[h1]Russia[/h1]
[h2]Tyumen[/h2]

“Ram it down!” Sun Song roared over the tumultuous orchestra of war. The diesel engine roared like a blast furnace. Against the metal hull small-arms fire peppered the steel shell ringing against it like hammers against an iron bell. The ricochets were loud and sharp, further drowning much of what was going on in Tsung's ears.

His senses were over-extended. The grind into the city had not ended and neither had the Russians seemed to tire. But there was a chaos in the air. A maddening storm that crashed against the walls of his house threatening to spike the calm of his sanity. His heart thumped in his chest as fast as the turbine engine behind him spun. And in front of him was the unstoppable force of a concrete wall. Or so Song didn't think.

Slamming his foot down on the accelerator pedals he hurled the tanks against the cobbling wall, smashing it against the stone with the grind and sheering popping of metal as several tonnes of heavy iron and explosive ammunition came to bear against it. Cracks spider-webbed in the brick-work as he pressed their vehicle into the offending blockade.

The Russians had erected in the streets tank-traps. The heavy iron crosses and concrete blocks designed to slow or stall moving armor. They were heavy, but were with any faith not nearly as stubborn as the exterior wall of a apartment block.

Steel wrenched itself into twisted forms as the cracks broke open into holes and the engine screamed at a higher pitch. “We're going to over-heat her!” Tse Lin screamed.

“Pull back, give her time to cool!” Song ordered from his commanding chair. His knuckles glowed white-hot as he gripped the frame of his gondola. “Hui!” he barked, “anti-tank rifle at four-o' clock.”

“How high.” Hui called out, calmed and collected. Too eerie for Tsung whose heart took a lurch at the invocation.

“Doesn't matter, I want high-explosives.” Song demanded.

“D-d-d-” Tsung stuttered. But Song answered the question before he could choke it out.

“He's shooting over us, I don't think he noticed.” his commander consoled as the main turret roared to life with a guttural bang.

“Try again, Tsung!” Song ordered as he turned to the radio, shouting out over the sounds of the intense conflict around them. A mortar grenade landed somewhere nearby, its detonation muffled by the thick shell. But none the less too close as shrapnel cascaded down the thick bullet-proof port glass.

Tsung threw the tank forward again and the wall came to lurch. He saw the cracks split and a dark void form between them as rebar supports bent and groan. All that could be hoped in this insanity was that Russian steel was inferior.

But for all the rushing madness this wasn't coming on top. From his chair Tsung had watched his armored comrades roaring across the farmer's fields, cut by shallow rudimentary trenches with sleds of steel. Laying out behind them bridges the mechanized infantry and foot soldiers of the Revolution rushed across without hesitation or question. Circumventing and climbing over the very defenses the Republican army had struggled to erect.

He watched a tank next to him take an anti-tank shell through the turret. The rush of burning diesel exploded into the air through the exit behind it. The fire ultimately catching the ammunition stores before he could tell anyone had escaped. The explosion in his hair as pounding and deafening as the croak of a dragon bullfrog.

And now here they were, committing in their own way for the mission. Ramming the nose of their tank into the wall of an apartment.

With a crackling wail the brick and mortar split aside and fell. Bursting into a thick cloud of ashen dust as the Tei Gui sped in, tearing freely through the drywall. Wood and plaster crunched and scratched against the steel hull as they roared through. The cabin bumped and yawed as it lumbered through walls of thinly space rooms and narrow halls. Scrapped along the low ceiling and knocking free rivers of plaster and asbestos.

With a crash it cleared to the front lobby, desolate of life and the dark murky interior devoid of civilian activity. Unabated, it sailed through the door. Rendering from the frame the wood and brick as it cleared the entrance. Brick and steel gouged along the side. The interior sang with the rancid sound of sharp steel and toothy rock. Groaning in its exit, it crashed into the street below. Tsung rocked in his seat as he kept the pressure on and back into the clear summer afternoon.

The engines turned and the treads spun against one another and the boat turned down the street. “We're breaking this barrier.” Song snarled, “Keep straight to the corner!” he issued without hesitation, “I want the turret rotated to ten o'clock. High explosives at the ready.”

“Yes, comrade.” Hui and Lin reported in unison. The high-pitched whine and clatter from above signaled the turret was on the spin as Tsung moved along the road. The fury of combat muffled by the separation of buildings. Behind him, the familiar swallowing clunk of the turret affirmed the gun was loaded.

