[h2]Hong Kong, China[/h2] The harsh ringing of an alarm bell exploded, sending off all at once fireworks of sound that cracked and boomed and lit up her head. Groggy, she rolled over, half covered in his blankets. Her head swam in a murky sea of confusion and emptiness. Beyond simply being tired. Half-assed she reached about, flailing a pale hand around for the clock causing such an offense. Though for her efforts she failed, instead falling limp on the floor, her hand catching the cold metal of the foot rest of her bed. Though the fall was short and ended as quickly as it would come the process of coming down to the floor felt prolonged. The sweet stickiness of time froze solid and her eyes shot open to a violent explosion of color that tore all throughout her word. Horrifyingly every detail glowed with a golden light she couldn't believe existed. Even time seemed to have color. Then her head cracked against the floor and the vibrancy imploded, shuddering itself away to simple shades illuminated by the sunlight streaming through the window. Mei Tsu Mei bit her lip as she recoiled, squirming across the floor as her back landed full onto a cluttered stack of books. Their spines were not forgiving to her own and punched heavily into her back. Her breath twisted inside of her, clinging tightly to the back of her throat. By the time it got out it trickled out in a low mutter and hissing string of curses. She rolled off the books, hunched over on her hands and knees. With a soft thump a banana fell out from between her breasts where it had tucked safely in her bra. The sudden manifestation of the fruit inspired a blooming of curiosity. She rocked her memory trying to remember how it got there. Or why, for that matter. She combed her memory. From somewhere on her back a bird chirped. But turning over to locate the intruder she discovered she was alone. Still confused she sat herself down. She was left in nothing but a bra and a pair of faux-American bluejeans. Like a cold drizzle it started coming back. Mostly. Clouded in mud she could come to the terms of the situation and the implications there-of. She had chosen to visit the Cantina Madrid. The tacky consistency of her own thoughts was lended no doubt to a drop of acid. As were the mild hallucinations. Briefly this reconciled her, until she remembered her parents. It wasn't a weekend, if they found then there'd be questions with hard answers. She hoped. She really, deeply hoped they hadn't noticed. Laying on the floor, she strained her ears and to listen. To listen for silence. That disastrous sound of waiting to dispense justice. It took a moment for the bird to silence enough for her to hear. And from the other side of the door she heard the muffled chatter of her parents and the early morning radio programming her younger brother listened to. An early weekday morning episodic series. She failed to ever pay attention to it. Relieved, she pulled herself up. Though with the fortune of having a room to herself, it was not much bigger than a cell in its self. A single glass window shone the light of a Hong Kong morning through to her room. Basking in the cool sleepy light of morning the whole of the Tsuen Wan district unfolded outside her window. As small as the portal was, it was near enough to know what was going on outside. The curtains pulled aside opened it enough to see the packed twisting buildings that slithered alongside the roads as they wound through the craggy, stone hills. And even more beyond that the glimmer of the sea shone. Heavy clouds loomed over head, but she gave them no heed as she cast aside her pants, digging into the shallow closet for a new replacement, and a shirt to go with it. She liked the foreign styles. She had been introduced to it when China briefly opened her doors to America briefly. The sorts of things the merchant sailors brought over in the brief economic partnerships captivated her in that brief fiery flash that was that political relationship. And when it had ceased she felt the sting. She liked blue jeans. Though many were for men. But to wear them felt better than the typical dresses or skirts. And the sweaters and coats, in the few western magazines she had seen the women of America all had looked so good. But now those were gone, or at least the new editions. But she kept a reserve under her mattress to look at when there was nothing going on. It was something she prided herself on. She prided over being different, open. Even the discovery of African delights was as much a revelation as America. She failed to know why some kept resilient to old dress. But when it came to her friends like Jin Feng she was tolerant. She finished dressing herself, heading out through the door in a pair of second-hand pants she managed to barter off someone who says he bought it from a sailor. They were short, but they worked. And over the rest a too-large salmon sweater. Opening the door and stepping out into the hall invited all the sounds