[Grundhavn]

Promethean Sea, International Democratic Union

Ordinary Seaman Jon Kristoffersen was on his break, thankfully. The merchant ship he was working on had just emerged into the open Promethean Sea after navigating through narrow waters past nations like Tearvan, Buckingham, and Arizcara. In addition to the ordinary worries of obstacles and bad weather (he'd spent a lot of time pumping water off the ship as waves crashed over it), these nations had an eerie feel to them. They felt half-abandoned, as if ghost ships bearing their flags could come rushing out of the fog at any time. Only 17, he'd joined this merchant ship after his three-month mandatory military service training following his graduation from Jonsen Hospitality Institute. Jon liked people, helping people, and to be honest, he wasn't a great student, and so hospitality seemed both easy and a way to meet people. But he wanted to see the world, maybe get a job at a foreign hotel, and the shipping services were always hiring. So he signed on for GD360/week and the chance to visit Caxcana. 

As he rested on the rail of the ship, one of his bunkmates, Able Seaman Mikkel Bornesen, walked up to him and clapped him on the back. "It was a good job you did back there, Jonling. Navigating the Spøgelsesstrædet (Ghost Strait) with your sanity intact is no easy task for a landkrabbe like you. 'Tis a strange place."

Jon grimaced a bit at the backhanded nature of Bornesen's comments, but if the man one class and a few years ahead of you gave you a compliment, you took it. "I won't lie, Mikkel. I half-expected the Forhekset skonnert (Bewitched Schooner, Grundhavish Flying Dutchman) itself to come out and fix its hex-light on us. I thought I was used to sailing, but that gave me the shivers."

Bornesen laughed loudly. "Jonling, even the Forhekset skonnert itself couldn't get past our security! Those are hard-bitten veteran sailors and not even a ghost ship would faze them."

"I guess naval ships have seen a lot, huh?"

"Naval ships? Bless your heart, no! We've got pirates escorting us to Cape Auria. Sure, they've got markings that look an awful lot like official markings, and they might call themselves Søfartsbeskyttelsestjeneste (Seafaring Protection Service), but they're pirates through and through. When you're a pirate, you're prepared for anything."

"Mikkel, why the hell are we entrusting pirates to escort an aid convoy instead of actual naval ships? Won't they rob us and take the aid?"

"Jonling, the first thing about being a pirate is maximizing your profit. If pirates rob their customers, they lose their customers. Better to stick to preying on ships from small, unobtrusive nations and picking up the occasional contract from the government. Besides, I'm sure they, just like everyone else in this endeavor, are being compensated handsomely. Except us, that is!" He threw back his head and laughed. 

"But the Lord Mayor said that everyone was doing this for the good of Cape Auria and Grundhavn. Didn't the businesses give the government discounted rates on goods and wouldn't the shipping company and the SBS do the same? What does money have to do with this?"

"Money makes the world go round, Jonling. Everyone has something to sell and something to buy. The Lord Mayor wants to sell a kindler, gentler Grundhavn and buy goodwill to open up more markets. The price is free aid to an impoverished place, but there's no such thing as a free lunch. Somebody's got to pay for the aid, and it was the government. I'm sure they'll use accounting tricks to make it look like they got a discount, but they can't stay in power and ask their friends to take a haircut. Besides, I'm sure they've got something up their sleeve to make this trip worthwhile."

"Mikkel, I don't think I like this view of the world. Does being a sailor make you this jaded?"

"Aye, Jonling, being a sailor does tend to color one's view. But it's the truth in this case, I'm afraid. Only ninnies like the Justice Party or Green League believe in authentic altruism. For the rest of us, everything has a price. It's just a question of what we're willing to pay to obtain it or how much we think we can get for selling it. Enjoy the rest of your break."

Aegir Sea, International Democratic Union

Jon Kristoffersen breathed in deeply. Was he really about to do this? In his hand, he held an identical copy of the key that opened this particular shipping container. It had cost him both Grunddalers and extra work, but a fellow named Ulfesen had been only too willing to make a copy for him. Ever since his conversation with Mikkel Bornesen that day, he had tossed and turned. What if he wasn't really on a humanitarian mission? What if Bornesen was right and the Lord Mayor had some other plan for this aid? Could he handle finding that out?