The air hummed with the grinding of diesel as they barreled down the street. The familiar tones of machine gun fire rising ahead of them as they approached the intersection ahead. Flanking their sides the industrial gray of additional projects towered above them.

Among the din and the cacophonous call of fighting they rolled behind the barriers as a leopard. The olive-green uniforms of Russian riflemen turned against them as they lay behind concrete barriers and sandbag redoubts. The street had been turned into a vicious choke point. And beyond their barriers the iron crows feet barriers that dissuaded them sat in wait. Many more stretched along the road for blocks.

Chinese and Siberian rounds flaked off the hardy armor of the Tei Gui that loomed behind them as Hui made the final adjustments. There was a delayed pause before the Chinese war machine opened up. But when it made its report, the bagged nest the Republican defenders had risen to ward off the Chinese had unfolded into a cloud of debris and smoke, leaving behind a smoldering crater and scattering soldiers who scattered from the wayward shell that hit from behind. Or if they did not scatter, they lay dead or dying in the milky dust. Their corpses mangled in the street.

A moment of broken silence passed on by as the low roll of the shell's impact faltered and faded as it echoed through the streets. Rushing forward, the otherwise pinned Chinese attackers marched forward, pressing themselves against the walls as they trained their guns into windows and up high as they watched the shattered windows of apartment floors above. Even through the hull of the armor Tsien could hear the echo of distant fire as Chinese and Russian troops skirmished in the streets. Over head airplanes droned searching for targets, or scouting the streets from on high. Behind him, Sun Song called in what had happened on the radio, sending back their position.

But above it all, ringing in his ears still was that hallowed scream of the tank shell and the explosion. Still looming in front of his vision and in the dark corners of his psyche the repeating image of the vaporizing Russians played. He felt cold and sweaty. Subdued jitters crawled across his skin with each pass of clammy coldness. In the moment of peace and inaction, he closed his eyes, trying to hide himself away. But he could still hear the booming of the gun, and the guttural, horrible rending of the impacting shell.

[h2]Road to Moscow, North of Kazan[/h2]

With a putter and a wheeze, the car drew to a lumbering stop in the middle of the country road.

“Cyka blyat!” Vasiliy cried, bashing the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. Ullanhu jumped from the sudden explosive outburst from his partner, broken from his meditative staring out into the rural landscape of European Russia. Stretching out all around them stretched miles of wheat fields in varying state of use and disuse. Some looked clearly tended too, flush with golden waves of amber grains. Where as others had become clearly overgrown where old farmers had simply let the crop grow wild.

Ullanhu looked over, dazed and stunned with his partner. The scrawny Russian with the stringy blonde hair and floppy stripped collared shirt stood slumped over the scratched steering wheel. His lip stuck out in the air and a powerful look of anger dashed across his face. From the car there was a rhythmic tapping as metal contracted and clicked. The engine had gone silent and a cloud of steam bellowed out from under the hood, and the obnoxious hood vent.

“Steam?” Vasiliy said in Russian, raising his head. “Steam! This I can fix!” he cheered happily, throwing open the driver's side door and bounding out onto the shoulder of the road. “I can fix this!” he cackled insanely as he whipped around to the trunk of their car.

“You can?” Ullanhu muttered from the passenger's side, turning to watch his partner dance around and fumbling with his keys as he engaged the trunk in vicious key-to-lock combat.

“Yes yes!” he yelled back, “Is only radiator. Is out of coolant!” he cackled in his broken Chinese.

“You know if it's easier you can always talk to me in Russian...” Ullanhu offered cautiously, “That I can speak too.”

“No, no. Is not of polite!” the young Russian sputtered anxiously. He fought each word, like someone trying to calculate long math by his own head, “Besides, I of need practices.”

“Well, whatever you want.” Ullanhu agreed tentatively. He leaned back in his chair and starred out down the road. Their road had long turned from forested dirt tracks and over-grown two-tracks in the low mountains to a twisted long stretch of country weaving. The road had become paved, but only in a broken sense. The pavement was cracked and pitted. At times, entire stretches seemed like gravel in its most pure form. He couldn't help but wonder if this was a fact of recent developments, or if it had been such a problem even during the glorious days of the tzar.

It was for Russia an idyllic summer day they drove through. This car, whatever it was, lacked any means of air conditioning. The two had driven for the better part of a day with the windows rolled down to take in the fresh air and to flush out the summer heat. The sky was a clear and beautiful expanse of blue. In a way, the day reminded Ullanhu very much of being at home, among the herdsmen of Mongolia before the life of the IB took him.