of morning at once. The voices on the radio suddenly become louder and crisper, no longer muffled. The searing of pork in the pan rushed out from under the traded conversation of her parents as breakfast was prepared. “Did you get Chen Wu-song's recommendations on applying towards being an autonomous zone?” her father asked, a brisk short man with a whiny voice. His balding head shone from the cool light coming in through the large windows that formed the face of their sitting room. A news paper rested in his hands, obscuring his face as he held it up. “Why doesn't he just take it to the mayor first?” replied Mei's mother as she krept about the kitchen. Thin and tawdry. Her face was flushed with pale chalky makeup, and the curlers were still in her hair. Her fingers with her long nails held the battered spatula in her hands with an almost too-careful force to not break a nail. Both working in the city administration, the two could get off with being more showy than both. But both still wore the same dusty-blue uniform. Little distinction of gender between the two. “Because the way I hear it he wants internal support before he goes anywhere. So he won't approach the council of internal communes or the mayor's office if we don't encourage him.” “I don't see why he even cares!” her mother huffed, not looking up to see her older daughter looming in the hall watching, squinting through the faint light, “Hong Kong's proposed to be wrapped into the Cantonese Autonomous Proposal.” “Way I hear it, his wife put him up to it.” “Stupid silly British women.” scowled her mother. She turned away from the oven to look over at her son who was sitting passively in the corner waiting. Passing over Mei her eyes grew wide and bright as she saw her. “Oh Mei, you're awake!” she called, clapping her hands, “You couldn't wear anything better?” she criticized, thrusting the spatula out like a sword. “Ah, no.” Mei admitted bluntly, walking out of the hall and past the small family shrine they kept opposite of the windows. “Well, breakfast will be ready in a few.” she added, “So sit tight.” “Your friend will no doubt be here soon to pick you up as well.” her father reminded, speaking of Pui Tui. His tone held no real opinion of him. If anything, he disapproved of his choice of transport, that Frankenstein truck of his. “War's picking up it seems in Africa.” he continued, without skipping a beat, “Reports the Ethiopian navy got sunk off their coast.” “Damnable Spanish.” her mother muttered. Hardly anything, hardly a word. Mei looked up knowing, she was in the mood to make her opinions known. But in no position to argue them. “Well, what do you suppose we do?” Mei asked cautiously. In part she was afraid the effects of the LSD were still in play. And that if it were she was deeply afraid she was speaking in tongues. They didn't catch anything, “That's not for me to decide.” her father grunted apathetically, “I don't know if we should honestly prop up another monarch. Cambodia's enough.” “Blow them out of the water!” Mei's brother cheered. Mei Song-Wu. He was only eleven years old. Spirited, and chubby. The way he looked at everything in his eyes gave off the impression it was all a joke. Mei's mother voiced no opinion on it. Mei knew it was to not step on her father's toes. “Well perhaps when you go to try and blow the Spanish out of the water you can come home and protect Hong Kong from them.” Mei's father said in response, lowering the paper to look back at his son, “And I hear the Spanish are terrifying. “Best let them rot in Africa, as some are saying.” “That doesn't sound at all ad-” Mei started, feeling a fire of protest. Her mother coughed, “Mei, Song-Wu.” she started, “Breakfast's ready. Come eat.” the announcement was the early death to the conversation. [h2]Shenzhen, China[/h2] The gravel hissed softly, the truck breaking over head. Nestled in the pleasant hills of Shenzhen, north of Hong Kong stood a small house. A cottage. Laid down on the hill-side, looking back into the valley of hills that spanned beyond it. A small dirt road crawled by. A yard of nothing but dirt lead to the front stoop of the house. It had just rained, the sky had cleared and now the world sparkled with a newly whetted sheen. Pui Tui was taking a personal gamble being here. It was high afternoon, back in school it was the lunch hour. If he couldn't make this fast that his absence would be noticed. For sure. Gripping the wheel of the modified work truck he took a deep sigh. The front door – and yard – of The Cashier's home was stark and empty. Barren of many comforting homely things. Perhaps it was the lack of weekend gamblers harrying around his door looking for a race to bet on or a game of Mahjong to cheat in. But their absence meant it was peaceful. The barring laughter of half-drunks and victorious poker players left room in for the birds and the soft rush of the ocean-born wind, bringing in cool crisp air from over the island of Hong Kong. Should