[h1]China[/h1]
[h2]Tianjin[/h2]

The sound of the cold ocean waves rolled onto shore. Washing rocks and stones in dark gray ocean water as the Bohai sea retreated, slowly peeling back the sand before pushing more out into its place. Gulls flew overhead cawing annoyed as below two African children chased each other across the soft brown sand in the summer sunlight. Not too far behind a guard – relieved of a weapon but all the same in his army greens – kept up with the royal children.

The eldest, a pitch-black African child from the heart of the Congo chased along the sand a scurrying crab that tried to keep a inch ahead of the child. Hou thought for a moment, trying to remember the child's name. It was something foreign, he knew. Oliver. That was his name. Oliver missing the one arm. As he had been told Yaqob's sister Taytu had adopted the child, who had been left parent-less and without an arm when Hassan had quashed an anarchist rebellion in the Congo.

And chasing behind him was the much lighter, and year younger heir apparent to the African Empire. Oliver raced behind his adopted cousin. A slender imp of a child with a wild Ethiopian fro. Hou wondered just how much the African youth knew what was going on. But he – like Oliver – was laughing all the same.

To his curiosity and relief neither ventured too close to the waves. A fear of the water he suspected from their near-death at sea. This left the concern of those present at how soon the soldier chasing after them could hold up running through the sand as he shouted in Chinese at the two to be careful. Neither of them could understand no doubt. But Oliver was too interested in the crab to care.

“They're energetic kids.” a congressman pointed out, seated alongside Hou as the two men reclined back in wooden lawn chairs the security staff had dragged out.

Hou was too old and  too feeble on his feet to stand after his stroke. Even with a cane he did not imagine he could hold himself up. Legs crossed together and with the brim of a white panama hat shading his eyes he watched from under his low wrinkled brow as the royal children played on foreign shores.

The Congressman was Wo Bao, an uncommitted leader from Shanxi. He was old, like Hou. Underneath his own summer hat, short thinning hair hung in loose wayward strands. A similarly unshaven mustache clung to an upper lip that hang just a little too far out from his face. Between the two a small crate sat as a pedestal for one of the new transistor radios, a long series of chords that ran up and onto the deck kept it plugged in as the small shoe-box sized appliance played [url=https://youtu.be/R0shsRmSxLI]delicate traditional music.[/url]

“As all youths are.” Hou responded in a thin dry voice.

“The tea is good too, I appreciate the lemons as well.” comrade Bao praised.

Hou only nodded, laughing a little as the two kids suddenly broke their usual course and ran the other way, spilling the soldier into the sand as he turned all to sharply to catch up. The two had split up and were looking back laughing at him. They thought he was playing tag with them now. Distantly Hou heard his spit and sputter as he quickly brushed sand out his short black hair and quickly scooped his green cap up off the beach to chase the two.

“How have you not given your family a new generation of its own?” Bao asked, making polite conversation.

The question stung Hou and he turned and shot Bao a cold hard stare. “That's something I don't discuss.” he said, disapprovingly sour.

“Ah, forgive me, comrade.” Bao tumbled, giving the chairman as much of a bow he could from his reclined position, “But if may ask, why is it I'm here? Surely to not watch some black emperor's kids with you.”

Hou grunted unsympathetically, “What do you think of Auyi?” he asked in a dry voice.

“He is a dreamer, that is for sure.” Bao said, “But politics isn't for dreamers, it's for pragmatic realists.”

“So is the nature of many things in life, comrade. But if politics is not for dreamers why then did you fight in the Revolution?”

“Because the Revolution was a realistic inevitability.” Bao smiled, sipping his tea.

“Then unlike some, you would disagree with the notion the Revolution was not a mission of dreamers?”

“The Revolution certainly was not,” Bao chuckled, “it would have happened eventually, even if destroyed. China needed heroes to save it from its corruption. If I had died fighting my sons would have fought again in the next generation and the inevitability of Revolution would have succeeded.”

“Then what about the world, is it realistic to believe it might soon undergo Revolution?”

Bao stopped to consider the question. He and the retiring Grand Secretary exchanged silent thoughtful stares. “Yes.” he answered.

“How will it be done?” Hou asked.

Bao considered, “I do not know.”

“Then what area is left for their to judge on whether or not Auyi is a realist or a dreamer if you can not say which way the world shall achieve Revolution if you yourself don't know?”

“All I know is when something's time comes: it will come.” Bao answered back.

Hou nodded and turned back to watching the royal children run circles around the guard. He had resigned to starring lost and helpless down at the two tireless imps. Looking up and seeking help from the others loitering nearby he was only greeted by unhelpful laughter at his plight.

