The Fleet Admiral, Sir Stanley Nelson, leader of the Bretonian Armed Forces' campaigns against the Kusari, was not in attendance. This wasn't unusual, he'd been preoccupied a lot lately, dealing with a backlog of complaints from Parliament, as well as having to deal with the Queen and her courtiers, trying to wrangle resources and men from all involved. Basically, as far as the rest of the top brass were concerned, the boss was busy with important matters and had left strategy in their allegedly capable hands.
In fact, half of the seats in the ostentatiously decorated room were empty, only a few obviously irritated men sitting at the hastily polished, over-sized oak table.
Admiral Redmond had organised this, with several reliable confidantes. They sat sharing one of the last available bottles of Wright Whiskey, now impossible to acquire, by hook or by crook, due to the distillery having been levelled by the despicable foe. Many such institutions in Bretonia had gone out like this, but were still held onto by the patriotic, the desperate and the willingly ignorant. Which category these men would fall under was as yet to be determined.
Several of the men at the table looked ashamed at the fact that they were effectively destroying priceless art by drinking the whiskey, but Admiral Riley Francis merely blew smoke at their faces from his chunky cigar,
"That stuff wasn't made for looking at, gentlemen."
The more uptight fellows winced as they sipped at their drams, obviously nervous at having to be here, and even more obviously unable to handle their liquor.
Admiral Redmond stood up to address the mostly empty room, looking up at a horrifically dusty chandelier as he prepared to speak. Lots of ancient, crumbly paintings of God-knows-which-monarchs hung on the wall, outnumbering the audience, their gold frames crusted with a thin layer of grime, built up over centuries.
"Right, fellows. We all know that we're holding up fine in the Taus and pushing hard on Stokes and Glasgow, but, as I explained to you all in private, this war of attrition is hurting us as well as the Kusari."
Someone harrumphed, probably Admiral James Henry.
"Aye, it's our boys' and girls' homes we're fighting for, chief. We're going until we win, regardless of the cost."
Redmond sighed and looked to Admiral Henry,
"Jim, that's why we're here. We're trying to deal with the cost of this war. Months ago, the problem was that we were losing thousands of men and women in meatgrinders on the front lines...
...Now the survivors of those battles are hard-bitten veterans, but they don't have any organisation from on high."
The atmosphere grew more tense, the various officers expecting a complete and utter bollocking, before the Admiral continued.
"They can largely organise themselves, they're not idiots, and they're well-trained. However... they need someone in charge. Right now, we seem to have nobody stepping up and taking command, to fill the vacuum left by our absent superiors."
Admiral Redmond's confidantes didn't quite see where this was going yet, as he shuffled his papers and sat them down on the old table.
"For the foreseeable future, gentlemen, we are in charge, unfortunately."
The others reacted in various fashions. Francis grinned, puffing smoke. Henry poured himself an extra-generous house measure of the priceless liquor, scowling. Many of the others looked scared.
Admiral Redmond had drafted the first of his reforms for the Bretonian Armed Forces. Reasonably minor, his policy was designed to reflect international relations regarding the Outcasts, so that it fit with the government position. Due to the current state of total war against Kusari, the military had more power over its own affairs than would normally be considered healthy, but it was always expected that they would make an effort to pander to the civilian governing bodies.
The other Admirals mostly agreed with his position, even if they found it somewhat boring and unrelated to the important job of kicking eight shades of excrement out of slanty-eyed foreigners. They seemed agitated, eager to get onto more important business. This only speeded the process along.
"Aye, just tell the boys to hop to it, already, looks fine!" spat out Jim Henry, who had obviously not even finished reading it. The others nodded, then groaned when Admiral Redmon had its text projected onto the wall.
It read as follows:
Modus Operandi Re: Contraband Smugglers and their Associates
Currently, practices regarding the drug smuggling cartels, collectively referred to as 'Outcasts', are unacceptable. Due to the fact that new, safer routes have opened for these dangerous criminal syndicates to enter Liberty, bypassing Bretonia, combined with the confirmed reports that their relations with Dublin separatist terrorists as well as the Rheinland miners-turned-pirates in the Omegas have soured, they have little reason to be here.
Unfortunately, however, the rarity of said 'Outcasts' has led to situations where they are mistaken for simple Borderworlders, Freelancers, and other such relatively harmless vagabonds.
The result is lax docking restrictions and even fraternisation and genial banter with these sorts, which are effectively high-risk, dangerous criminals, and enemies of the state. This, to ourselves, to the government, and to the Bretonian public, is completely unacceptable. Therefore, the following policies shall take immediate effect.
Outcasts are banned from Bretonian space. They will be encouraged to leave, with the threat of force backing this up.
Should any Outcasts refuse to leave Bretonia-claimed territory, lethal force is authorised. Ground forces may be used planetside.
Communication, beyond standard warnings and demands to leave et cetera, between Bretonian Armed Forces personnel and Outcasts is prohibited. Infractions against this ruling will be punished severely, up to and including Court Martial for serious or repeat offences. It should be obvious that sharing communications frequency bands is the very worst of possible actions a loyal pilot could take.
In order to retain our position as a professional military organisation, all personnel are prohibited from discussing Outcasts and their opinions on them. The official government line is that they are criminals, and to be treated as such. One's personal opinion is irrelevant, and may potentially be considered insubordination, or a refusal to accept civilian control over the military. Breaking of this rule will, of course, have disciplinary measures in relation to the seriousness of the crime.
Discussion of Outcasts is only permitted in the context of how to prevent them accessing our space, and strategies of how to defeat their vessels in combat, and this is only acceptable within the ranks. Contact with the media is expressly forbidden.
All Borderworlds-series ships, including Stilettos, Daggers, Dromedaries, Sabres and similar, will be subject to a mandatory stop and search policy, due to the vast amount of these ships utilised by criminal groups. Innocents should have nothing to fear from this. On spotting such a vessel, our personnel should stop and detain the ship, thoroughly question the pilot, and examine his cargo and paperwork before letting him go.