he have chosen to loiter in Kowloon there'd be the smell of cha siu bao – pork bun – and freshly baked cakes being served out to the dock workers. And without the smell of oil and gasoline, and of harsh musk and cigarette smoke there was a certain purity here too in the smell. Much unlike the man behind those walls. Looking back, he considered heading back home. He could still make it. The police hardly ventured the hills and he could crank the horses in the engine that road covered in the truck's bed for as hard as they could go. The Cashier wouldn't know, and he could wait for the weekend. But that'd mean negotiating drunks and racers. Gamblers who thought they might be able to win against him. Then he'd get shoehorned into another race, and probably win. Then he'd have more money that he'd be unable to spend, according to Yan Cong. The money, it was the ultimate siren. It's call was damning and the sweetness of holding it too bitter. According to Cong, the state would find out too fast if he's living beyond his estimations. There had to be a loop hole. Somewhere. Desperation to break the lock on the riddle over came him, and he popped open the door. With a hollow slam it shut behind the teenage as he walked across the muddy yard. Pulling the twists out of his cotton shirt. Adjusting the buttons. His shoes drummed against the graying wood as he ascended the front steps and in through the door. Without its usual vultures the home was a morgue. Filled with a dim gray light streaming through the thin and filthy shades pulled shut over the windows. There was no need to turn the lights on. No need for the radio. The furniture sat along the edge of the room, stacked into semi-neat rows. The hard, bamboo floors swept clean of cigarette ash, mud, and blood. It was immaculate, but dead. “H-hello?” Cong called out into the emptiness. He walked down the entrance hall. Straining his eyes as he looked into the cavernous shadows of shoe closet off to the side. Not a trace of light shone into the niche with its half-closed doors. The space looked more cavernous than it was. Like the rest of the home, the emptiness and dreary funerary air made the entire cottage feel larger than it was. “What in Hell's name is going on?” a angered voice shouted. Cong froze, turning to the kitchen where the voice had rolled from. Through the door way stood the towering Cashier. An expression of deep distaste glowed in his eyes as he looked around the door frame. “Oh for fuck sake.” he grumbled, “Why are you here?” “I- uh, wanted to ask a question.” Cong asked carefully, “About my winnings, from the last race. And prior to that.” “Yeah? What about them?” The Cashier spat, “And look kid, can't you see? I'm not taking guests. Not today. Your being here is a liability against me!” he walked out the kitchen. His gait wide. He rung a wet dish cloth over his hands as he came to bear down over Cong. His face sour and bitter as he scowled down, “And I really don't like this risk.” he hissed. “You're lucky I won't break your neck right now.” he scowled, “You're one of my bigger winners, I'm getting jackasses as far north of Shanghai wanting to race the kid in 'The Tank' and offering to pay out for it. “So for fuck's sake, ask it quick before the police wander by and see you.” he grumbled, looking up through the open front door. The heavily rebuilt Quilin truck hugging the shoulder between road and yard, crate planks stacked against the side to hide whatever was there. The mix-raced Cashier didn't care what was there, nor wanted to know. What he knew is that whatever it was, it won them both money. And for the kid to come back asking... “How am I supposed to use it?” Cong asked. The question caught The Cashier by surprise, and his guard dropped, shoulder slacking. “Excuse me?” he mumbled. “The money...” he said, “It's more than I or any of my family have likely ever had. But, I've been told that I might not be able to spend it and get away with it.” “Shit.” the Cashier chuckled, his lips stretching to a wide eerie smile, “I don't fucking know nor care how the fuck clients spend that.” he sneered, “All I fucking know is they use it on shit that fucking Beijing or the city itself turns a blind eye too! “Fucking opium, heroine, whores, black market booze and cigarettes. And this new 'LSD' shit.” He waved his hand dismissively, “I don't deal in that shit and I don't care. And I imagine you can always fucking buy food and no one will notice.” He threw the rag over his shoulder as he turned back to the kitchen. “Fuck it kid. Have a good day.” he dismissively laughed. “Hold on!” Cong demanded, “There's got to be something you know.” The Cashier stopped and turned back. Rocking his head back and forth he turned to the youth, “Alright.” he sighed, “Since I'm a nice guy and everything, I'll let you in on a guy I know. He lives in the old Walled City, if you want to dare venture into there. His name is Song Yun-Fee, he used to be an old gambling buddy of mine