La Raconteuse de Fisanduh

[Pedantic]

OOC Foreword: Got in a writing mood, but don't have any decent ideas for an on-ship gimmick. So, I'm substituting with fan-fiction about a Xanusian reporter being dropped into the middle of Inner Fisanduh, as told through her interviews. Not sure if anyone'll read this, but, hey, criticism is welcome. This should also be considered non-canon, of course. Just my interpretation of how life in Fisanduh would look from the outside, based on some historical interviews from occupied nations and the various people who live in them. It'll also be broken up by posts, and probably added to whenever I get a decent idea going. Going to eventually put the MC onto the Horizon as a passenger, or possibly reporter, when work/life allows for it as well. Going to keep it in separate posts, not to bump or spam, but to put some kind of organization to this mess of hobbyist ramblings.

[Pedantic]

Foreword: [Translated from Xanusi Freespeak to local standard, courtesy of the XNN] To all my readers, be they from the pitted craters of Xanu, the blistering skies of Burzsia, the humid streets of Konyang, or whatever outpost of sapients you might find yourself here in the Spur: Thank you. Its because of you that I was given this chance to record footage, interviews, and tales of this enigmatic country, nestled in the center of a theocratic pirate fiefdom.

Most of the Coalition would consider even coming near this region of space a death sentence, especially if you’ve talked to any of the Fisanduhian expats, refugees, and officials of the government-in-exile. Indeed, it was at no small expense to reach Neubach, and names/idents of those who helped me arrive will be altered to preserve their operations… and safety. But, despite all of this, I think it was worth it to bring you a view of this mountainous, boreal zone without any Imperial filter. Even if it did involve more than a few cramped cargo containers and nail-biting inspections.

I also want it on record that, while I did try for a ‘vertical slice’ of Inner Fisanduh, I’m only one woman. There just isn’t enough time to get every perspective, every angle, or every voice. Think of this less as an update of the ground situation, and more of a ‘feel’ of the people here. They have their own viewpoints, assertions, and opinions, sometimes overlapping, sometimes not. They’re all personal accounts, filled with all the emotions, prejudices, and truths of someone in a hard situation. I have put the stories in my own order, for the sake of making something close to a narrative, but other than that, I’ve tried to leave the original emotions and intent here, for an authentic experience.

Thank you once more, and please keep the people of this beleaguered nation in your thoughts.

[Pedantic]

Le Contrebandier

A jolt shakes the ancient flier, making my stomach churn. I glance about the spartan hold, watching the various men and women manning their stations. None of them so much as flinch. One woman at a console- a behemoth of analog dials, physical optical displays, and receivers- even goes so far as to give me a lazy raised eyebrow. She- and the rest of the crew- have made this descent dozens of times, and likely will make it dozens more, slipping through the radar-shadows of the various peaks of the Gates of Fisanduh to avoid Imperial air patrols and skywatch. The other passengers keep their heads low, clinging to cargo for support and avoiding eye contact with me and my host.

The middle-aged man, dressed in warm clothes that hide the bulk of his paunch, sitting directly across from me will be called Stohl from here on out. He is, as the Imperials call him, a Contrebandier- smuggler. Stohl and I were put into contact several months before this, through a mutual friend, and organized my ride-along with him through the Gates. He watches as I fumble with the transcriber, idly lighting a cigarette.

“First time flying in a proper aerocraft?” He asks the question in his thick, Inner Fisanduh accent, pointing towards me with the lit stub.

I shake my head- immediately regretting the decision as my world spins. Stohl simply laughs in response, patting his knee, looking for all the world like an amiable father, rather than the hardened criminal I’d heard of. He takes a breath, calming himself, before motioning to the transcriber.

“Ah, you’ve already begun gathering your tales then, raconteuse?” He seems particularly amused with himself, using the High Morozi term for ‘storyteller.’

I nod back, finally regaining a shred of my composure.

