looked even more uncomfortable than the Aurorans.

“What the devil is going on here, Lieutenant?” Mitchell hissed through the bars of the closed gate.

“Sir, I wish I could tell you,” the decade younger subaltern responded in a heavy Avalonian accent which was tinged with more than a bit of stress.

“About thirty minutes ago two figures came up to the gate, a very tall foreigner and a local scared almost out his mind. The police guards wanted to deny them entry, but we…”

“Speaking of entry,” Mitchell interjected, “how about you open the gate and let me in.”

“Sir,” Private Zhukova said from behind the lieutenant, “the local constabulary might try to force entrance.”

“That’s why you're here, Maria,” Mitchell countered and cast a caustic glance over his shoulder, “and if any of these goons try to barge their way into His Auroran Majesty’s Embassy, there’ll be hell to pay. Now get me inside please.”

Zhukova and Banner-Smyth looked at each other for a few moments, before O’Malley sprang into action and stepped inside the small guard booth by the side of the gateway and pressed the admittance button. The gate started to move in its magnetic slide and the Myndowan police started to shift and move, but Mitchell turned around, straightened his back and adjusted his caramel-and-red visored cap, the golden star of Euryphaessa in the cap’s centre.

“This is an embassy building, ladies and gentlemen of the Lemberg Polizei, and as such is under the protection of interstellar custom of diplomatic immunity. No figure of planetary law enforcement, armed services, or executors of state-mandated violence is admitted access. I suggest you respect this and stay well clear.”

There were incoherent shouts of disagreement and threats in English, German, and Hungarian, but Mitchell paid them no heed and slipped inside the gate as soon as the opening was wide enough. Once through, O’Malley hit the button to close it again, and a few of the more driven/less capable at understanding English police officers walked straight up to the closing gates and half-heartedly tried to keep them open before abandoning the attempt. Mitchell noted that another of those black unmarked vans had arrived, and another five unidressed people disembarked. He wiped sweat from his eyebrows in a nonchalant manner before turning back to Banner-Smyth.

“From the top, Lieutenant,” he said and started to remove his overcoat and cap, and grabbed the pistol-harness Zhukova was offering him with an appreciative nod.

“Sir,” the youthful lieutenant responded, “as I said, about half an hour ago two individuals approached the gate, demanding entry. Private Zhukova here was the only one on watch, and she immediately hit the ‘Uh-oh’ button to summon whatever security staff to the gate, but admitted them.”

“Only the local actually entered, sir,” Zhukova said, back half-turned to Mitchell and Banner-Smyth as she had returned to her post of guarding the gate, her SLARA hanging by an elastic strap from her plate carrier, but both hands were firmly gripping the long and menacing rifle.

“The tall one said something akin to ‘I have done my bit’, and left in a rental skycar.”

“And the local who actually came inside? Have they been debriefed?”

“Sir, he’s with Private Laksheema in the reception hall, awaiting the arrival of more senior embassy staff,” Banner-Smyth said, wincing a bit as a Polizei gravscout skimmed overhead, silent sirens beaming blue and white across the green courtyard. One of the local security officers turned and ran towards the main embassy building.

“Speaking of which,” Mitchell said as he finished fastening the harness and checked the gun-grey .28 pistol, ensuring a round was chambered and lock secured before putting it back in its holster, “where is Sir Pietro? We need the ambassador to deal with… whatever this situation is.”

“Sir,” O’Malley replied in his unmistakably Northern Irish accent, “Ambassador Orlov is in Fallenstach for the weekend, hence the reduced security. I thought you knew this?”

I did actually know that, damnit, Mitchell kicked himself mentally, but it sort of slipped my mind, because I’ve been planning this theatre outing with sweet Natalya for three weeks, the details of why I had a weekend off was sort of secondary.

“Sorry, David,” he said out loud, “it must have slipped my mind momentarily. Alright, so no Sir Pietro, what about the Plenipotentiary?”