back in the day. Now the fucker sits around in the claustrophobic rat's nest. Last I heard he's helping to spring dealers and prostitutes out the same net you're afraid you're going to get yourself swept up in. “If you think you won't get stabbed in the neck, go and see him.” he said, “Tell him an old friend sent you. The Ghost.” Cong nodded. “Kowloon Walled City.” he said, the thought gave him a shiver. Like a black welt on the city the towering fortress loomed over the Kowloon district like a cancerous tumor. It couldn't be moved, the Japanese had tried but couldn't break in. And the government had chosen to ignore it. Everyone knew it existed, but pretended it was never there. “I'll have to see about it.” he added, afraid. “Yeah, just stay safe kid.” “But, hold on!” Cong shouted. The Cashier froze. “He's in Kowloon, but where?” he asked. “Shit, I don't know.” the gambler shrugged, “He'd be anywhere. Put try fifth and eight avenue, top floor. “Good bye, kid.” [h2]Beijing, Central Military Command[/h2] “What the situation?” Hou asked after a prolonged silence in the room. His old wrinkled hands wrapped around the head of his cane as he leaned back in the chair. The central command of the Chinese military had been piercingly quiet. Only the sound of the air conditioning switching over head had broken the silence, and reminded the men present that they had yet to speak. “The Spanish had taken the Suez.” Yan Sing grunted, wrapping his pale hands across his lap. His long face held a stressed appearance. It was long, soured by lines as much as Hou and everyone else in the room. They were not young, not anymore. “We watched them break through and head south through the red sea to defeat the Ethiopian navy at Mandeb. And not only defeat, let me say obliterated it. “There's not a single surviving Ethiopian vessel we know of. The African's abilities to hold the sea are officially eliminated. If they plan to protect any convoys supplying them with aid as numerous nations across the globe have promised then they'll be hard pressed to receive it. They got no escorts to see even humanitarian supplies in. Spain has the upper hand to break and molest these supply lines as much as they want. “With this defeat too, it'll only be a matter of time before the Spanish navy seizes control of the coast to enforce a blockade. Our very own interests in Africa will fall apart in due time.” The commanders in the room gave gloomy nods. Even Lou Shai Dek who strongly committed to the theory that Africa could hold itself bore a shimmer of doubt in his aging eyes. He stroked his pointed shin with his fingers, deep in strategic thoughts. “In lighter changes, our aerial scouting of Spanish Africa is underway and we have turned up valuable intelligence. My department has forwarded what we find of value to their ambassador here in Beijing to handle and get back home before the doors close. “Of considerable value is the location of what I feel may be the Spanish storage facility for VX, if not possibly an important keystone in their VX infrastructure.” Hou and the rest of the table looked up, shifting in their chairs. Even the elderly chairman sat up, pulling himself up higher by his cane. His bones ached, but he could mute them for long enough to receive this, “About a week ago our high-altitude recon sweeps have located, photographed, and begun observations on a facility on the edge of the Sahara desert.” Sing continued, rattling out the words with practiced precision, “The location of the facility bordering the desert to the south and mountains to the north has lead us to believe and to assume that the value of the location as a defensive location is tactically moot on the larger scale, with any potential threats having to first cross though the over-bearing heat of the Sahara and then to fight into Spanish Mauritania over the Atlas mountains, which themselves present an offensive obtrusion to any African threats that Spain could use, defensive installation or not. “And given the further nature of the regular traffic to the installation and the presence of possibly chemically-oriented transport. This has lead the Bureau to designate the facility has a high-value target and we're operating regular recon on it, keeping a careful note of its regular traffic. If it's the Spanish VX stores, we'll know when they plan to deploy their chemical ace when activity becomes more aggressive and we follow bombers or other delivery means towards Africa. “Provided long-range communications are stable we could provide warning within the space of several hours if anything unfurls during observation.” “If.” Jan Jing stressed, “So if you found it, why haven't you recommended the possibility of an airstrike on it? Cripple it for good!” “You're free to do that!” Sing laughed. It was caustic and cold as he rose his hand and signaled for the lights. With a click the projector on the war-room table turned on. The intelligence commander stood up and began sliding