Yes, he decided. If he backed out now, it would eat away at him and he was already out the cost he'd paid for the key. He unlocked the door and stepped inside the container. He clicked on his flashlight. Tinned herring. A delicious Grundhavish snack, though Cape Aurians might not think so. Still, beggars couldn't be choosers. But that was just what the box said. What if? He creaked open the box and saw tins and tins of herring. But what was that? Something else, something darker, caught his eye. Just a flash of black below the bright yellow herring tins. He brushed aside some tins and reached down. 

It was cold, metallic. He moved his hand along it. Then, recognition. Jon wasn't a born soldier like some of the guys at military training, but he'd learned enough there. There were layers and layers of service rifles below the herring. He moved his hand a little further. No serial number. He remembered the instructor saying that the Grundhavish service rifle was nearly identical in appearance to many other semi-automatic weapons manufactured by other nations. So these guns were going to be untraceable, or nearly so. This was the secret, then. Grundhavish arms manufacturers were going to be adding firepower to the Cape Aurian civil war. That wasn't right. But what should he do? What could he do?

"Hey, you!" Jon turned his head. Shit. Another flashlight filled the gloom. Jon tried to run, but there was nowhere to go. Two men grabbed him, there was a blinding light, pain, and then...darkness.

[Grundhavn]

Aegir Sea, International Democratic Union

Field Officer Second Class Matthias Borneholm of UET Grundhavn (Udenlandsk EfterretningsTjeneste, Foreign Intelligence Service Grundhavn) felt a little sick to his stomach. This was his first chance to lead a foreign mission, and now he was being presented with his first big choice. Make the proper choice, ensure the mission went off without any snags, and, his superiors had hinted, a promotion to Field Officer First Class was in the offing. Conversely, screw things up, and he was definitely getting busted down to Third Class, where he'd spend his days in the grubbier nations of the IDU pumping even grubbier people for scraps of barely-useful information. No, First Class meant being a real spy, with luxury accommodations, daring missions, and oversight responsibilities for other missions. Or so he'd heard. 

So here was his decision: some of his men had caught a sneaking rat, someone snooping around in the crates. Nobody but his men, posing as NGO personnel and sailors, knew about the real purpose of the mission. None of the captains of the aid vessels, nor their mates, nor anyone else. Except apparently Ordinary Seaman Jon Kristoffersen, a 17 year-old kid on his first voyage. And now Borneholm had a decision to make: dispose of Kristoffersen or beat or bribe him into silence. On the one hand, the mission could not be endangered. Grundhavn's standing in the world depended on both the delivery of these arms and the expansion of her influence and that all other nations believe it was a simple aid mission, the old Grundhavs learning new tricks, learning how to be selfless instead of selfish. If Kristoffersen leaked the information, all would be lost. On the other hand, he was a kid. Was it right to make a Grundhavish citizen "disappear", especially a young one? His UET superiors had told him he had the authority as mission chief, but did he want to exercise it?

It was still the dead of night; plenty of time to decide and then to arrange an accident. But just then, the boy began to stir. His assistant, FO3C Artur Smithsen stifled the boy with an injection. There was no time; he had to do it. "Signal them," he said. Smithsen flashed a series of signals in Morse code with his flashlight at the nearest escort ship. A small boat chugged over to them. "Pump him and dump him," said Borneholm, feeling a bit out of his own body. The men on the boat nodded and took Kristoffersen with them. As the boat receded into the darkness, Borneholm sighed. "You did the right thing, sir," said Smithsen. "Those SBT pirates will do exactly as you say, no questions asked. I'm sure they do s**t like this all the time."