“Sir,” Banner-Smyth replied, “Dr Auguste Lewenhaupt should be on his way from the Kaiserin’s birthday celebrations, as is Dame Sylvia and Captain Barham, but they’d apparently already left before this situation started to develop.”

New commotion on the wrong side of the gates caught the soldiers’ attention. A pair of Myndowans (“Germans” if Mitchell had to guess from their phenotypes) dressed in government-issue black suits and black ties had spread the sea of law enforcement officers, and walked with confident steps up to the gate. O’Malley and Zhukova tightened the grip on their battle rifles. The pair –a man and a woman– stopped just a few feet from the gate itself, and the female cleared her throat.

“Im Befehl der Regierung seiner kaiserlichen Majestät,” the woman declared loudly, her voice amplified by some sort of unseen audio device, possibly a pocket-size loudspeaker drone, “hand over the criminal seeking illegal refuge in an interstellar diplomatic compound. His presence is unjustified, and is in transgression of several national and interstellar laws.”

Mitchell half-turned to look at Banner-Smyth, who simply shrugged in his heavy military uniform.

“I can’t tell you anything to neither confirm, nor contradict that statement, sir,” he said.

“All I know is that a Myndowan came through this gate, escorted by a much taller male which was obviously from off-world, but they both emphasised the importance that the Myndowan was allowed inside.”

“I want to speak with this person, right now,” Mitchell said, his tone not really brokering any natural protest, and Banner-Smyth nodded, pointing him towards the east wing of the main embassy building.

“Get everyone who’s on-site out here fully armed,” Mitchell said over his shoulder as he started striding across the green grass of the expensive embassy garden, not giving a damn about the heavy boot-marks he left in his tracks.

“I want these gates secured, and for the love of God, don’t talk to the local police before the Plenipotentiary shows up. I don’t want soldiers taking the spot of diplomats, history knows that has only brought misery.”

Private Donavan (2nd Btn, Duke of Richmond’s Own Light Infantry) and two more local security guards ran past Captain Mitchell as he opened the door into the main reception hall of the Auroran Embassy, the private barely taking a moment to salute their superior officer before ensuring their SLARA rifle was correctly secured and headed towards the gate. Mitchell shrugged the encounter off and continued further into the building. The interior was as Avant-Gothic as the exterior, with inlaid marble columns over carpeted decorative stone floors which seemed really cold to a true Auroran like Lucas Mitchell who’d grown up in houses and apartments with light wood panelling and large windows. But interior design was pretty far from his mind at this point in time.

“The interloper, where are they?” he asked as a confused local staffer who’d quite evidently been roused from sleep tried to slip past him, but he grabbed her dress-shirt sleeve.

“F-first floor, mein herr,” the poor woman stammered out and he let go of her arm and bounded up one of the two staircases leading from the main entrance up into the first floor of the main embassy building. There were quite a few staff milling about, a few of the Auroran seniors as well, but they all seemed to calm down a bit once they saw Mitchell wearing the day dress of the Royal Army instead of the battle dress, camo-shroud and plate carrier the other Army soldiers had donned. The fact that he had a pistol in an under-shoulder harness somehow didn’t track. He saw Corporal Kane from the shudder 5th Btn, 10th Prince Alexander’s Caldedonian Royal Marine Light Infantry standing guard by a pretty inconspicuous-looking door, the Royal Marine standing out simply because of the fact that his outfit was uniformly black and his beret Commando green, whereas the Army troopers wore multi-shift camo and a rainbow of beret colours. The captain slowed his gait and walked up to the corporal.

“Corp,” he said and saluted, “I wish to see the detainee.”

The Royal Marine saluted back sharply, his carbine noticeably shorter than the SLARA rifles Mitchell was used to handling.

“Sir, I am sorry to inform you that until I receive a confirmation from the Ambassador, the Plenipotentiary, or the Chief Naval Attaché, I cannot let you through.”

Mitchell ground his teeth for a few moments before recomposing himself.