photographs into the machine, throwing them up on the screen across the room. “As you can see,” he began with a sneer, bringing into focus an aerial picture of a desert mesa, surrounded by the trappings of military and industrial activity, “It's mostly all mountain. We could attack the facility, but from the air any damage we do to it will be like scratching the shell of a tortoise. We've identified roads and rail roads that drive into the heart of the mountain, leading us to believe that the actual facility itself is buried inside that mountain! “So we could try. We could bomb it for days, weeks, moths. Perhaps even years. But we will never break it. With all the solid stone covering it we wouldn't do anything. “Not only that, but there's the real risk that if we break it then we might release nerve agent into the wind and I don't think we'd like to know how much damage it does when that happens. “Currently, the best we can do is watch it. The best choice might be to mobilize ground troops against it. But that's without knowing what else they got besides VX.” “So if anything, what would you recommend us do to stop a launch?” Commander Jing asked, he leaned to the side, running heavy fingers through salt-and pepper hair. “I was hoping you might have and idea.” Sing said. “I think we can focus on that later.” Hou interjected, hammering the foot of his cane on the ground for emphasis. “But I think we've made acceptable gains on that ground. So long as we keep it in check while orchestrating your further efforts.” “Thank you, Chairman.” Sing bowed, pulling the photograph from the projector. “Now, commander Jing.” Hou sighed, “A potentially... off putting report came to me about an aerial skirmish our men had with Spanish resources somewhere near to the island of... Socotra, am I right?” “Indeed.” Jing said. He lowered his green eyes as he bit his cheek, “On the fourth of June aerial assets out of our training and partnership base on the island of Pemba flew north to respond to a distress call issued by a civilian aircraft hosting Empress Azima and her family and individuals I've been told were of high-value. “As I wrote in the report to you, the conditions couldn't have been better for an aerial battle with our forces out numbering the Spanish literally three-to-one. However, in the course of the conflict our jets failed to locate the royal transport and to down the Spanish fighter that was in pursuit. Both parties were forced to withdraw, with the Spanish aircraft retreating back to the Spanish armada and the remaining two of our three airplanes making haste to Addis Ababa. “It's believed that the third aircraft crashed. Although in a twist of fortune and analyzing the situation the lost pilot and his airplane no doubt went down over Ethiopian Somalia from what his wingmen have claimed to have been from a punctured fuel tank that forced him to ultimately leave for Addis. “We haven't been able to open communications with the downed pilot. So if the landing wasn't violent he may have abandoned his airplane to make contact. However I've ordered elements from the Pemba aerial division to be sent north to Somalia to look for his airplane and scrap it and bring it home. While on this mission they'll look for him or signs of him. Changes in orders depend on if we find a body or not.” “The Somalians are friendly to us, right?” the laborious overweight officer that was Handoi Hu said. He had the distinction of being the longest serving commander to Hou, directly in a sense. He'd been with him since Hong Kong. Large and whale-like, he had slowed down in recent years. Rumors in the political machine suggest he was considering retirement. And it showed. He was tired, worn. Although he had the weakest position in the military hierarchy he was loosing his grip on the ability to manage. He might not be as old as Hou was, but he was aging faster. Even after his stroke. “They are.” Jing said, “I've heard of them being over all supportive of Ethiopia and are confident in them. They dislike the west as much as they and we do. Chances are, if my public affairs intelligence is correct they won't be a physical threat to our lost officer. If he's alive, they'll make it easier. Keep him fed, provide him with transport and direction. “He could end up in Mogadishu soon and we can recover him from there. So though I'm prepared to write this engagement off as a defeat ultimately, we haven't technically lost a man. Not permanently.” “That's good to hear.” a relieved Hou nodded. A small weight had been lifted to think that a Chinese national hadn't been killed yet, “Though the loss of the royal family over Socotra, or near it. Can we confirm it?” “Working on it.” Jing said, “Part of the recovery mission will fly out towards the island to conduct low and slow searches for debris in the waters to determine if their plane went down or not. Or if it did: where too. The way I have heard it is that there was more than one valuable asset on that