“I will give you a realistic outcome if you support Auyi,” Hou began, “and that is even when I am gone from the office in Beijing I will still command the Party. I can make assurances to you that I can help your merit and standing within the party. I can see to your advancement, or influence it either way.

“I can make you more qualified to be a minister, or Grand Secretary yourself someday. You may perhaps sit on Politburo if all else fails.”

Bao turned to him, surprised. “Are we trading horses?” he asked, stunned. He never figured Hou for that sort of person.

“We're not trading horses, we're discussing your future. Will you promise to raise your hand for Auyi and rally your people to him? I'm only asking.”

Bao leaned to the side, resting his arm on the side of the lawn chair. He licked his chin and scanned the beach and the rolling waves on the sand. Suddenly downing his entire cup of warm tea he sighed heavily and said, “Why not.” he laughed, “Auyi will have my name.”

“You're a man of realistic virtue.” Hou complimented him, not turning to look at him, “You're dismissed.”

[h2]Dalian[/h2]

There hung in the room a heavy moody silence as minister Zhang Auyi stood starring up at a large replica of a Japanese destroyer. It wasn't a 1:1 model per say, but was large enough all the same to fill the warehouse sized room. All the while clambering over it, and scuttling over the decks child's-toy sized doll replicas of revolutionary and Japanese soldiers alike did frozen battle from small fishing boats butted up against the steel hull of the Imperial warship and climbed aboard.

Frozen in time by resin and paper, smoke billowed from the deck as glass fires illuminated by twinkling lights illuminated the wood deck of the ship. Standing just beyond arm's reach from the entire display that floated in a shallow pool of water Auyi observed the meticulous dramatization of a scene from the liberation of the port of Dalian from Japanese forces.

It could hardly be called accurate. But it was in a way a modern terracotta army. But instead of leading a dead emperor in the after-life it kept alive a certain flame of memory of the not-to-distant revolution. The figurines who hung, stood, lay, and screamed frozen in the not-so-miniature memorial had a certain child-like quality to it. Like it was something a creative boy would have dreamed up in an afternoon, but painted over in an adult veneer that straddled the more propaganda side of art.

Hanging not too far off a small number of pressmen stood taking pictures or waiting for him to turn and say some smart words about the revolution. Perhaps give praise. But his visit to the museum memorial of the battle – as built by the city – was not orchestrated to make a speech per-say but to make a polite show.

He had with him a handful of middle-aged veterans of the battle, most not much older than he was. They and the tour-guide, an older portly woman traded stories in hushed breaths about the battle.

“This was the last engagement comrade Yan Sing commanded,” proudly boasted an old soldier, his face scarred with his fair share of shrapnel and burn wounds. But he wore them proud as he smiled, recounting the day through yellow teeth.

“In conjuncture with the capture and destruction of Unit 731, he ordered our mixed revolutionary battalions to corner the Japanese navy while it was docked at port and cut down the Imperials!” he continued to boast, hushed. A ways away, a few journalists attempted to write down what he was saying. Perhaps it was important, or would be later. Perhaps it'd be well-received by the editors and they wouldn't have to re-write the visit for content; or lack there-of.

It had been Auyi's campaign manager's idea. A solemn visit to a memorial in a humble show of piety to the state. A sort of pilgrimage, if cheapened by a presentation that lacked classical restraint or ancient humility. It was idolatrous, and very much so. But no one could complain. It was their story in this city.

“We praise Sing for his ability to have acquired information!” the guide said, “It was through him that the Revolutionary Army acquired the intel to know when the bulk of the navy would be on dry land. Near to half the Japanese navy were in port-side bars at the time, half-drunk by the time the first shots fired. Others more in their barracks, resting. The rest were in their ships, but not enough to save them from the uprising in the streets.” she pointed down to the small recreation fishing boats, to one where a scene of its own was playing out; a soldier wounded in the face being cared for by his comrade as another readied to throw a grenade onto the Japanese decks, “Early the previous day, agents of the Revolutionary Army had acquired local fishing ships, and built small rafts to paddle out and surround ships still in the bay at the time and boarded.”

“Fascinating.” Auyi said, feigning being impressed. He looked up to the side where he saw his manager Chen Wu scurry half into view. Turning to his company he bowed politely and said, “Excuse me.”

Turning away from the exhibit he felt a little relief that he no longer had to look over something for so long it'd convince the hawks that followed him that he cared for things. While he himself was a veteran, the liberation of Dalian was simply not his battle. His were in the inland, among the hills and battles. And while he drove the supply trains and rarely saw the fights first-hand, he all the same could not feel nearly as attached as those fellow comrades who fought here. And perhaps after this they could move to another exhibit and he can silently judge another penny exhibit.