“Yes. You said you would be willing to talk a bit about your operation here?” I motion towards the back of the hold, with its nervous forms and heavy crates jostling in the turbulence.

Stohl nods a few times in response.

“Of course, of course. Anything for my adoring public! I, as you are no doubt already are aware, am a man of enterprise. A man of simple ambitions. To bring the people what they want, be it chemicals, self-defense, materials, or- “He motions to the figures, pointing his cigarette directly at one of them- a man in tattered priestly clothes- “personal safety.”

“I wasn’t aware before this that you did anything involving passenger flights.”

“That is because I didn’t!” He nods once more, tapping some of the ash from his cigarette. “But some heard I was carrying a spy of the Alliance, and wanted their loved ones moved away from the greater Empire. At quite the mark up, I’d add.” At this point, he flashes a grin towards me. “You have made me quite a bit of profit, simply by being here. And, to that, I thank you.”

“But I’m not from Sol.”

He waves away the statement in a cloud of smoke. “It doesn’t matter! They say, ‘Stohl, if you can move someone as easy to spot as an Alliance spy, then surely you can move my uncle! My niece! My friend who has said a few too many things after a few too many beers!’”

“So, they’re mostly political prisoners, or refugees from the internal security of the Empire?”

He hesitates, before nodding, motioning to the man in tattered Tribunal robes.

“That one, for instance, apparently believed the wrong words, or said something in the wrong order. That one-“ He motions to a woman, a waif of a figure in an orange jumpsuit, “She is a survivor of one of the big, strong, Seekers. They don’t often miss, and she isn’t about to give them a second chance.”

I nod along, remembering the stories of the religious pogroms carried out by inquisitors and their behemoth paramilitary mutants.

“So. There’s clearly demand for this type of operation. Why haven’t you been offering it up until this point?”

“Trust. The Seekers, the Gendarmerie, the Army, all of them have been trying for decades to close the Gates. Sometimes, they employ saboteurs. Sometimes, sky patrols-“ He nods back to the woman at the console, which I later learn is an old ELINT system for detecting radar pings, “And, finally, they use stings. More than a few have boarded an old jalopy like this, only to land at an Imperial reeducation camp near Strelitz’s Stand. To make money moving people, you need a reputation. Or else, you only get the desperate, and the infiltrator.”

He casts a suspicious eye towards the group in the back, before calling out to them in the local dialect of Solarian Common. The transcribe could only make out some of what was said over the whine of the engines.

“You hear that [unintelligible]? If you [unintelligible] or try anything [unintelligible] personally throw you on the peaks!”

Satisfied, he returns to me.

“Apologies, apologies! I do not want such angry words to upset my guest. Now, what other questions do you have?”

“You said you move weapons and materials. Does this mean you supply Government-in-Exile forces?”

“Ah… you mean [Free Fisanduh Front]? I am not at liberty to discuss any of the final clients of my dealings, you understand. Bad for business, that. But I can say, I do move items for personal defense, and items for making a more… aggressive defense.”

“Do you worry that this might escalate the fighting, that if the locals get more weapons, bringing a greater Imperial presence?”

At this point, Stohls features darken noticeably. His eyes lock on mine, and chill.

“I do not worry about that in the least. If the Imps want to try marching through the Gates again, let them. Let them see a rifle behind every door. Let their vaunted Gendarmerie- those traitors- try to assert its authority, and finally be broken. Let their noble whelps come and be sent home in shame and mutilation.”

He leans back, crossing his arms.

“I may not be the most sterling of citizens. But I am still of Fisanduh. I’ll be damned if I let whatever the Imps might do control my own actions.”

Finishing his cigarette, he tosses it casually towards the hold, causing a few of the passengers to duck after his outburst.

“We will be landing soon, raconteuse. I suggest you collect yourself.”

He stands, stalking off to the bridge of the aircraft, as the woman at the console smirks to herself.