Hidden 6 yrs ago Post by DELETED32084
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Of Rebels and Assassins - Part IV


Perpignan, France - 1960

The curtains had been thrown wide open to allow the sun to stream in to the small hotel suite living room. The bluish cigarette smoke that had filled the space had at last been dispersed by a persistent ocean breeze and the cool air was a welcome change from the stuffy feeling of a week ago. A half empty coffee pot sat on the kitchen counter, a battery of used mugs scattered around it with even more on the table, pushed to one side to make room for the five folders that had been laid out. Each of the folders bore a name on the cover, carefully printed in a neat, feminine hand. To the three men who sat slouched in the battered red velvet chairs, their eyes red from a night of reading, the five folder represented their best hope for the future of their country.

"Why don't you go first, Neto." Costa pushed himself back from the table, rubbed his eyes, and then sank further into the velvet, watching the other man. They had all agreed to pick their favourite from the small pile once each had been read and considered. Shopping for an assassin was, in some ways, not unlike shopping for a whore.

"I still don't understand why there are only five." Neto sighed as he glanced at the folders. Each name bore beneath it a promise of violence and redemption. All of them men with skills they had picked up over years on the job, all of them quietly referred to Costa by men he knew in France.

"Well, there are no shortage of men willing to die for the cause. The problem is, Delgado knows before they do, so we had to bring in an outsider, someone not known to the Cazadores." Since they had first had the conversation about hiring a hitman, the Cazadores had performed another series of raids, netting dozens of potential revolutionaries and their weapons. The firing squads and flame throwers had been busy.

"Makes sense," Amaral shifted his considerable bulk, his chair groaning in protest. "I don't think the Spanish reach has gone international... Yet."

"Very well, I like this fellow." Neto tapped a finger on the folder he had drawn closest to him. The manila paper was badly faded, as if it had been in a museum or library for to long, and a burn mark from a cigarette marred the surface. "Joseph Alsop. He's an American, served in their civil war as a sniper, continued on to become a political hit man of some renown. I understand he is quite adept at head shots from a great distance, which could be useful, getting close to Delgado seems to warrant a death sentence. Also, he happens to be in Europe at the moment, helping a faction of the British government deal with another. Perhaps he will come work for us when he is done."

"Alright, Amaral?" Costa turned his gaze to the lawyer turned politician.

"This one." Amaral didn't hesitate as he picked up the thickest folder. Costa had seen the contents himself. A picture of the man hitman himself and then dozens of his victims. "A Russian, or Ukrainian, who has made his money and his name all over the former Russian Empire. Even the Czar himself would have reason to fear this fellow. Fast, fearless, dangerous, and perfect for our mission. Granted his Spanish is apparently rather... Rustic... But, he doesn't need to speak with Delgado, just kill him. And he seems quite capable by any means needed, he even infiltrated the palace of the Afghan Sheik apparently and killed him while he slept with his wife. You have to admit that takes some skill."

There was a silence when Amaral finished and both he, and Neto, turned their attention to Costa where he was sitting with his elbows on his knees, hands folded in front of him as he regarded the three remaining folders. To kill Delgado was not going to be an easy task and would call for someone who was far from ordinary. The American was certainly a good choice, he was a long ranged killer but he was well known, and Costa was sure that if they knew of the American, the Cazadores certainly did. They would have a spy network in Britain at the moment, it was no secret Delgado wanted Gibraltar. In fact, it was entirely plausible that Delgado was actually the one paying the American to kill British politicians.

Then the Russian. Good at so many things but certainly very well known by any intelligence service worth its salt, not to mention his poor english was no doubt better than his Spanish. A known hit man asking for directions with a thick accent when the Spanish were throwing up roadblocks everywhere would hardly go unnoticed. No, it would have to be someone else.

"I think," He said after a long pause. "That it needs to be an unknown. The infamy of those two assures us the Spanish will be watching them. That all said, I chose this one." He reached out and laid a hand on the thinnest file of them all. It bore the name Spectre and the paperclip held only a single sheet of paper to the inside. Even then, the page was only partially filled.

Name: Unknown
Code Name: Spectre
Nationality: Unknown
Height: 6'0
Hair: Blonde
Eyes: Blue
Background: Unknown
Confirmed kills: Unknown

"The man is a blank page, pardon the pun." Neto burst out as he looked at the document across the table. "We know nothing about him."