"Shut up, Smithsen," said Borneholm. He walked away, heading for his cabin. He needed a moment. The pirates would pump Kristoffersen full of alcohol and dump him over the side with weights, rendering him unable to swim. He didn't relish what he'd done, but at least those bloody pirates would be the last ones to touch him. His men would put out the story that young Kristoffersen had had a bit too much to drink and fallen over the side. In a way, it was true. His parents would be devastated, of course, but one boy could not be allowed to bring down the government and sabotage this great project. Grundhavn was going to have a speaking role on the world stage.

[Grundhavn]

Northwestern Auria

Field Officer Second Class Matthias Borneholm strode down the gangplank in Juraceda. The aid convoy had finally arrived in northwestern Auria and he now needed to meet his contacts. The ship staff, harbor workers, and actual NGO employees would do the work of unloading the ship and beginning to set up distribution. He and his associates, ostensibly under order from the State Office of Education, Health, Social Services, and Charity, would undertake "humanitarian outreach" to "assess the needs of local populations and report on logistical challenges." In reality, they were going to fan out to local defense posts or, in some cases, towards the border of General Michelin-controlled territory to see where their supplies could be most useful. 

A man walked towards him. "You are the Grundhavish outreach leader?"

Borneholm nodded.

"Welcome to Auria. I am-" 

Borneholm cut him off. "It's best if we don't use names."

"Certainly," said the man. "May I ask you to come to my office?"

Borneholm went with the man and entered into a dingy office. The man offered him coffee and a cigarette, both of which were...not the best, to put it mildly. The man noticed his grimace and smiled ruefully. "It's all the hospitality we can afford to offer. To be honest, most of us were hoping that your shipment would involve better coffee and especially cigarettes. The men on the front are incredibly grumpy, to say the least, due to cigarette rationing."

"Don't worry," said Borneholm. "We managed to sneak some in among the more mundane staples. We don't want to deny the people of this region small pleasures."

"I thank you," said the man. "Of course, I'm more interested in the ah, shall we say, less mundane items your convoy is bringing us."

Borneholm put a finger to his lips. "How many spies do you have in your office? In your command structure? In your army, such as it is?"

The man looked surprised. "Why, none. I trust all of my staff and we in the command are scrupulously loyal to General Michelin. It is he who offers us our best chance of survival and of reconstruction of our beloved country."

"Then you are a fool," said Borneholm, perhaps a little more harshly than he'd intended. "What I mean to say is, in a civil war, there will always be spies and there will always be those eager to turn traitor for meager rewards. If there are truly no spies in your camp, then it means your adversaries consider you beneath notice and you have no chance to achieve anything."

"I see," said the man. "Then we shall discuss matters more carefully from now on. So are you my contact going forward?"

"Officially, your contact will be some bureaucrat from Foreign Affairs and Self-Defense, who will be talking with you on logistics, foreign relations, and the civil war. Your civilian counterparts will deal with Education, Health, Social Services, and Charity personnel. Unofficially, my assistant will be your contact. Please funnel any information for me through him. I will see you again now and then, but in my cover as an NGO worker, I'll be moving around your territory. To the front, to training sites, counter-intelligence work, and, of course, I'll be overseeing the matter of recompense. That is our top priority at the moment. I'd like to inspect the site. Is there someone available to take me?"

"Certainly," said the man. "I'll take you to one of my men, who'll drive you to just the person for the job. One of the few engineers we have in this godsforsaken part of the country."

Shortly after, Borneholm was heading out of Juraceda in a military vehicle, the man having assured him it was a "short and mostly smooth ride." What a metaphor for this whole project. He hoped it would prove apt rather than horribly misguided.

[Grundhavn]

Northwestern Auria 

Matthias Borneholm was beginning to doubt the word of the man who had assured him the trip he was taking was a "short and mostly smooth ride." Either the man was deliberately lying, or he had some radically different conception of the phrase "short and smooth." As far as he could tell, instead of gently rolling hills as he'd expected, the military vehicle had ascended and descended great craggy peaks and had taken too many hairpin turns to count. If this was the only way to the destination, then he'd have to bring on a team of engineers and hire a lot of native labor to either create a new road or something better, like a rail or water route. Although he admittedly was beginning to feel a bit queasy (Grundhavn is not a place with a lot of high peaks), he had carefully kept count of the route and was reasonably sure he could bring others back to this place in case General Michelin was trying to keep it concealed from friends and foes alike.