“Vasiliy.” the agent offered, “What did you do before all this?” he asked.

“What do?” the Russian answered back, reaching into the car to pop the latch on the hood. In his hand was a worn army can full of some manner of liquid.

“Before... this.” Ullanhu gestured out, to all around him. “This war. This civil war?” he poised.

“Oh, I was a army private.” the young Russian answered weakly, smiling wide and dumbly as he looked up at his Chinese partner. “Is what you want?”

“Not necessarily.” Ullanhu mumbled.

“Oh.” Vasiliy said, walking around to the popped hood. A cloud of trapped steam rushed out of the heated engine block and into his face as it flew open like a steel clam shell. Now it blocked his view of the road ahead. But he continued speaking as he watched the Russian unscrew the coolant cap to fill the reservoir.

“I mean, what did you do before the army even?” he asked.

“Father owned barber shop.” Vasiliy answered plainly, “Mother worked as clerk at bank. We live in Moscow.”

“Are they still there?” the Mongol asked.

“Yes and no.” the young Russian answered, his voice lowered to an almost uncomfortable level. “You see, they died.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.” Ullanhu comforted, he felt almost stung he had broached to something such as that. An aching curled up in his heart and he looked away, almost apologetically, like he had caught a girl naked.

“No, no. Is good.” replied Vasiliy as he finished pouring the coolant. But still the engine clicked as he lowered the hood of the car. “What of yours?” he asked.

“They're fine.” Ullanhu answered guiltily, “They uh- they're shepards.”

“Shepards? Such modesty.” the Russian commented. “How man go from shepard to spy?”

“I don't know.” Ullanhu shrugged, “For being smart?”

“Wish I was so smart.” Vasiliy commented, “Perhaps I be not in Russia but in France during such anarchy.” he grinned tensly.

“Yea, France. France would be a good place to be.” Ullanhu stammered.

Vasiliy got shut away their reserve coolant into the trunk and slid back into the driver's seat. His finger drummed on the red wooden steering wheel as he starred ahead down the road.

“So, are we going?”

“Of not yets.” Vasiliy remarked calmly, “We waits for engine to cool.”

Ullanhu nodded. The two sat listening to the engine click and groan. Ullanhu looked out across the open farm-fields, looking for something to look at and to watch. In the far distance between two fields a small Orthodox chapel stood in the open. Its rounded domes and roofs sagged in on itself. And even from the distance between each other Ullanhu could see the broken exterior wall and the gaps in the worn and faded plaster than had protected the brick work underneath. The inconsistency in the colors was powerful.

“You be of out of country before?” Vasiliy asked, taking his turn to broach conversation.

“Have I?” Ullanhu asked back.

“Ya.”

“I dunno, I suppose you could say China is foreign to me.” he laughed nervously. He felt like he was betraying himself saying so, while at the same time somehow staying loyal. “Or, well, for a while we were independent when I was just a toddler. But I grew up in China for as long as I can remember, so I suppose I can't ever say that.

“So no. No I haven't. This is the furthest I've been from home. Ever.”

“I have been to of Ukraine.” Vasiliy remarked, “When I just green and fresh. We want to of retakes lost Imperial land, bring Ukraine back to Empire. Be united again, and not be of broken people.

“But, you know the rest. But we didn't know at time. Was I only eighteen at time. Certainly didn't know better, never pay attention to Finland.”

“Do you ever wish to get out?” Ullanhu asked.

“Maybe.” Vasiliy smiled, “Maybe I visit China after war.” he smiled. He sounded like he was posing a compliment. Even the look in his eyes was warm as he looked over to his partner.

“But that's not now.” he finished, licking his cracked lips, “Perhaps car is of workings. We back to road.” he mused, cranking the key in the ignition. With a burp the car started up. The engine screamed in protest and whined. Perhaps it was too hot, but it wasn't so much that it wouldn't start up again.

“Where'd you get this?” Ullanhu asked as they rolled back out onto the road.

“Founds in car lot during break in Moscow.” the Russian smiled, “With lots others. Owner had fled to some wheres. We moved in, Makulov claimed them all. We took for selves.

“I like this. Is sportings car. Always dreamed driving sportings car.”

