Project Boussh: An Imperial Admiral In London by Majick Friday, November 10, 7 PM GMT Thrawn descended from the First Class coach in a mood which, for him, bordered on anger. First, he'd not been able to make a direct trip from Newcastle to London. His arrival in Britain had coincided with it's worst ever spell of weather, with hurricanes, tornadoes and floods hitting the usually meteorologically serene island. 'I wonder,' he wondered, 'whether there is more than coincidence at work here.' He dismissed the feeling, and resolved to regain the lost time by applying a slighter larger percentage of his mammoth brainpower to the mission than had first been planned. 'To get a feel for these people. Understand them, at root, at core, utterly, completely,' had been his mission statement. He'd theorised that a working weekend would be sufficient to gain sufficient knowledge of this backwards planet. Checking that his makeup was intact in a darkened ticket window, Thrawn moved out into the centre of London. Operating on the theory that what people were buying would be a good indication as to their culture, Thrawn ventured towards a major shopping area, marked on the map he had procured as Oxford Street. As he walked along, he drank in the atmosphere of the grimy, crowded, noisy city. He watched as drunks flailed at one another, as a homeless teenager licked stared hungrily at the yellow plastic 'M' emblazoned on a shopfront. He saw lovers and fighters, workers and skivers, drivers and bikers, duckers and divers. Occasionally he saw a harassed lawman -'bobbies', he remembered- but more frequently he saw the larcenous side of human nature. He passed a small park, and paused to watch a group of children playing, or so it at first seemed. In reality, the children were taunting one of their number, a small child, dark skinned and poorly dressed. The few adults in sight were too busy with their own concerns to halt the cycle of injustice just now beginning in this group. Thrawn moved on. Reaching Oxford Street, Thrawn was confronted with a solid mass of people, spilling off the walkways and into the road. The wheeled vehicles -'cars'- were immobilised as people laden with huge bags burrowed around, over and through their fellow shoppers. Everywhere Thrawn looked, imcomprehensible banners declaring 'Xmas Bargains!' and 'Seasonal Savings!!!' were visible. Manners were absent as people barged one another out of their way, only to be barged in turn by someone with more shopping a few metres further along. Realising progress was impossible on Oxford Street, Thrawn decided to fall back on another plan he had prepared. He decided to visit the most popular places in London and get a feel for the city that way. Consulting his map again, he determined that an attraction called the Trocadero would make a good place to start. Thrawn entered the amusement arcade and devoted an instructive few minutes watching the young people spend whatever money they had on fighting the tyranny of various evil overlords, on scoring the winning goal in a sports championship, even, Thrawn noted with amusement, on fighting the Empire in numerous simulators. Curious, he pushed to the front of a queue and took his place in front of the machine. Suddenly he found himself in control of a speeder bike weaving through the forests of Endor. Thrawn lasted all of thirty seconds before crashing into a tree. A pimply faced teenaged boy pushed him brusquely out of the way, and began his own attempt to save the galaxy. Thrawn exited the arcade, and concentrated instead on the remainder of the complex. He wandered from shop to shop, his movement freer than in Oxford Street. In HMV, he had his hearing abused by the noise of an apparently accepted individual calling itself Marilyn. Here too, he found reference to his life far, far away. Merchandise bearing his own likeness was available, and Thrawn realised that he would have to change his opinion of this planet somewhat. If people would willingly buy his products, this could be a planet the Empire could make use of. Pondering who exactly got his share of the royalty's from the Thrawn trilogy, Thrawn moved on. He found himself in a back street, away from the neon lights of tourist London, and Thrawn immediately recognised this as a sign that his quest was nearer to fruition. What said more about a people than their homes? He strolled along the street, noting the pleasingly Imperial effect created with each house sharing its side walls with the neighbouring building. The quiet of the road was broken sharply by a scream, and the sound of a door slamming open. Thrawn spun around to see a youth running from a house across the street from him. A woman followed him, screaming at him as he stumbled under the weight of his shoulder bag. 'Thief!' she yelled. Thrawn's hand leapt to his blaster pistol, concealed beneath his jacket. But he hesitated, and instead turned away. A blaster shot here would attract unwanted attention. Thrawn moved on. Saturday, November 11, 7 AM GMT Thrawn awakened from his slumber in the confines of his room at the Savoy. Once dressed, he moved downstairs and out into the streets of London again, ignoring the dozing receptionist. This early in the morning, London presented a different aspect to that which Thrawn had encountered the previous day. Street traders were out early, offering Thrawn, as a 'discerning gentlemen,' the opportunity to own 'a genuine Armani suit, on my mothers grave, God bless her heart.' Ignoring the hawkers, Thrawn moved on to a breakfast bar where he overheard a conversation between two men, ranging from the unrest in the 'Middle East' -whatever that was- through the relationship between a singer and a sportsman, and the chances of the local football teams against their opponents that afternoon. Thrawn resolved to find a place where he could watch people watching sports, knowing the passion that could often stir. Thrawn then selected an art gallery as his next point of research. He moved through the place -the 'Tate Modern'- with a deceptively casual air, drinking in the detail on every piece of work, from sculpture to painting, via free form and photography. In the gift shop, he was able to obtain a computer disc with a history of Art on it, for him to study when he returned to the Admonitor. As it was the early afternoon, Thrawn moved onto a bar that promised live football. The display, on a flatscreen, baffled Thrawn. It was a sport without physical contact, with intricate rules that seemed to exist only to prevent players scoring points. As the results came through, the mood in the bar took a downturn. Clearly, the favoured teams had under-performed, and Thrawn learned that Tottenham were in the midst of a poor run of form, while Arsenal were losing ground in the quest for the national title. Other fans were happier, as their teams fared better. Thrawn was surprised to see fans from opposing teams sitting together, and commented on it. 'It's part of football,' the barman explained. 'Every team plays poorly at times, and we've all seen it happen to us. You don't rip on your mates too much, 'cos you know next week may be their chance to get revenge. Besides, the love of the game means you never get too put out, and there's always hope for the next game.' Thrawn considered this as she sipped at his fruit drink. Finishing it, he headed for the door. A burly man cut in front of him, but, realising it, the man apologised and held the door for Thrawn to leave the bar ahead of him. Thrawn moved on. Thrawn had collected much information for him to ponder in his day in London. He decided to make one final stop before calling it a night. He entered a bar known as 'Cheers' where the walls were covered with signed photographs, and plaques bearing quotations Thrawn decided were meant to be humorous. There, he watched young people dancing to music, and all the associated actions that went with it. Wearying suddenly of the bar, and the planet as a whole, Thrawn left the bar, and headed for a secluded park. Hidden in the cover of a small copse, he called for the shuttlecraft that had bought him from the Admonitor. 'I'm finished here,' he said over the comlink. 'Have you modified the cloaking device?' 'Yes sir,' came he reply. 'We can now land and pick you up without decloaking.' 'Good. What news from our other agents?' Thrawn asked. 'The reports from all seventeen agents are being analysed, sir. We await your final judgment.' 'My final judgment, unless I see something astonishing before you pick me up, is that this planet is little different from any in our galaxy. Nothing really of note, no real reason for it to concern us. They are nowhere near as advanced technologically as us, although their level of civilisation is comparable to most worlds we know of. It's almost a stereotype of a class 3 civilisation. Thrawn out,' he concluded. He leaned against the tree and waited for the arrival of the shuttle. When the shuttle landed, an intelligence officer shone a light out the door, and Thrawn used the guide to climb aboard. Then Thrawn moved on.