aircraft, and their government would really like to see both safe. So with the resources we have in the are we will do our best. “Perhaps we would have an improvement on this over all if we had more. But,” he shrugged in defeat, “that isn't my position to make.” “Frankly comrades we should take this to Congress!” Han Shen boomed. The admiral slammed a fist on the table, “All this talk, I'm getting impatient. We have the resources to turn this invasion back. Even a few submarines! We could cripple this and put Ethiopia on the edge. “Hou, get us a declaration of war!” he demanded, “Get us on the move. Put my guns in range of Madrid and I shall open fire!” he said symbolically. Hou rose his hands, he spoke calmly. Trying to settle the frustrations of the admiral, “In time.” he promised, “But for this I have to side with Shai Dek. I don't want us to hurry into something. Not without some scope on the situation. Perhaps... Perhaps...” “Perhaps they'll bog themselves down on the warpath.” Lou Shai Dek intruded. Speaking with the utmost confidence, he picked himself in his chair. “We can't judge a war by the first few battles. Suez, Mandeb. They don't bear well tactically for the Ethiopians but it isn't the end. And I don't believe I will have to remind trained and experienced military men here this, it is beyond me! “On you Han Shen, for shame on your haste. Temper your emotions and allow yourself to withdraw so you can see things more clearly. If the Spanish want us to yank China into war it should not be on their terms. “But if it will go before Congress then let it be so. I'll submit a long-term war plan to them if the rest of us do so. Let Wen put together a hearing to look at it and make a decision on if it should go before the greater Congress. “But let's not let ourselves be spread thing as well between Russia and Africa.” “I agree.” Jing said, “And a simple battle between us and them a cause for war doesn't make. It may flare tensions with the Spanish among our people here at home. But only if they're told and if he died.” “We should move fast, on whatever we're going to do.” Sing added in, “If we have the reason now to end their imperialism, we will need to act on it before they grow so strong from Africa they are untouchable. We're going to need to strike them soon. “If it's incentive that we need to discuss it, then we'll be getting it soon no doubt.” he continued, “A delegation from the Ethiopian Communist party is reaching out to the Third International as we speak. They're requesting to present their call for help on the floor of the Pond. Depending on what they have to say we might be looking at hostility within the near future.” “What are they asking for?” Handoi asked. “The Ethiopian Communist Party wants our involvement in the war.” Hou gravely noted, “I got a second-hand brief on it when they came in. They want the Spanish gone, but they'd like for the deposition of the Monarchy from power. I can only guess the Ethiopians took the chance of political instability to strengthen their plea. “And in doing so put us in a hard spot.” Hou added, “I shouldn't need to remind you.” “Your companionship with Yaqob.” Sing crooned, “No offense comrade, but it is highly unusual. Even you ended up negotiating the Norodom family out of strict government power. Yet you haven't bothered with it in Ethiopia. “Highly unusual.” “My reasons are my own.” a defensive Hou quipped, “And the future Chinese position is not my own to make. “In any wild case, we're going to see what comes of it.” “Will we present the possibility of the loss of the royal family?” Jing asked? “I'll present it to Auyi and Zen when I get the chance,” Hou said, “If one isn't too busy on the campaign trail. But if the African communists are here it may make things strenuous. Then again, we're looking at high-profile civilian casualties, attributed directly to Spain.” Hou nodded as he leaned forward, “What then of Russia?” he said, to change the course. “Huei Wen is making a push to Tyumen.” Lou Shai Dek declared, “From his report field inteligence and aerial scouting has pointed out that the Russians may be organizing outside the city to keep them from Yekaterinburg. He feels that if he can rush the Russians and break their lines he'll scatter their army and be able to take the city by the end of the month and be on the Republican capital from there on. His primary interest is getting as much done as he can while it's summer and it's a lot drier and warmer. If he gets bogged down and winter comes he'll consider his offensive a failure. He's dead set on not having that.” “I can understand.” Hou said, “What is he going to do to prevent the Russians from outmaneuvering them, like last time?” “He's going to bomb and shell Kurban and Chelyabinsk.” Jing answered smoothly, “He sent me his and his flight commander's options. “With any luck they can continue the push. We have men who have taken and shut down their eastern communication network so it'll be a lot