[h1]Ethiopia[/h1]
[h2]Tog Wajaale, Somalia[/h2]

The car took a hard bump over a piece of garbage in the road. The asphalt glistened with the kiss of fresh rain. Ripe green brush grew over the embankment of the road. Underneath soft-red clay and sand lay in wait, ready to emerge again when the seasonal rains receded and the landscape returned to being bone dry. Scoring the hills and their green farmer's fields dashed the landscape in long lines, themselves lush with green produce. Among the rows men and women wandered hunched gleaning through the crop to come.

The sky overhead was the patchwork of clear skies and white clouds reminiscent of a sky that had been pregnant with rain before it. Birds darted above them as they dashed to collect bugs before returning to scrubby brush. There was little in the way of trees to cover in. It was all hard, coarse bush and hardy plant life. Han Wen sighed, hoping to soon escape the ground and return to the sky. He had forgotten how much he missed it. To be in the true openness of the skies. To maneuver and dance, and not lumber through on sand-abused wheels with a engine that groaned and protested at every suggestion of acceleration. He wanted to be above this. He wanted to give that Spaniard a rematch above these fields.

The heat and the wet season humidity had not worked well together. Sweat beaded on his brow and long ago he had thrown off his leather pilot's jacket and tossed it into the back of the withering coup where it lay crumpled in the back seat. Mulki had seemed not to care, but the two had not spoken since Bargaal. Wen's anxiety to get home had closed him like a clam shell. And he didn't quite know how to approach such foreign women.

They closed in on another town he'd soon forget. He stopped trying to learn their names. He was an airman after all, his direction was given in degrees and altitudes. Before he could take final note of the countryside they rolled in passed plaster-coated buildings and mud-brick shanties. The sides of the street were abreast with activity. Humble Muslim women shuffled about in groups, their faces shaded by hijabs and bodies hidden behind long dresses. Old men in chairs outside the doors of their homes watched the passing car with a casual disinterest as they chewed.

It wasn't a spectacular thing in its own.

“So what was your grand father talking about?” he asked suddenly, breaching the silence. It had burned him silently for the better part of the day. He had figured to broach it. In truth, he had some idea. But the picture wasn't complete.

“Excuse me?” Mulki responded.

“He is your grandfather, right?” Wen asked again, turning to look at Mulki. She sat at the driver's wheel, handling through the sparse village streets and dodging battered utility vehicles and the odd mule-pulled wagon. She made a cursory glance to him.

“Well, by marriage.” she admitted plainly, “But he's also not my grandfather. He's my great uncle to my husband.” she corrected.

“Ah, I see.” Wen nodded, “Forgive me then.”

“It's alright.” she forgave, “But you wanted to know about his stories?”

“Yeah, I have an idea. But it's not too shaky. He fought in The War?”

“Oh, he did.” she said. There was a tinge of regret, or was it awe? It was difficult to place and Han Wen had to fight to figure it. He put it in bewilderment, “But, he's never talked about it much until just recently. I mean, we all knew. He still wears the uniforms, the medals. He's proud, but he's never put anything to words.

“You were the first person to ever have him tell his story, and you can't even understand him!” she exclaimed.

“Did he know?” Wen asked.

“Probably, but there was something about you that I guess convinced him he could open up to you.” she nodded, “Perhaps he knew you couldn't judge him? I don't know him well enough to say. I can't get into his head, and neither could his closest family, and most of them are dead too by now.”

“Such a shame.” commented Wen.

“Well, I can't dwell on it honestly.” Mulki laughed politely. She shot him a stray smile.

“So, these stories?” Wen prodded, “I can tell he's a pilot. And flew for the Germans I guess?”

“Oh, one of a few!” she boasted, it sounded like one of the odd things she could be proud about for him. They stopped in the road as a young boy led some cattle across the intersecting roads with the help of a skinny, scruffy dog.

“But as far as I knew before hand he was recruited by the Germans in the war as part of a auxiliary corp of Ashkari pilots with the Somali and Ethiopian loyalty during the war. There was maybe only twenty whole pilots recruited by the Germans from Africa as a whole. They mostly kept my people as infantry, but I assume they really wanted to make sure they had pilots here while ensuring they had the best in Europe.”

“So, what sort of stuff did he do?”

“I -uh, I don't know where to start.” Mulki giggled nervously, “He bombed I guess British and French forces in Africa. But those were Ashkari too.”

“So Africans bombing Africans.” Han Wen mused.

