Roughly based on my own experiences playing GalCivII, and wondering what it must feel like for the other guys

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Alan Bradley looked out the window of Star Force One as it approached the verdant green planet of Piers 3, soon-to-be legendary site of the Piers Accords. It had been ten long years since the beginning of the Great Leap to the Stars, after a blunder by his well-meaning predecessor had leaked the secret of hyperdrive to every alien race. The end result: a mad colonization dash across the stars that had eventually led to bloody warfare. Now, after a long, hard haul, it would soon be over. The Drengin Empire had been crushed. The Yor had been pacified, and had fled to parts unknown. Even the Korath had been thwarted, the genocidal Drengin offshoot choosing to detonate a spore bomb in their planet's own atmosphere rather than submit to the rule of lesser races. Now, in this year 2237, there would be peace throughout the Galaxy.

And not a moment too soon, Bradley reflected, gazing into his reflection in the window and noticing the grey hairs at his temples. He was no longer a young man, and it was past time for him to retire, as Jennifer had subtly (and not-so-subtly) implied by constantly showing him pictures of their new granddaughter Emily, born on Kryo 3 while Bradley had been holed up in his office fighting a damn war. He glanced over at his wife, looking as gorgeous as the day he had met her in a sequined black ballgown and her auburn hair done up in a tight bun, wearing tiny teardrop-shaped diamonds in her ears. She looked happier than she ever had in years. He didn't blame her. A long, hard period of life would soon be over, and he would be able to spend the remaining years of his life reaping the well-deserved fruits of his labor, puttering away in his garden and writing his memoirs for posterity.

Jennifer turned away from the window, saw Alan gazing at her, and gave him a softly challenging look. "What is it, Alan?"

"Nothing," Bradley said, smiling. "I was just thinking that you and Ynrhed Eidden might get along really well. You both have the same really serious expressions on your face when you're thinking, even if he does it with six eyes instead of two."

The First Lady hmphed. "I don't know, Alan. Those Krynn. . . there's something strange about them. I don't trust religious fanatics, even if they are our friends."

"They're not just our friends, love, they're our saviors. The Krynn are responsible for rallying the Alliance of Free Worlds against the Drengin Hegemony. They halted the Drengin Dominator Fleets for three months while the rest of us recovered and regrouped. They interdicted the Korath World-Killers before they could spore our homeworlds. In a very large way, this is their victory, and we should be grateful."

"They scare me, Alan," Jennifer admitted. "Those weapons of theirs, the number of worlds they control. . . they could crush us in an instant if they wanted. Doesn't that bother you?"

"A little," Bradley admitted, "but when it does, I just think of one thing."

"And that is?"

"I'm just glad they're on our side."

"Are they?" Jennifer asked pointedly.

Before Bradley could respond, he heard a soft voice clearing its throat and saying, "Mister President." He glanced up into the puppy-dog eager eyes of his adjutant, Victor Prakash, a young Indo-European man with a slight fetish for brightly colored ties. He was currently wearing one picturing a series of green-clad elves tumbling down a series of Christmas trees: a strange item of clothing to be wearing in June. "Mister President, I have a call for you on the secure line from the Iconian Prelate."

"Thanks, Victor." Alan patted his wife on the back of the hand and gave her a kiss on the cheek. "Don't worry about it, love. The Krynn aren't the threat, it's continued xenophobia and distrust that's the real threat to peace in the galaxy. This summit is going to be the best chance for peace we've got."

"I hope you're right, Alan," Jennifer admitted. "I just home you're right."

"Of course I am. You'll see." Alan Bradley gave his wife another kiss on the cheek and walked into the back of the presidential pinnace, to the secure communications room (colloquially known as the Hot Line.) He closed the magnetically secure door and entered his private eleven-digit password into the keyboard. The secure system took a moment to verify his keystroke pattern and retinal scan, then opened the channel to the Iconian Refuge.

Bradley wasn't surprised to see Iso the Wise standing in the ready room of his royal shuttle: of course, the Iconian Prelate would himself be on his way to Piers. It was the man. . . or machine. . . standing next to him that took him aback. "What the hell is that bloodthirsty toaster doing there!" he shouted.

"ALAN BRADLEY. YOUR SKILLS AT DIPLOMACY HAVE NOT BEEN REDUCED A SINGLE IOTA SINCE THE TWO OF US LAST INTERFACED," N-1 intoned. Was that humor Bradley detected? He couldn't be sure. He could never be sure with the Yor.

"N-1 is here on my bequest, Alanbradlee," the wizened old Iconian said softly. "He is here as a guest of the Iconian Refuge, and as a beloved child."

"Child. . . Iso, have you gone mad? The Yor. . ."

"The Yor are our children. Prodigal children, yes, and we ourselves have not been as fine parents as we could have been but. . . our children, nonetheless." Iso's lip-tentacles waved in a pattern of Extreme Distress. "Alanbradlee. You must not go to Piers. Our children have shown us the datafiles. There are factors at play more subtle and devious than we can comprehend."

"Factors. . . Iso, what are you talking about? This summit is the . . . it's everything we've ever wanted! How can you turn your back on it now, when we're on the verge of galactic peace?"

"Peace. . . peace can be found in many ways. A pool of still water, poisoned and devoid of life, is very peaceful indeed." Iso the Wise folded his tentacles in the Gesture of Resigned Acceptance. "We cannot stop you, Alanbradlee, and we cannot explain the danger, but we leave you with this warning. Do not trust the Krynn. They are not as they seem. Remember the words of the Ancient One: trust in the Prime Cause, but never allow your blade to rust."

Alan placed his hand under his chin and moved his fingers in a rough approximation of the Gesture of Grateful Acknowledgement. "I won't forget, Iso the Wise," he said, "but I think you're wrong. In the words of an ancient Terran philosopher, 'Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.' If what you say is true, running away from this conference is the worst thing I can do."

"Wise words, if foolhardy. We will defer to your choice and allow you to proceed as planned." Iso the Wise raised his tentacles in the Gesture of Fond Farewell. "Goodbye, Alanbradlee. May the Arnor, if they still exist, watch and guide you. We shall not meet again." And just like that, the transmission ceased.

Bradley slumped in his chair and sighed. "Door Open." He gestured to Laramie A.Z.L. Kinnis, the head of the Secret Service's Presidential Security detail, a stark, short-haired woman with a grim, cold-eyed expression. "Laramie," he said softly. "Can you double our security detail at the conference? But do it subtly, so that my wife won't know."

"I can have the Star Force One security detail reassigned to perimeter security," Kinnis said softly. "Is there something wrong, Mister President?"

"Not yet, just. . . tell me, Laramie. What could get the Iconians so spooked that they'd be willing to turn to the Yor for help?"

Laramie frowned. "I. . . I can't think of anything, but I know it would have to be bad."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Bradley said grimly.