messier for the Republic to answer.” “We're however moving about there without internal support.” Sing reminded, “I don't think it'll be easy. “Let me remind the command I deployed agents to the region to convince the so-called General Makulov to assist the Chinese. The general's regarded as a ghost, almost a phantom who dropped off the face of the earth after the initial Neo Bolshevik uprising. “I haven't heard of any changes despite the agents locating Makulov, and one has gone missing. Although despite the loss his partner is continuing the mission. He's behind schedule now but he's in too dire a position for extraction. So we're leaving him there.” “Comrade Hou,” Lou commented in, “Last we talked about Russia I assumed that we'd be looking at allocating the men we have stationed in Turkestan has a joint security-training mission could be re-allocated to Russia in the future. I'm curious if perhaps you got their diplomatic blessing?” “I brought it before the External Relations Comittee and they approached the Turkestanian government.” Hou remarked, “They understand and will expect the termination of the current contract soon. I'm told they're finishing up exercises, but we can perhaps allocate them to Russia in the near future.” “Huei Wen will appreciate the extra support then.” Shai Dek smiled, “In however much time it will be before they act on their changed orders.” “Well, let's just hope he manages.” Hou choked, “Now, I think we've talked for nearly enough. To you comrades, have a good day.” [h2]Surgut, Russia[/h2] “They're just... Watching...” a soldier spoke, aghast at the packed side-walks. The convoy rolled through the streets, passing clumps and clusters of sheepish and worrying spectators. Their tired drawn-out faces watched the Chinese troops drive into their city. Armed buggies chugged down the street, their guns loaded and readied, though the gunners too stricken by the civilian awe and anxiety over their presence. The Chinese troops had swept back from the north-west, positioning themselves outside of the city of Surgut. Quan Yun-Qi had hoped that any Republican defenders in the city would approach him men and engage, hopefully dragging the combat out of the cities and the realities of urban combat. He'd slogged through enough in the liberation of Mindanao to have known better to not take to the streets. He did not want to see echoes of the combat there alive in Russia. But for the past several days no one came. The city on the Ob River sat silent and dead. The stillness of the air was almost unnerving. Its relative silent bitter and cold. Even with the mid-spring sun warming the ground, the nervous frightful men and women who had held on through the worse no doubt looked to be living in an eternal winter. Their faces had sunken. Their eyes laid low as they passed. The turned themselves to the side when a soldier addressed them. And now Shang Hsiao Quan Yun-Qi had ridden out of his CP to see this city for himself. On the suggestion that the Republic had retreated. As he hung off the side of a buggy packed with his armed men he saw it before him. Naked in its truth. But just as eerie. He looked up into the windows of the brightly painted Imperial architecture. Half expecting to catch sight of a sharpshooter in the shadows. Or on the roof for a suspicious specter. But there was none of that looming. Nothing to haunt him. At least not physical. And he realized that here it wasn't what he could see that scarred him, it was what wasn't there that spooked him. “Where are we going?” stammered a young private. Yun-Qi looked over to see his finger dance between resting on the trigger to hanging on the trigger guard of his rifle. He wasn't the only one expecting something, and it made him feel better. “Town hall, I guess.” he muttered suspiciously as he looked over the heads of the men and women who remained. With scarves over their heads and lines across the faces of the young and old alike they all looked like wraiths. Jiangshi in Russia. Yun-Qi shivered. Something didn't feel right. But he didn't need it laying its weight across his shoulders. He had more pressing matters. He turned his head from the civilian clusters that clumped along the dirty roads to watch them long procession of vehicles. All ahead of the colonel a train of carts, buggies, and six-wheeled carriers spanned a long line through the city in the valley of ghostly tenements and office buildings. It was a clear day. The afternoon sun was bright. It felt a shame. ______________________________________ “Kitayets.” the old man muttered, Yun-Qi stepping into the room. The office of the mayor was in comparison to the rest of the city extravagant, and full of life. If not for the city outside the windows there would have been an air of life. Paintings of the countryside hung on a wall coated in a deep-blue wallpaper, images of flowering vines crawled up the height of the wall at regular intervals. A deeply stained strips of wainscoting, carved