"Exactly." Costa replied. "I thought so as well but he comes highly recommended by a man in the Irish Republican Army. He said the fellow was South African, but another contact who hired him in Germany thought he was Scottish. Either way, they haven't the slightest clue who he is but he did their jobs, and did them very well from what I hear. I looked in to the two deaths I am aware he was contracted to do, and both were reported, investigated, and declared to be accidents."

"I don't like it." Amaral said, crossing his arms. "How can we trust someone we do not know?"

"We could meet him?" Suggested Neto. Costa could tell that the other man was truly worried about the operation going badly. "At least he is nearly impossible to trace. If he is killed, it would not lead back to us."

Costa wasn't sure why Neto was concerned about that. Delgado certainly knew that someone was trying to kill him and he would be a fool if he didn't know that the three men living on the top floor of a hotel in Perpignan weren't somehow involved. Privately, Costa was concerned Neto might be the weakest link in the chain.

"I will arrange a meeting." Costa said with finality and the matter was settled, at least for the moment. He picked up his coffee mug, poured the cold contents in to the sink, refilled it and added a drop of brandy. Mug in hand he stepped out onto the patio and stared down in to the street.

He could not help but notice a shadow within a shadow shrink away as he appeared. It seemed they were being watched after all.
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Hidden 6 yrs ago 6 yrs ago Post by Mao Mao
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Mao Mao Sheriff of Pure Hearts (They/Them)

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Guatemala City
Summer


For President Nathanael Blackwell, the last couple of weeks had been going well in his favor. Getting people more opportunities to work again and dealing the communist movement earned him a few additional supporters. However, it wasn’t enough. It was never enough for this country. Being the sudden successor of President Maroto was challenging, especially given his American background. After a few months of maintaining the country, he felt like things were somewhat controlled. The communists either were arrested, went into hiding, or fled out of the country. And the conservatives seemed to accept Blackwell as their leader. As for the liberals, they were sour over the signing of the Anti-Communist Law and limiting their rights; however, their political power was limited significant enough to be no challenge.

He was back in Guatemala City to break ground on construction of a new stadium for the Central American Football Union (CAFU). There was a sizable crowd of journalists and reporters to capture the moment. Blackwell soon walked towards councilors, politicians, and the team manager of the CAFU to begin the moment in soccer history. Several shovels awaited the men as they gathered in front of them while the cameramen prepared to take pictures. After a moment of getting ready to throw the dirt into the hole, Blackwell was the first person to do it as he saw the cameras’ flashes. Then, the others went and got their pictures taken. And every one of them did it several times before putting them back into the pile of dirt.

Now, President Blackwell began his speech with a thanks to the sponsors for funding the project and went on to show support for the CAFU. After five minutes of speaking, the team manager added in some words of his own for the sponsors, the team, and their loyal fans. Once the speeches were over, the manager allowed journalists to ask some questions about the stadium and anything related to the CAFU. President Blackwell stood to the side as he watched the journalists asking and the manager answering the questions. To be honest, it was boring as hell; but, he needed the manager’s support and money. So, he endured the standing around.

Suddenly, he noticed a female reporter talking to someone before raising her hand in the hopes of being selected. She was.

“Ariana Cicerón from the Free Press. I actually have a question for President Blackwel-.”

“I told you no questions directed at the President.” the manager responded before she could finish it. However, Blackwell raised his hand and approached the podium lightly shoving the manager out of the way. “It’s fine. I am interested in what she has to ask.”
She nodded before finally asking her question to the president. “Are you aware of the Spanish government’s response to the tape?”

“No, are you talking about the interview?” he answered honestly confused at her question.

“I am talking about the recent leaked tape where you said you were happy to kill ‘some Spaniards’ and burn down their palace for ‘extra brownie points.’” she clarified to Blackwell, which he clearly understood what she meant. He began to sweat nervously at the announcement and tried to respond back, but nothing came out.

She continued with her question, “This leak angered the people of Spain to the point that there is a sizable crowd protesting the remarks at our embassy in Madrid. So far, the government hasn’t publicly responded; but, there are reports that the government is furious at you. Any comments about the situation, Mister President?”