Finally and mercifully, the road came to an end and the man stopped the vehicle. "Here we are, sir," he said. Then, with what Bornholm could swear was a touch of malicious glee, he said, "I hope this trip wasn't too hard on you."

"Not at all," said Borneholm. "Thank you very much for your expert driving." He made a mental note of the man, both his appearance and his apparent antipathy towards Borneholm. General Michelin and his officers might be desperate for Grundhavish aid, but it appeared that there were yet "patriots" who might object to Michelin "selling out" the country to the Grundhavs. Still, everything in life was a transaction. One could not expect aid for nothing in return. Allowing Grundhavn access to this site was simply the cost of doing business.

The man pointed him down the hill towards the open pit with several buildings scattered about. He strode down the hill and came up to a man in a dirt-covered work uniform who directed him to one of the buildings. Inside were five men; two were obviously engineers, one a miner, one a businessman or functionary of some sort, and another who seemed to be somewhat out of place, dressed in casual clothes not unlike Borneholm's. 

"Welcome, sir," said one of the engineers. "We're pleased you're here."

"Thank you," said Borneholm. "May I see the recompense?"

The miner brought out a small container that had a small chunk of brown-yellow mineral in it. He cleared his throat. "This here is a sample of the uranium ore which is found in this mine. As you can see, it's mostly sandstone-based, but our ore is actually fairly rich as far as uranium goes, with a grade of about 1.5%. That means there isn't as much enrichment needed to turn it into fuel for a typical nuclear reactor."

"Excellent," said Borneholm. He turned to the engineer. "What's the production level? And how much would we need to power, say, 100,000 homes?"

"A traditional nuclear reactor is about 700-1000 megawatts, which requires about 200 tons of uranium, not uranium ore, mind you, but uranium itself. That would probably suffice to power the number you're looking at and then some. We're still exploring the site, but we're confident we could supply that much to you without too much difficulty."

The businessman then spoke. "I'll be the representative for the company that will own the mine and export the material, though of course the capital and thus the material and the profit will come from your nation. We've buried it under several layers of ownership so that anyone will have to look rather hard in order to discover any hint of your involvement."

Borneholm nodded. "Good." He turned to the other man. "And you, who are you? What are you going to do?"

The man lazily arose and spoke. "Why, I'm a transportation specialist. I know plenty of captains with vessels that fly flags from neutral or out of the way countries who would be more than happy to transport your product to Grundhavn or some suitable third location. I'm also quite good at keeping secrets from customs inspectors. I'll work with you to ensure that this product makes it to its proper destination without anyone who doesn't already know what's going on finding out."

Borneholm's lip curled ever so slightly. He supposed it was only natural that the Aurians would have their own smugglers or that, in a country in the midst of civil war, criminals would find ways to profit. Still, it was good to have someone else who could take the fall if things went south. And perhaps he'd have better ideas about how to keep things concealed. "When can the first shipment be sent out? And how, in God's name, can we make transportation out of here easier? Those mountain roads will unacceptably delay shipments."

The other engineer spoke up now. "Depends on the capital investment on your end. If we get the proper equipment and funding, we can extract ore and send it on its way in a couple of months. If not, it'll be closer to six months. But we'll work with what we have to work with. And as far as transportation, this region of the nation isn't friendly to any kind of transportation. I suppose we could airlift material to ports, but that would be fairly expensive. We could probably blast another road out of here, but that would take months. It's all a long-term project and depends on what your nation wants."

"I see," said Borneholm. "I'll contact my superiors and find out the best way to proceed." After some more small talk, he left the building. He needed to make a call. Several calls. This was going to be more expensive than they thought. He needed machinery and cash, as well as more men on the ground. He didn't like having to rely on Aurians for things. If this went well, Grundhavn could be assured of its energy needs for decades in the future and permanently open new markets, but if it didn't, then it could well bring down the government and the economy.