“Chen Wu.” Auyi greeted his manager in a hushed tone.

“Auyi,” he nodded, I reached out a hand and gently led the minister off to the side, keeping their backs turned to the press, “I have a probable opportunity for you, if you want to jump on it.” he invited.

“Is it another county museum trip?” Auyi asked irritably.

“No, not quite. My friends in Beijing have confirmed that Empress Azima of Ethiopia is presently meeting with Congress, or giving a speech to the Congress to petition them over Africa. It won't be long until Mang Xhu hears of it, and I think it would be expedient if we tried to reach and meet with her first before he does. It would look good if you sit with her and talk about your foreign policy.

“It could...” he stopped to shrug, “It could bolster credentials if you can at least talk to her.”

“Ethiopia has no power here though.” Auyi admitted, “I don't think anyone is going to listen to the endorsement of a foreign monarch.”

“We're not asking for one.” he said, “At the best you could sit with her and work on details. Or simply hear her out. If we plan for the future like this, start taking pre-emptive steps as if you are a leader, then maybe we can inspire confidence in your campaign. We could be implying we are confident and leading, take a leading step.

“Failing that, you could play it off as a visit from your own ministry.”

Auyi nodded. He ran his hand through his thick black hair. “Alright, how fast can you set it up?” he asked, wanting more to try and deny Xhu something. Even though he might use her to hawkishly promote revolution through war in Africa.

“We'll see, she's protected by Hou directly but if I can get a message to her while she's still in the capital I might be able to deal with her directly.”

“Very well. Do it, and do it quick.”

Chen Wu gave a delicate mousy bow. Righting his enormous glasses on his stubbed nose he turned and scuttled off for a telephone. Auyi sighed, as he played with the white cuffs of his suit.

“Forgive me for the distraction.” he smiled wide as he turned back to the group he was slated to tour with, “Where were we?”

The tour guide lifted her arm and lead him away from the mock battle for the ship. “The next piece in the museum is a ink-painted horizontal scroll, depicting Revolutionary soldiers seizing control of a local bar full of on-leave Japanese sailors.”

[h1]Russia[/h1]
[h2]Surgut[/h2]

It had been a couple weeks since the train that had entered town had exploded. Since then orders had hardly changed. Huei Wen had kept the forces of Quan Yun-qi in place. So much so that the command itself was beginning to suspect it was because of the train that forced Wen to keep them there. Should the Russians, or a Russian force seize control and outflank the Chinese it would spell a certain failure in the campaign and disorientation.

The wreck had been cleaned up, peace moved from the tracks and the damages were undergoing repairs. The plentiful injured moved to hospitals and the dead returned home. But responding to what had happened was not yet finished.

But the city was behind Tsien Huang as he sat over the bed of a truck, idly drumming a stick against his knee. His olive fatigues hung loose and puffed from under the tight straps of a armored breastplate. The hard metal plate matching the color of his dress, a flat matte green drab. Resting across his back the two thick tanks of his flamethrower hung against his shoulders. The thick padded tube wrapped and curled down to the working end of the weapon, silent in its waiting.

With him at the road-side a handful of men sat and stood about waiting. Some leaned against the cold rusting posts of the electrical and telephone masts that marched between the road they presided over and the train tracks. Or rather, where the tracks had once been.

Days earlier they had passed through, tearing up from the Earth the tracks and the entire rails for a hundred yards down in both lanes. The measure was taken as a strict security measure. Ultimately: it cut Surgut off from the rest of Russia. The only lines in were the roads and the river. All else around the town was thick forest, thick with young and old pines and gnarled leafy bushes hiding deep sandy ruts.

But the road was clear, for miles down its length Huang could look down its length and see nothing but vast emptiness and cracked asphalt. For a time there had been light traffic, but the few days he had been sent to check on checkpoints all had been reported dead. For all intents and purposes it would seem: the town of Surgut was forgotten by the rest of Russia.

For now, it wasn't to watch the road. For whichever the reason Huang and his men were out waiting for orders to be relayed to them over their radios. One such lay on the truck bed behind him.

“My girlfriend back home is begging me to get out of the army alive so we can marry,” a soldier said with a laughing half-smile. He played with the shoulder-straps of his assault rifle as he leaned against one of the many thousand telephone poles running along the route. “She's afraid too as soon as we're done here I'll be pushed off to Africa to fight the Spanish.”

“Well are you?” his conversation partner asked.