“Corporal, I understand your dedication to your duty, but you must also realise that we are in the middle of a potential interstellar crisis. The chain of command, or cursus honorum, if you please…”

Mitchell took some morbid pleasure at seeing the marine’s eyes glassing over slightly at that last mention, which in all honesty was a complete non-sequitur, and Mitchell was perfectly aware of the fact.

“That must indeed be observed, which we as serving members of the Royal Auroran Armed Services can agree upon. But expediency must be served tonight, Corporal, and by impeding me, you’re by extension hurting the Kingdom. I need to see this person, damn if the Plenipotentiary is present or not. If it makes you feel any better, I can produce a civilian employee to provide the proper political distance between the different political states of mind, the executive and the permanently latent?”

Mitchell didn’t have to say that last part to recognise that this particular Royal Marine had checked out mentally a few minutes ago; that last bit had been courtesy for any observer drones. He felt a pang of guilt for treating a fellow soldier of His Auroran Majesty’s Armed Forces this way, but enlisted Royal Marines had a nasty tendency to make it hilariously easy. No matter, he was through the inner doors, and he was a few steps away from the Myndowan who was the cause of so many upset feelings, police deployments, and not to mention the person who stole my paid night with Natalya away from me sitting on the tiled floor of the Ambassador’s outer office crying his heart out?

“Who might you be then?” he asked as he waved away the two local security officers, weird, I can’t tell their names nor recognise their faces…

“My name,” the youthful male who sat on the floor replied, having stolen a glance up at the officer who towered above him, “is Vijktor Saldys. I come from the Kasjerwald Kaiser Maximillian II Polytechnische Universität, and I believe I have something to show you. But I will only deliver it in return of a political asylum. I wish to emigrate to the Kingdom of Aurora!”

Mitchell tried his best not to scoff. This wasn’t the first time this had happened, and every time in the past in Mitchell’s experience, it had really not been worth his, the Embassy’s, or His Majesty’s time. But the youth in front of him looked nothing if not determined….

“You must be aware, Mr Saldys,” Captain Mitchell began, “that you’re a very wanted person, because we have close to a complete company of Polizei and what I would hazard to guess are Geheimdienst outside these embassy gates right at this very moment.”

The smirk Captain Mitchell produced was completely unforced, but it sent shivers down the spine of Vijktor Saldys.

“You must realise,” the Auroran said, “that this information you’re apparently betraying your country for, crimes of which you expect His Majesty will absolve you for, must in the end have more than a bit of value for your potential host nation?”

Vijktor drew in a deep breath. He’d expected this, nay, prepared for it.

“You seem like a very bright officer,” Vijktor said through gritted teeth; his accent was heavy.

“Imagine you’re born to a family deemed genetically inferior at birth. Your ambition to achieve rank of mid-level officer has already been killed.”

Captain Mitchell looked around the room, wondering where the Plenipotentiary was, but morbidly intrigued nonetheless.

Vijktor continued, pulling his tired legs up under his arms, resting his head in his upraised knees.

“Imagine knowing from birth that you’d never amount to anything but being a racial nothing that will fulfil one of seven important societal roles. Please imagine that you’d never be able to become an academic, a banker, a foreman, a union leader, a merchant skipper, or an officer in the Heer or the Marine. Can you, Mr Auroran, imagine such a life?”

Captain Lucas Mitchell was actually completely unable to respond, the stress of the evening had gotten to him, and this was not helping.

“If you’re unable to comprehend the situation I am in,” the Lithuanian answered uninvited, “might I be able to transfer to Aurora itself and life upon her Blessed world?”

“Aye,” Mitchell managed to produce, and could already imagine the headache this one-syllable agreement would hurt him in the future.

“And the list of ghost-transfers I have observed,” the “Lithuanian” mentioned, “those needs a lot looking into.”

On the other side of the civilised part of Human Space, Edward Heatherland woke up with a sweat.