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Tag: azdan amith

Invalidation Reflection

The war is over, or will be in twenty-four hours. I received the message from CONCORD late tonight while trying to organize allied support.

When I told James Syagrius about it… Well, to be honest, I’m not really sure what happened. But my gut tells me it wasn’t good. At least the conversation I had with Azdan Amith was enjoyable.

In the meantime, my office is a pool of foam… I won’t be able to get back in there until the mess is cleaned out. What a day.

I have a lot of work to do to get IPI in a place where, if this kind of thing happened again, we could handle it… We should be able to handle it. There’s really no excuse for our performance.

I’m still quite angry and frustrated, for a variety of reasons. Why the alliance was allowed to slip to the state it’s been in, why the enemy always seems to be just one step ahead, why our time is taken up by this kind of crap.

This hands-off, non-political, mainly industrial-focused approach just isn’t working for us. We live in low-security space and can barely defend ourselves. This needs to change and it’s something I’ve known for a long time already. If the war hadn’t been invalidated then we would have had allies like I-RED and a few others pitching in to assist. But? I really want IPI to stand on its own feet. Why can’t we ever seem to win our battles ourselves?

IPI needs to change. Change is hard, and people hate it, but it must be done and it falls to me to do it.

I need time to think.


Invalidation

Thanks to Azdan Amith and James Syagrius for participating.

Intaki V – Moon 5 – Astral Mining Inc. Refinery

The door opened; a blond-haired man peeked in before quietly entering. He paused at the doorway to bow, carefully balancing the tray he held so as not to spill its contents.

“Madam President,” he said respectfully.

She seemed not to have heard him. Her attention was focused entirely on the holodisplay projected by the desk; one hand rested on its wooden surface, the fingers idly tapping out a pattern as if to some music only she could hear. The other hand’s fingers dallied near her mouth, tugging thoughtfully at her lips as she frowned in concentration while a document—a mail, he thought—composed itself before her.

He crossed the office to the credenza, his feet making no sound as they padded over the carpeted floor, and set the tray down. Then he took stock of the credenza’s contents: the water remained chilled, the tea and cider were hot. The bottle of Payloqan k’Adharnam was nearly empty; he made a mental note to order another supply from the surface.

Selecting a mug, he reached for the pot of cider and poured. The liquid’s semi-sweet berry scent steamed into his face and he inhaled. Yes, this would be good. Then he selected a plate and transferred three small sandwich wedges, along with a few slices of sweet pod melon, onto it from the tray he’d been carrying. The remaining food he covered up to keep fresh.