Q1 3035: In the Blood
The March Esplanade
Laughlin Capital District, Roslyn, Eastern Islay
Arcadia
Arcadian Free March
4 January 3035
Officially, Claire Westin wasn't even with the Foreign Office. On paper she was a mid-level civil servant, a researcher for the Office of Protocol, whose duties often took her to other star systems to look into issues involving ceremonial power in the Free March. Since that involved foreign travel, and since the Foreign Office and Protocol Office cooperated on a number of respects, it gave her plenty of reason to cross the Esplanade and enter the Foreign Office's main administrative complex.
It was an excellent cover, all things told.
With her light brown hair cut almost boyishly short, Claire was on the slim side, wiry with runner's muscle, and under the mask of being a mousey researcher she was one of SIS's best field operators. Her skill in prior operations was such that whatever the internal structure of the SIS, the Director himself often had a hand in her operations.
Sir James was waiting in his office, eating the remnants of a slice of baklava. He noted her entry with a nod and she politely let him finish his mouthful before speaking. "Field Agent Claire Westin reporting, sir." Given her upbringing and her parents, she had a number of accents to choose from, but she went with something like her mother's McAffe Irish brogue.
"Excellent work on the training exercises," he noted. "I will get down to business. We're sending you on a long-term operation, Agent Westin. Local assets have arranged a suitable cover identity and background. Research materials will be provided for you to study on the trip."
"Very well. Long-term?"
"In all probability, a year, perhaps two if matters require it. There will be the usual risks, of course, although we will arrange booking on a Terran liner. Given the preference shown to them by JumpShip captains, you should arrive at your destination in two to three months instead of the normal time."
"Expensive, but fitting if there are time constraints. Local support?"
"There are a few assets, mostly observational or diplomatic. You'll be an illegal, you understand, and your cover must be kept far from the embassy."
"So dead-drops with approved assets, no contact with the legals," Claire said. She didn't hide the slight apprehension that gave her. "Legals" were agents who worked under diplomatic cover, typically holding positions at embassies or consulates. But since their names and faces were known to the host government, they could be easily monitored by local counter-intelligence and state security if their intelligence links were suspected, so their usefulness in some respects was limited. The trade-off was that if caught, their diplomatic credentials protected them from repercussions beyond being declared persona non grata and ordered off-world.
An illegal didn't have that cover. Contact with their own side was by nature sporadic and carefully managed to avoid discovery. Dead-drops, meeting by proxy, coded messages, those were the means of communication, and an illegal had no recourse from the force of the law in their target. So while you were less likely to be immediately noticed by the other side's security people, if they did catch on to you, your options were limited.
"I'll pack the usual and be ready."
"Liner Hyacantha leaves the Roslyn DropPort in two days. Your ticket and cover." He offered her a secured noteputer and a folder. She accepted them and checked both. Inside the folder were paper identification documents and a physical copy of her liner ticket. The noteputer would have electronic copies, plus bank information for her cover's finances and her orders.
"I'll get reading immediately," she said.
"Of course." As she turned to leave Sir James spoke up again. 'My best to Michael and Fi, by the way."
She sighed at the mention of her parents. "If they ask, remind them I made the choice. That I'd never take it back."
"I will, for all the good it will do," Sir James said. "Stay alive. I don't want your mother planting a bomb on my aircar if something happens to you."
Claire smiled softly at that before leaving. She had quite a head for explosives too thanks to her mom. Her explosives instructor at the Boarding House - the nickname for the SIS' Field Operative Academy - was flabbergasted at her proficiency with them from the first day. Not everyone has an Erin Republican Army fighter for your mum, she thought to herself, remembering all the times her mother showed her the ropes of creating impromptu devices and IEDs in the (admittedly unlikely) event someone from her parents' past ever came for them, or pirates raided or some such thing. Mum probably regrets it now, doesn't she?
Maybe it's a curse of the family, she pondered as she made her way down the halls of the Foreign Office.