“Well sure!” the other laughed, “She has great breasts, who wouldn't want to marry that?” he laughed, clapping his hands together once before adding, “Besides, if it happens she wants to get busy right away. And with how little action I got up here I'll happily oblige my lack there-of on her if she'll be the first to spread her legs.”

“And what, fucking leave her before you go to Africa?”

“If I go to Africa.”

“Well whatever. So besides ploughing your girl senseless to knock her up for sure. What would you do when you got out?”

“What sort of question is that?” the soldier laughed, “Back at the farm, like my father and his before him.” he cackled, “Don't think I got any assurances to any other future. It's why I got in here. At least I get to do something else other than farm sunflower.”

The one who had asked the question snorted, “Why even leave?” he shrugged, “At least you're not so tense.”

“What'll you be doing then, Ho?” Huang asked suddenly, forcing himself into the conversation. His voice was low and level. Straight to its point.

The man shrugged, “I don't know, always thought about leaving the city.” he said with a smile, “Tianjin, I never really liked it.”

“So what brought you into the military?”

“Lottery, I got drafted.” Ho snorted dismissively.

“So what are you going to do when you get out?” asked the man who was thumbing his weapon's straps.

Ho looked over at him with a heavy sharp graze. He stopped tapping his stick against his knee and gave it a brief thoughtful silence. “I don't know.”

“You don't know?” the young man said, shocked.

“I don't know.” Huang repeated, “I never thought about leaving. I assume I'll keep going until I die. Otherwise I go back to herding goats.”

“See, I wouldn't mind that.” commented Ho. Huang snorted disapprovingly.

From behind the radio beeped. Huang turned around and snatched it from the deck. Throwing on the headset he talked into it. “Tsien Huang here.” he answered.

“Your orders are clear.” the radio said, “As we gave you at your debrief, take your squad down the tracks and search them out. Your operations commander is Tong Hu who will be following you. The winds are in position and will be assisting you on your flanks. Investigate down the rail to the old imperial rail town, check the tracks on the way down for hostile activity and recon the junction site and identify any possible future threats as happened prior.” operations command reported in.

“You're clear, we'll carry it out.” Tsien Huang said dryly. They were on the move, but looking at the broken segment of rail it was clear they wouldn't have any means of traveling the hundred-mile walk by foot. “Do we have any new intel on the target position?” he pried.

“No we don't. All we can tell you is the name is Nicolasgrad, must have been built to service the intersecting railroads.

“Stay in touch with the best of your abilities and report in when you arrive.”

“Copy that, Tsien Huang out.”

[h2]Kostroma Oblast[/h2]

The sun set on another day. Wheezing from outside a choked engine spasm'd between fitful life and fruitless death. At times sounding like thunder. At other times pattering silent, barely audible through the windows Ullanhu sat at, starring out with tepid concern. While Vasiliy had gotten it to start again, seemingly on scraps it wasn't going anywhere else fast and the Chinese agent was tempted to suggest to just take the tires on this vehicle and attach them to their old one. But he was buried so deep in his words, he was afraid the Russian was stubbornly deep in his work and insistence he could revive it.

It would be more than safe to suggest as Ullanhu sat at the kitchen table of the dead man's farmhouse he had his doubts. Was his partner's sacrifice of the old car necessary to get here? Was he just paranoid to think he had to switch vehicles so often? Would it have really mattered to either of them if they just entered towns and not meander lost in the country?

President Alexander Belyakov sat tied into a chair. There was little trust between he and Vasiliy and his sour glowering face wasn't shy to that point. The times Vasiliy came back in he shot him a low grumbling look. Per Ullanhu, his opinion of their prisoner was now just resigned. And maybe the feeling was mutual.

While he was kept in the middle of the house, sat up so as to be seen from anywhere Ullanhu stood the Chinese agent had went about trying to make the place livable. They wouldn't be there for a while, but after dragging the corpse of its former inhabitant out to deal with it there was a lingering smell that the Mongol fought to suppress. It was his only attempt at achieving a normal state here. Back home, in the Mongolian IB offices he had kept his work station immaculate. To many of the military officers there it was his shining trait, the final end result he believed was what all drill sergeants wanted. It wasn't something he did by distressing compulsion so much as it was always boredom.

“Makulov.” Belyakov spoke.

Ullanhu stirred. “Excuse me?” he asked.

“Makulov, is that who you're taking me to?” he repeated. The president's face was pale and frowning but met Ullanhu's gaze with a solid stony gaze.