“Not exactly...” corrected Mulki, “A lot of them – including himself – were commanded by European officers. He lamented that he never got to a rank that he could call himself one, despite his long career throughout the large majority of the war. He actually outlived a number of his own officers, but he was always kept low. I imagine that was true across the entire unit. No matter how loyal they flew, or how well they fought.”

“So what was he trying to say with that?” Wen inquired dully.

“Maybe that he knows how you feel. That he knows that hate with Europeans?”

“I don't necessarily hate Europeans.” Han Wen defensively muttered, “At least, not totally.”

“Oh?”

“Well, I hate Spain. But because the Spanish are my enemies. The others... I haven't met the others...” he trailed off, thinking. He wasn't sure where he was going with that. In truth, he didn't think highly of Europe and its people. But he had been grappling with how to define his relationship, since enlistment and before. He had met Russians, and he met the few remaining Englishmen from Hong Kong and Portuguese in Macao through his service. They had been as much a person as he was, without the intense hunger to oppress him and his nation that had been expounded in the dialog and rhetoric of Beijing politics.

“It's complicated, I guess.” he admitted flatly. But he could feel it chew him. He was to fight them now. Could he say he was going to not unlike them anymore?

“Well, which ever the case I can only guess he understands and supports your fight.” Mulki comforted the pilot. They kept moving through the town, passing over a creek. Its banks full of water.

“So what else did your step-great-uncle do?” Wen needled, moving the conversation along.

“Well, he talked about flying above the armies led by the nobles of Ethiopia.” she continued, “Seeing their armies from the ground and the airs. And the Ras that lead them. He flew on to drop bombs with his own hands on the enemy. And combat another pilot even with his own pistol.

“He met Hassan's father too.”

Han Wen nodded. Hassan hardly carried as much prestige among the Chinese as he did Africa. To him, he was another name among the ones of Africa he had to know to understand the continent. Another face. But without any associations with the Pan-African Empire the image he had of their most powerful of generals was a mixed relationship.

He could admire his command. But be critical of him in private. There were many stories of his deeds. Including the mutilation of a village's worth of toddlers. He was a man invoked when speaking of Ethiopia's successes and potential when the question of their strength was raised with an Ethiopian officer. Someone who had fought and marched across the continent from one shore to another.

He had even heard from a superstitious soldier that Hassan communed with God directly to receive insights, which is how he brought down the Queer General of the Congo. He didn't believe it.

“Did he have anything to say on his father?” the pilot asked.

“Just what anyone from Somalia would say about him.” Mulki quipped, “He's well respected among us people.”

“Sounds like an admirable person.” Han Wen admitted flatly as they continued along past ramshackle shacks. The village held in it the sparse efforts of modernization. It straddled the edge of multiple worlds.

“Who?”

“Your great step-uncle.”

“We knew he was.”

[h1]China[/h1]
[h2]Tai Po District, Hong Kong[/h2]

“Uncounted are believed to have died in the attempted crossing!” Jin Feng read out aghast as she held the newspaper out in front of her. The warm light of the summer sun basked her face in a warm light and glittered in the distance off the waves of the ocean. “Surviving refugees have recounted harrowing stories of Spanish ships firing on civilian crafts seeking safety before the imperialist dogs of Spain arrived at their homes in Djibouti.

“Liling, this is crazy!” exclaimed the youth as she leaned forward off the chill radiating off the air-conditioning machine at her back. On the roof of the tenement building they both lived in rose high above the city below in the hills at the center of town. Plover cove was a bed of bluish steel where fishing boats and other watercraft crawled like white diamonds across the maritime bed.

“It's crazy you actually read the paper so much.” Liling replied in a dry tone as she lay across a towel thrown over the gravel of the rooftop. Liling, unlike her girlfriend Feng was not a young girl to have wholly shed her youthful roundness. Her body hadn't become long and thin like her partner. She lay in the sun in her underwear, watching the puffy cotton clouds slowly sail across the facade of the sun.

“Well it's crazy that this would have happened, just blowing up innocent people like that?” Feng continued, wringing the paper in her hands, “That's reserved for the worst.”

“There's a lot of things reserved for the worst and I don't think the Spanish warrant enough of them for me to care.” Liling groaned as she sat up. Unlike the most of Hong Kong, this roof was with exception one of the most private places to be in the open air, without trudging into the rocky overgrowth that so choked the rugged hills the city circled so tightly, it was this roof that provided privacy. If because it still stood among all the others.