The manager shoved Blackwell as side and tried to redirect the topic to the stadium as two of Blackwell’s assistants rushed towards him to leave. As he was leaving, the reporters began to question the president about the breaking news. Cameras were flashing at him as he entered the vehicle and drove off the construction site. While on the drive back to the office, Nathanael was still in a state of shock as he was trying to process everything. The leak. The silence. The flashing. The car radio was on the new station and it was talking about the whole situation. However, he didn’t care about. He knew what happened. And everything he tried to work in securing power was going to fall.

Once he returned to his office, Blackwell demanded an update on the leak and the details of it. A folder was already on the desk when he entered. It detailed the known information about the entire thing, but it didn’t help in providing who. The television was turned as it was on Central American National News (CANN) and it had been talking about the breaking news. With the folder and the broadcast, Blackwell’s shock was slowly getting replaced with anger. Who would leak it? Why would they? How did they get the tape in the first place?

His train of thought stopped the moment one of the advisors said, “Mister President, we are here to advise during this dreadful situation. The National Security advisor, the Foreign Relations advisor, and the Economics advisor are here to help you out and give advice to your suggestions with dealing with the Spanish government. And I am the Governors Relations advisor. We are here to serve you.”

“First things first.” He said and turned to the national security advisor before speaking once more, “I want the Central American Intelligence Force (CAIF) to bring the interviewer in for interrogation. Once he has answered our question, arrest him for leaking classified information and betraying Central America. Inform the military of the situation and tell them to come up with plans and operations for a possible hostile response for the Spanish.”

Suddenly, one of the secretaries came in the office with a letter. “It’s for the Spanish government themselves, sir.” It was all she said before placing it on the desk and leaving. Nathanael looked at the letter and opened it.

OPEN LETTER TO THE GOVERNMENT OF THE FEDERATION OF CENTRAL AMERICA BY THE MILITARY GOVERNMENT OF SPAIN

The Spanish Government wishes to address the leaked footage of President Nathanael Blackwell insulting our great country. Then, he processed to threat direct military intervention with the intent to assassinate King Carlos I of Spain and burn down our palace. These threats don’t help maintain the little peace we have in our world. Thus, we are demanding two simple things for the Central American government:

1) An official apology over the remakes made by President Nathanael Blackwell.
2) The resignation of President Nathanael Blackwell because he offered both the citizens and the government of Spain.

We will not tolerate any form of insult regardless of status, gender, religion, and race. Failure to respond within twenty-four hours and if said response doesn’t satisfice us, we will reach out to the government and people of Central America one final time for a proper response. Beware that you will suffer the consequences of your president’s insults if you do not agree and obey our demands. Think carefully.

“What should we do, mister president?” asked one of the worried advisors.

The president thought carefully before snapping his fingers and said, “Set up a press conference and I will write up the speech.”



Panama
Summer


Ricardo Martí expected some backlash for the airing of the leaked tapes; however, he didn't think that Blackwell would go that far. A hour ago, it was announced that the remaining Communist and Socialist political members were arrested and both parties were deemed illegal. Now, his 'investigation team' were tasked to interviewing every political party in the country to determine who found and leak the footage. Thankfully, they were mainly focused with the left-leaning parties instead of the right. The interview was short and painless as they just asked a few questions and left.

Now, he was watching the television for any updates regarding the leaks. So far, the reporters were talking about the growing protest at the embassy in Madrid. The crowd was charting anti-Central American rhetoric while waving around signs and the Spanish flag. Suddenly, it cuts to the briefing room as the group of journalists and reporters were getting ready. The news reporter began to talk about awaiting for President Blackwell to speak on the matter of the leaks. After a few minutes of talking, Blackwell soon emerged into the room of journalists and reporters as he waved at them. He began to speak to the crowd.

"I am here to address the recent controversy regarding the leaked tapes of my interview. So far, the investigation team is looking into the matter. And I have suspended both the Communist and Socialist political parties until further noticed. I am sorry for my offensive comments about the Spanish people and their leader. They were uncalled for and disrespectful. However, their other demand is too insane to follow through. They demanded that I resign from the office because of those comments. This letter from the Spanish government will be given to members of the media at the end as proof of their latest aggressive against a country. Tonight, I am declaring that I will refuse to resign my position because the Spanish government has no right to demand something for any nation in the world.

I am afraid that if I were to step down, the Kingdom of Spain will not stop antagonizing the other countries in the Americas. I am even worried that they will eventually violate the Monroe Doctrine to achieve the status of great power. Today, I am here pleading to the governments of the world to stand against the Spanish aggression. We have let the Spanish get too confident with their power since the fall of Portugal; but, it isn't too late to fix it. Together, we can show the Spanish government that we aren't scared anymore. Thank you and God bless this Union."