Ullanhu didn't know how to respond, or what to ask as he look at him from the window seat. He felt his chest constrict nervously as he fumbled his fingers across the table surface to his lap. “That is who.” Belyakov said again, “It took me awhile to ponder, but I figured in the end I have a fifty-fifty shot at guessing who I'm going to.

“Even if I'm not going to Makulov, I would in the end much rather be in the possession of someone else.” Belyakov finally admitted.

“What makes you think that?” Ullanhu asked.

“Because I know I'll be safer with anyone but Makulov.” answered the president.

“No, who it is we're taking you to.”

The president sighed and nodded. He craned his head back to stare at the ceiling for a moment and shifted uncomfortably against the binds that held him to the chair. “Because if it were anyone else but the two parties I'm thinking of I'd be dead.” he repeated, “And we're going east, that much I can tell. A little too north, the air is colder.” Belyakov laughed as he turned his head down and met Ullanhu's gaze again.

“Don't look too surprised [i]comrade[i].” he said, sneering around the word 'comrade', “I know these things, I was once a youth scout in better days.” he smiled nostalgically, “I spent a great deal of time in the north woods. I recognize the cold, sharp, crispness of their summers.”

“Fascinating.” Ullanhu remarked, pretending to humor the man.

Belyakov chortled, “I also learned duty to Russia, but that's another topic all together.

“But as I said, if it weren't the two I suspect things would be very different. Political enemies in the Republic I'd be dead in my apartments. If it were the damnable Mafiya I'd be strung up on a poll and set on fire. The Cossacks, maybe I'd be dragged behind one of their horses until I succumbed and died.

“I had a lot of time to think about this when I took charge. A government minister was found burned the moment I tried to crack down on the Mafiya, it's how I thought I would go if they ever reached me. But I'm alive, which leads me to two suspicions: Makulov wants me, or the Chinese do.”

“What about the Siberians?” Ullanhu asked.

“The Siberians are a Chinese puppet.” Belyakov scowled, “Nikolov doesn't jump until Beijing tells him too. That much I know about the man.

“But to see a Chinese agent possibly helping Makulov: that is a treat.” he added, laughing, “Why are you here? To lend support skill? From what I can tell the two of you aren't very adept. Were you two fall-guys? Selected to fail on purpose for some ghosts to disappear into the night and you two just got lucky?” he scowled.

“I don't know anything about that.” Ullanhu remarked.

“Of course you wouldn't.” Belyakov gave a resigned sigh and hung his head. He stirred silently for a brief moment before looking back up, “Makulov's dangerous.” he said.

“How so?”

“No one knows what he's going to do.” Belyakov answered, “He's a traitor to the old ways, suggests he doesn't hang his loyalties on something very long. Even when I was an imperial magistrate I heard rumors about him. That he was a bleeding heart liberal, an anarchist, or some other trite horse-shit.” he spat, and went on, “Wasn't much different from most I assumed. But the moment came and he dropped his hat; don't know why.” he straightened himself as he went on: “So if a Chinese man is helping a Russian traitor and his phantom army, then I guess the Chinese want Makulov in their back pocket. But how long will it be until Beijing upsets his world view and he turns on you too?”

“Why does it matter?” Ullanhu asked. He didn't know where the president was going with this and wanted to know. For curiosity sake, and to report back to headquarters all the same.

But Belyakov refused to answer. He returned to a distant silent demeanor as he looked over to the window and watched the setting sun cast long beams of orange light across golden stalks of waving fluffy grass. It almost looked like wheat.

“Makulov won't be able to protect me.” he added solemnly, “And if he can I suspect he wants me as a bargaining chip against the National Duma. But the Duma doesn't care for me, I was already on weak footing as it was. There was talk about indicting me on conspiracy charges. But you two stole me before they could do it. Now they'll be fighting the army over who gets to see out the rest of my term. The assistant president, or their friend the prime-minister?

“No, he'll probably find me a useless venture when Republican politics comes to light and I'll be tossed out with the garbage.

“[i]Comrade[/i],” he said, appealing to Ullanhu but not without sneering the word between his teeth, “If you have any power in you to do it, I would much rather be surrendered to the Chinese. I would feel safer in their custody over Makulov's. And I would surrender what I know to Beijing if it keeps me from being spit-roasted in a prison fight.”

Ullanhu knew what it was he was referring to, but felt the grave weight of what the man was asking from him sink into his stomach. He was effectively going to turn on Makulov and Vasiliy if he followed through on it.

Turning to the window to see the last pale violet light of the setting sun Ullanhu bit on his lip, “I'll see what I can do.” he said weakly, hoping their return to the Urals would make whatever decision easy or automatic.

What was going on in the east, he wondered?