It opened unto whoever could manage to break out into it a panorama vista of the Tai Po district. Looking behind them the rounded and wild landscape of hilltops and peaks crowned with lush greens stood and spiraled behind them. Hidden in the boughs of trees hung the heavy woven nests of weaver birds.

Opposite, snaking down the slope of the highlands was the city proper itself. More a spectacle of human domination than what was behind them. Concrete and steel rose above isolated garden parks in pillars of white or softly shining glass. And even as far as they were from it the sounds of traffic - the honking horns and motor engines – still rose to their ears to compete with the birdsong as part of the already naturalized symphony of Hong Kong.

“Still, something should be done.” spat Feng, rolling up the newspaper and smacking it against her legs. She had rolled her dress up so she might sit cross legged, and on top to keep the fabric from being dusted and dirtied by her choice of seat. As such her legs shone long and bare in the afternoon summer sun.

“And it's not either of our choices to make.” Liling consoled, tilting her head to the side and giving her girl friend a long lover's stare, “Don't be like a little brat.”

“I'm not!” Feng protested loudly. Feng smiled.

“Oh, you are.” she giggled, reaching out an arm and sliding along the gravel as she stretched out to her. She pressed a warm hand against Feng's legs as she lay her head at the side of her mate and looked up into the blue sky.

“No I'm not!” Feng continued to moan. Her face glowed a beat fiery red.

“That whatever in Shanghai is looking into it.” Lilling reminded her through long smiling lips. Dark green eyes looked up into her own through half-closed sleepy eye-lids. She brushed a hand through short ash-black hair before liberating one of Feng's from her lap and holding the fingers tight. She messaged them tight in her palm as she spoke, “Some of those Africans or something are asking someone to help out. Is that enough?” she crooned, “See, I pay attention to the news.”

“Oh, please.” Feng bemoaned distraught, “That's probably the only thing because you listened to it while waiting for a bus.”

“Well what would I do on a afternoon around town without you?” Lilling posed, “I certainly don't go to any of your friend's motor races on the mainland.

“Or whatever that other skinny boy does. What does he do?”

“Cong does whatever.” she said flatly, looking away from her lounging girlfriend. Her hand was warm and firm, and it was making a part of her want to hold her. But still, her stubbornness over not caring for what was going on made her want to hit her. She was confused, and hot. “He's probably reading.”

“Mhmm...” Lilling smiled, “Maybe we should invite him?” she teased.

“No!” she shouted, that'd probably kill the poor boy. Lilling laughed at her suddenness.

“Well, what do you think we do?” Lilling continued her interrogation wistfully, “Do you want to hear what else I heard on the city news?”

“What?” Feng asked.

“It was going to be a hot day today.” Lilling grinned lustfully, running her hand up Feng's leg. “Come one, there's no one here to look. Nothing's broken, so can we break it then?”

[h2]Beijing[/h2]

The theater was abuzz with an excited chatter. Looking out from behind back stage Auyi watched the seats filling up as curious voters-to-be and spectators flowed in through the doors. He'd been in this very building once, inside the national opera house, for an opera aggrandizing the revolution. In little way had Auyi claimed to have had once an important roll to play in it, much unlike his debate partner to be.

He looked across the stage. There hidden in the shadows of the spotlights he caught eye of Mang Xhu. Standing cold and strong, like some ancient golem or imperial statue. His scowling face starred back at him. Even without the light, Auyi knew he was scowling at him. There was no sense of loyalty between the two. And Auyi knew for sure that the minister long considered him a traitor. He wanted to say it was his decision to run against the minister of industry. But he knew it went further back.

Still yet he needed to have confidence. Spiting Xhu's demeanor Auyi bowed from across the stage to him. He knew he could see him. Both of them could. He gave no outward response.

“We're ready in six!” a stage hand hollered over the racket of filling theater steams and the controlled chaos of backstage activity. It was no play or opera to be sure, nor concert. The engineering wasn't complex, but it was all it needed to be. Lunging at ropes, engineers climbed to the scaffolding above to the lights that ran across the central stage. Auyi stopped to wonder how many times these simple, black jump-suited men had done this before.

“Are you ready?” a voice asked. Auyi turned around to find behind him Shanxi Wu. His large glasses hung off the tip of his nose. In his hands he held a delicate, thin folder.

“I am.” Zhang Auyi nodded, taking a deep breath. He brushed his hands down the breast of his white suit, “Do I look it?” he inquired with a confident smile.

“As usually, comrade.” Wu bowed, “And how about Xhu?” he asked, pointing across the way, “Not letting hims get into your head?”