Once the speech ended, the crowd of journalists began shouting questions as Blackwell left the room. There was silence, however, at Martí's office. There were going to be consequences for openly denouncing the Kingdom of Spain like that. He knew that Blackwell's pleads went mostly unheard, but he appreciated the attempt to gather forces against Spain. Now, everyone in Central America wondered what was going to happen next. No-one knew what Spain was going to do or say next. However, Martí knew that something bad was going to happen and pulled out a card. The same business card that Rubén Espinosa gave to him months ago to be called if more funds were needed.

However, he put it back in his pocket and went back to work as he finally turned off the television.



Madrid
Summer


The crowd of protesters grew overnight as they began their usual chants and insults towards President Blackwell. Now, they are demanding Blackwell resign over the remarks. Embassy security kept a close eye on the protesters in case someone tried something. Meanwhile, Ambassador Alfonso Feo was finishing up work while his family was packing up. With the crowds and threats of attacking the embassy being made, Alfonso requested that his family return to Central America. Alfonso, himself, planned on staying in Spain in an attempt to smooth things over with the government.

His wife suddenly appeared with her suitcase in one hand as she placed the other on his shoulder. "You don't have to stay here." she silently pleaded with him without getting the kids even more worried.

"I can't leave yet. There's still a chance." he said.

Meanwhile, Nico Villalta, the head security, entered the office with Alfonso's seven month old daughter. The mother thanked Villalta before picking her up from the baby carrier. Then, he processed to start talking about the plan for his family. It was simple enough: get them out of harms way and have a plane ready to leave for Central America. Villalta had some of the guards assigned to drive them to the airport and protect them until they board a plane. However, Villalta planned on staying with Alfonso to keep him safe until he was ready to go.

If the embassy was under attack, then they had only two options: drive to the nearest airport or drive to France. He was sure that the police and army weren't going to protect them from the angry protesters.

"Please be careful and return home safe." she said with a sad smile before rocking her baby, "For us."

Villalta took the wife's suitcase and the baby bag as she placed the baby back on the carrier. The guards were the first ones to leave the office while she looked at her husband and whimpered, "Bye."

When the door was shut, Alfonso looked at the photo of his new family at the beach and wept; however, the crowds' chants got louder.
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Hidden 6 yrs ago Post by Vilageidiotx
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Vilageidiotx Jacobin of All Trades

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Late August: Addis Ababa
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It'd rained hard for most of the week. Every dip became a pond, and the main roads transformed into shallow rivers. The muddy back roads washed out onto the paved streets, coating everything at ground level with mud. Then it ended. The sun came out unusually hot, and the water on the ground became vapor in the air, the mud drying up and leaving the city caked in dirt and dust. The humidity was stifling, making a person sweat as soon as they went out doors, filling the city with the filthy smell of dust and mildew and body odor. The Imperial household treated this as an opportunity. Emebet Hoy Eleni invited a select number of guests and dignitaries to spend a night on Mount Entoto, above the sweltering city, to rest in the shade of the eucalyptus trees in the fresh air, and to camp like the biblical patriarchs and the Ethiopian Kings of old. Sahle came too, his presence expected. Not that he didn't want to come. There were people he wanted to see in the Queen Mother's company.

But he did not come for the mountains themselves, and fresh air didn't hold his attention for long. He and Rudolph von Lettow-Vorbeck went into one of the several one-hundred year old buildings that made up Menelik II's palace. Compared to the Imperial estate in the city, the Entoto Palace was a quaint compound, a series of cottages really, with rough plaster walls and floors made from eucalyptus planks. The rooms weren't much bigger than huts, and the roofs were thatched.

Rudolph sat across the table from him. The Ostafrikan wore a fez, a relic of a recent tour of the Muslim world, and a red patterned kaftan robe, giving him the appearance of an old relic of the Imperial era, a white man visiting foreign lands, looking to experience the sensual fantasies of the Orient. His skin was tanned beyond the natural color of his race. He'd brought Hashish from Esfahan, and presented some to Sahle as a gift.

"Early gift, for Enkutatash" Rudolph said, placing the last hand-rolled joint in an empty wine glass.

"That's weeks away." Sahle said, plucking from the glass. "I expect a gift for that day too."