carefully by chisel and knife framed the bottom to hip height. And a plush blue carpet covered the floor. It was a decadent office, and powerful. Though inhabited by a man who was perhaps distant from it. Despite his well-trimmed suit the body that occupied it had grown tired. He hunched over, his hands bearing scars and darkened liver-spots. His brow dropped over his eyes, and his cheeks dropped to a permanent frown, meekly hidden by his scraggly white beard. He was someone from a bygone era. And there was a severe loss to his pride for simply being in the presence of a foreign commander. “Mer.” Quan Yun-qi bowed. He was no diplomat. But he tried for his best impression. Aside from a small guard stood at his side was one of his lieutenants. Hu Jiao-Long, a larger man. A wide pair of spectacles rested across his narrow nose. “I am Shan Hsiao Quan, and this is Zhong Zao Hu.” “Stanislav Propodov.” the old men stammered weakly. He spoke low. If he had any pride left, it escaped through his eyes as he looked at Yun-Qi. “It's an honor.” the colonel answered politely, “Now, if I remember hearing right you're surrendering?” “I am.” Stanislav replied. “Without a fight?” Yun-qi inquired in Russian. “That is true.” the mayor acknowledged. “Mind telling me why?” The mayor sighed, dropping his shoulders he looked at the colonel. “Have you not seen the city?” he stated bluntly, “Have you not seen anything in us worth defending for ourselves? What we had is long, long gone.” he mourned. “Ever since the Tsar died and no one could reasonable appoint an heir this city has lost its pride.” he continued, turning to the window, “We used to be the center of Siberia, straddling the watersheds of two major rivers. But that was a century ago. “Now where is the city? The year 1980 and one river in our network leads to your revolting communism and the other into a nation that the Republic has no presence in. The economy collapsed, the value of our export declined in favor of the Spanish. We started producing to simply feed our own wants, and people left.” He stepped away from his desk, to Yun-Qi and Hu Jiao-Long. He moved slowly, heavily. “As a former soldier I am committed to my nation, and an Emperor we lost. I have neither any more. My so-called nation, this Republic, abandoned us in our dire hour. “When I heard that they weren't received communications they were just starting to show cowardice and fear. The few measly units stationed here after your people first tried to come west suddenly packed up and left. “So that's why I am surrendering.” he explained. He turned his head to the side, wrapping his arms across his chest, “I just ask if you have any mercy you allow those of us who want – or can – to leave.” “Comrade.” Jiao-Long cut in, prodding his superior officer in the side and speaking in a low voice and in hushed mandarin, “I can see where this is going, can I have a word?” Yun-qi looked at him, then up at the mayor. “Excuse me.” he bowed, his Russian shaking as he turned to Jiao-Long. “If you say yes, he might just leave.” Hu pointed out, nodding to the old man, “If I can give you a word of advice, it's to exempt him.” “You think you'll need him?” Yun-Qi inquired. Jiao Long was his civilian liaison in these affairs. He'd had little point in coming out until now, during what Yun-qi assumed would have been a campaign involving only military targets. He'd assumed wrong when he got the orders though. “If we're going to effectively handle this city then there's no one better to help than the mayor.” he grimly pointed out, “As much as he hates us, and we may hate him.” Yun-qi nodded, “Understood.” he turned away from his lieutenant and back to the mayor, “I can permit those who want or see the need to leave to do so.” Yun-qi invited, turning back over to Russian. The switch in language made him feel nervous and he felt he fumbled. But the look of understanding Stanislav had looking up at him was enough, “On an exception that I need you here.” “You're going to hold me to ransom!?” the mayor boomed. His otherwise calm submissive demeanor shifted. He trembled reflexively, his eyes wide with shock, “I-, I-” he stuttered. “Hardly so, comrade.” Yun-qi affirmed, “I'll allow you to keep your office. But for anything to continue I do need information. We can start here and now before we settle down and perhaps look for a way to escort out any refugees, or to let them through.” Stanislav looked at him. A mixture of shock and stricken confusion ran circles around him. Yun-qi merely had to be patient. He looked at the soldiers the Chinese officer had brought in. He had allowed them in. Yun-qi had the upper hand. “What do you want to know?” he asked. “We can start with the rivers. I'll bring in my security officer and we can organize how we're going to police this city. Do you have any chairs?” “I-In the closet, by the window.” the mayor pointed out. “Good.” Yun-qi nodded, pointing his men to the closet in question, “You speak first.”