Auyi turned to his half-hidden competitor. He loomed like a hawk in the shadows. Glaring ever so still at him behind the throws of dark shadows. “Not at all.” Auyi turned back, smiling. “What's in your hand?”

“I got it from the International this morning.” Wu said, “They wanted you to look at, since you're still secretary. Confirmation for candidates to fill your seat has yet to be made still.”

“Well why haven't they finished?” he pried, “I thought they'd be done.”

“I think they decided to hold off. Besides, they're tied up with the Africa question. Of which, this is the informal vote count for the debate on action in Ethiopia.” he seg wayed, holding out the folder in his hand. Auyi took it, and immediately flipped it open.

“Public yet?” he asked, opening the first page.

“No, not yet.”

Auyi nodded, scanning down the paper. Passed the breakdowns and footnotes to the final results page. “A little over half abstained, undecided.” he nodded, “But... the Vietnamese are greatly concerned I guess. They're in charge of the vote?”

“I guess.” Wu shrugged.

Auyi continued, flipping through the pages. “I guess...” he said in a hushed tone, “They're concerned this'll revive an era of European colonization. They're wanting this extended to the British aggression in South Africa?”

“I wouldn't know, I haven't read it.” Wu snipped.

“Ok, hold on to this for me then for after the debate.” demanded Auyi, handing back the Comintern report, “I'll have to read it then in full when we're through.”

“You going to take any action?”

“Now's not the time for that sort of decision making.” he shot back, “I don't got long...” he trailed off. Looking out at the open chamber. The lights were beginning to dim. “We're starting.”

The lights went out so only the spotlights on the stage illuminated the finished wood floors. Casting their golden light upon a pair of podiums set apart from each other. Red carpet sat under neath the wooden stands. A round of polite applause filled the opera hall like rain. In the darkness only the faint suggestion of Beijing's city lights glowed from the glass pagoda that was the hall's roof.

The applause was the signal for Auyi and Xhu to step out on stage. Each sauntered out into the light in their own manner. Xhu taking the stage like a drill officer surveying his recruits, his face neither benevolent nor cruel. His balding head shone in the spotlights and his face was twisted into an indifferent bulldog as he came up to the podium.

Auyi, knowing the value of politics was spry. He turned and modestly rose his hand to greet his audience. He smiled warm. His thick black hair combed across his head as youthful eyes peered out in search of phantoms.

“Comrades, on this day: July 4th, 1980 we convene to hear in debate candidates Mang Xhu and Zhang Auyi.” the moderator of the event droned in a indifferent voice. “Who in their pursuit for the seat of Grand Secretary have agreed both to engage in a public event to present and discuss their points to the nation.

“I am Yi Chang, reporting over NPN radio and for commentary on film reel. Comrades, let us begin:

“In the news recently the people have heard terrifying accounts of war in Africa as per the aggression of Spain against the African people. China, having commitments with Ethiopia has so far hung out of the war. As Grand Secretaries, what is the course of action you two will designate in Africa should National Congress feel apt to declare war, or the International decides to act on declaring war on our behalf, obligating us to provide some manner of armed accommodations to Africa?

“Mang Xhu, you have a minute.”

“The hostility of the Spanish people are a sure sign of the corruption of the bourgeois class!” the industrial minister began plainly, clapping his hand upon the podium, “And to know that we have gone so long without clipping their corruption to disable their ability to commit such terror is beyond me. We, the Chinese people should stand as the bulwark of progress for the proletariat on an international level, and we should be committed to war for not only Africa, but to sweep Revolution into Europe through Spain.

“China should go forth to Africa and to deter the Spanish. But in doing so we should re-write our commitments to the African people and to enforce popular, proletariat sovereignty of the nation and its political structures. This war is a means for us to bring the Revolution to Africa as well, and to depose the regime of Yaqob. Though he may be in part educated by us, he has failed to reform the state from its reactionary status as a monarchy and to be a true, progressive, socialist state ruled by a vanguard of their own people. A vanguard that Yaqob can not be!

“To rest our case, we owe not only to ourselves to rid us of threats in Europe, but to enforce a mission of liberation in the hearts and lives of the African people so they may be truly free. They may be free of Europe now, but they are not free in their self-determination in a free society!”

“Thank you.” Yi Chang said politely from the darkness beyond the spotlights, “Auyi, your response?”