Laughlin Capital District, Roslyn, Eastern Islay
Arcadia
Arcadian Free March
4 January 3035
Officially, Claire Westin wasn't even with the Foreign Office. On paper she was a mid-level civil servant, a researcher for the Office of Protocol, whose duties often took her to other star systems to look into issues involving ceremonial power in the Free March. Since that involved foreign travel, and since the Foreign Office and Protocol Office cooperated on a number of respects, it gave her plenty of reason to cross the Esplanade and enter the Foreign Office's main administrative complex.
It was an excellent cover, all things told.
With her light brown hair cut almost boyishly short, Claire was on the slim side, wiry with runner's muscle, and under the mask of being a mousey researcher she was one of SIS's best field operators. Her skill in prior operations was such that whatever the internal structure of the SIS, the Director himself often had a hand in her operations.
Sir James was waiting in his office, eating the remnants of a slice of baklava. He noted her entry with a nod and she politely let him finish his mouthful before speaking. "Field Agent Claire Westin reporting, sir." Given her upbringing and her parents, she had a number of accents to choose from, but she went with something like her mother's McAffe Irish brogue.
"Excellent work on the training exercises," he noted. "I will get down to business. We're sending you on a long-term operation, Agent Westin. Local assets have arranged a suitable cover identity and background. Research materials will be provided for you to study on the trip."
"Very well. Long-term?"
"In all probability, a year, perhaps two if matters require it. There will be the usual risks, of course, although we will arrange booking on a Terran liner. Given the preference shown to them by JumpShip captains, you should arrive at your destination in two to three months instead of the normal time."
"Expensive, but fitting if there are time constraints. Local support?"
"There are a few assets, mostly observational or diplomatic. You'll be an illegal, you understand, and your cover must be kept far from the embassy."
"So dead-drops with approved assets, no contact with the legals," Claire said. She didn't hide the slight apprehension that gave her. "Legals" were agents who worked under diplomatic cover, typically holding positions at embassies or consulates. But since their names and faces were known to the host government, they could be easily monitored by local counter-intelligence and state security if their intelligence links were suspected, so their usefulness in some respects was limited. The trade-off was that if caught, their diplomatic credentials protected them from repercussions beyond being declared persona non grata and ordered off-world.
An illegal didn't have that cover. Contact with their own side was by nature sporadic and carefully managed to avoid discovery. Dead-drops, meeting by proxy, coded messages, those were the means of communication, and an illegal had no recourse from the force of the law in their target. So while you were less likely to be immediately noticed by the other side's security people, if they did catch on to you, your options were limited.
"I'll pack the usual and be ready."
"Liner Hyacantha leaves the Roslyn DropPort in two days. Your ticket and cover." He offered her a secured noteputer and a folder. She accepted them and checked both. Inside the folder were paper identification documents and a physical copy of her liner ticket. The noteputer would have electronic copies, plus bank information for her cover's finances and her orders.
"I'll get reading immediately," she said.
"Of course." As she turned to leave Sir James spoke up again. 'My best to Michael and Fi, by the way."
She sighed at the mention of her parents. "If they ask, remind them I made the choice. That I'd never take it back."
"I will, for all the good it will do," Sir James said. "Stay alive. I don't want your mother planting a bomb on my aircar if something happens to you."
Claire smiled softly at that before leaving. She had quite a head for explosives too thanks to her mom. Her explosives instructor at the Boarding House - the nickname for the SIS' Field Operative Academy - was flabbergasted at her proficiency with them from the first day. Not everyone has an Erin Republican Army fighter for your mum, she thought to herself, remembering all the times her mother showed her the ropes of creating impromptu devices and IEDs in the (admittedly unlikely) event someone from her parents' past ever came for them, or pirates raided or some such thing. Mum probably regrets it now, doesn't she?
Maybe it's a curse of the family, she pondered as she made her way down the halls of the Foreign Office.