Zhang Auyi looked into the blinding light, trying his best to hold his composure against the blinding silver that drowned his vision. “It is true that China should have in its interests to defend the African people.” he began, “But it should not be so much that we so aptly sweep into their homes to dismantle and destroy their home as we drive off the invader. Would this too make us an aggressor as well to our allies?

“Yaqob, though an Emperor is not an evil man. He is a leader lead by his own compassion to lead the nation as much as Hou Sai Tang has with ours. He is a leader of humility and intelligence, and it's in his capable abilities that he can direct Africa into a liberated society without the need of undue violence. So I must reject my companion's insistence that the Ethiopian body be burned as we defend it as a friend. Because after all: one does not invite a friend to his home for him to remarkably burn it as another uninvited guest loots it. It is a moral and logical fallacy that this is the way it should be and has to be.

“China is a defender! A benevolent and enlightened beacon of hope for the weak nation and the trodden proletariat. It is in the moral interests of this nation to act as such and not in its own self-interest. Patience as a nation is a virtue, and it is in our best interests that Spain - if they are the enemy – be dealt with in time. If that time is that war: then so be it. But if it's a later war: let it be so. The worker's revolution shall prevail, but it needn't do so with a fire so vengeful and filled with rage it should destroy everything else that came before it.”

“In the interests of the continued aims of the revolution then, as aptly referenced. How might it be executed then as a foreign policy?” the moderator inquired. “Mang Xhu.”

“To put it aptly there is no nation that is a friend of China until they accept the nature of proletariat revolution. The guiding principles of the NPCLA being a vanguard party for this state is to ensure not only the active defense of our people but to complete the process of our people into a society of Communism. And as called for in its defense, we should take to the larger world. Assert ourselves and our force of arms to break down the institution of the oppressive parties of the international world to bring about a state where-in all nations can complete and undergo social evolution. To distance themselves from religion, class, and money. China can not accomplish this alone.”

“I'm afraid to decline.” Auyi interjected, “Continual war is a factor that can not be helpful to any state. No matter how big or smile. Its rewards are too small for such a high a cost and the machine which will see it through will eventually break down and counter-revolution will ultimately win in the end. Under the proposed aggressive policy China will only make more enemies than it does friends, and the isolated policy of China over the past twenty-years has only given us so few valuable friends. We can not afford to loose the friends we have in order to pursue a moral obligation blinded by aggression.

“China can achieve and enforce the Revolution in softer ways.” he continued, speaking politely and soft like a teacher. He allowed himself to lean free of the podium, “We do not need weapons so much as we need to introduce our own economy outward to the larger world. Allow for others to consume our culture and become warm to the benefits of economic relations. Become powerful off of this, and in this power have the ability to influence.

“Like leading a young child to bed,” he smiled warmly, calling upon his own family as a metaphor, “we shall lead the children of the world to a brighter, freer future in the light of Communism not through violent conflict and encouraging harsh guerrilla conflict.

“Simply put, when states are dependent on us they shall follow our steps. To break free from the shackles of class warfare. To feel themselves become free of monetary debt as the corruption of money is swept away and every man can give and take from the system as according to his own individual virtues.

“It is friends China needs and not enemies.”

“Opening the nation to foreigners can only lead to rampant corruption!” Xhu boomed, “It is not the foreigners rights to enter China and to engage in two-way exchanges. It is this relationship that had seen the decline of our people in the last century! It is this that is the naivety of a foolish man. And not the stalwart strength of a proud revolutionary. And I should hope that you are not a fool!” Xhu turned, sneering at Auyi from under thinning brows.

“Retain civility.” the moderator reminded, “In change of subject, what is the Chinese commitment in Russia, to stay on the topic of the international world.”

“Our mission in Russia is coming to an end.” Auyi affirmed confidently, “Soon it will come to a point that the Russian people can manage the conflict and to see the unification of Russia in liberated freedom. Too many young Chinese have lost their lives in the north. We should bring them home.

“But China should not abandon its commitments in Russia. And withdrawing from it will not be a betrayal of friendship. A process of withdrawal will be had. Where the strength and power of Chinese troops will be filled by Russian ranks. Material assistance will be made to the Russians. But it is their solemn duty to finish the mission. So that they may have pride in themselves, and not feel the pinch of being used by a foreign entity. That is a truth we too horribly know for ourselves as a collective.”

“Our commitment is until the end!” Auyi declared, “We will stand side-by-side by our enlightened brothers until the end. For that is our commitment. And with them, we will go further.”