"I have more treats from Djibouti." Rudolph replied. He watched as Sahle lit the stained paper cigarette and leaned back. The room filled with the acrid scent of the drug.

Outside, the after-sounds of conversation could be heard. The walls were thick, but the shutters on the glassless windows were not.

"Would I like Esfahan?" Sahle asked.

Rudolph smoothly picked a joint and lit it in one flawless move. "Perhaps. It's bohemian. The women are the creative types."

"That's worth a state visit." Sahle said. The tension in his body blew away with the wind whispering through the trees outside. He took a deep breath, the joint smouldering in his fingers. "Anywhere else?"

"Sevan yes." Rudolph said, "You may have to spend a week there before it bores you. Istanbul... no. It's a slum."

"Cairo?"

"Of course. Haven't you been there?"

"State visit." Sahle leaned forward. "A real one. Nothing but Empire business. It does not count."

"You should visit soon. I think it will go to shit before to long."

"I will."

The two men leaned far back, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the chemical warmth of the drug to take effect. There was no true ceiling, but rather the skeleton of the roof itself, holding up the thatching still maintained by caretakers though this site was rarely visited by the royal family.

"Do you think she can love me?" Sahle said. He hadn't planned on saying it. It just came out.

"The American girl?" Rudolph replied. Sahle was aware from his periphery that the Ostafrikan looked up at him when he said this, but Sahle kept his gaze on the rafters above. "I don't see love in her. She seems like a child, to be frank."

"She does? Well, she is an adult." Sahle said.

"I don't think she is part of the world yet."

"I don't know what you mean."

Rudolph took a long drag, and ended it with an expectant pause. "You know." he said, not looking at the Emperor

It went quiet again. Just for a moment. But Sahle's mind was fixed, and his tongue was the only way to exorcise the fixation.

"But can she love me?"

"Perhaps. I am no expert. I just haven't seen it."

Sahle closed his eyes. He would find out tonight. She was just outside, with the other dignitaries, enjoying apéritif's in the mountainside wilderness. The conversation out there sounded boisterous now, but he could not hear the words. He worked on calming himself, to return his mind to its native carelessness.

There was a hard knocking at the door. Sahle and Rudolph looked up at once.

"Your majesty. There is a problem." he heard the familiar voice of a guard, a man whose name he did not know.

"A problem?" Sahle replied.

"The Tsehafi Taezaz wants you."

Sahle stood up and went to the door. He could still hear the active conversation. Now he was suspicious of it, and what had once sounded like lively conversation now sounded... menacing. It sounded a lot like shouting.

He went outside and saw two guards. They didn't look scared, but determined, the lions-mane ruffled atop their pith helmets, sub machine guns held close to their chests. He could hear the shouting now, coming from the courtyard. The sun was falling, and the shadows of the trees stretched long across the compound. Rudolph came up behind him. The two men followed the guards in the direction of the noise, where strings of lights illuminated a party in paused awkwardly mid-progress, well dressed ferengi looking embarrassed, sitting at white-clothe draped tables. Rudolph quietly whispered for the guards to put down their weapons.

All eyes were fixed on the scene in the courtyard. It was like a court's play, dinner and a show. Eleni watching stonily from the dais, her guests trying to look more uninvolved than they already were. In the middle, Desta Getachew stood like the walls of Harar against a man gesturing wildly in his face. After a moment's drug-hazed recollection, Sahle recognized the second man as Maxamed Nuux, the representative of Sahle's powerful subject Ras Hassan of Adal.

"There is his majesty!" Maxamed jeered, turning on Sahle as soon as he entered the light. Before the Emperor could come up with a response, the Somali turned his head like a cobra and spat at Sahle's feet. There was an audible gasp. Sahle recoiled. His guards rushed forward drove the Somali to his knees.

"What is this?" was the only reply Sahle could produce.

"You spit on our people, so I spit at you! That is what I do! Why do you station soldiers in the Ogaden? Why do you send your agents to spy on us? Are we not brothers?"

"Agents?"

"We caught two of your swine! Your Shotel pigs! They spy on the Emir!"

"There is better ways to broach the subject." Desta said sharply. The Tsehafi Taezaz hadn't looked up at the Emperor. His gaze was reserved for the fuming man beneath his feet.

"I spit on you too!" he said, spitting on Desta's feet. A guard acted instinctively and drove Maxamed's head into the dust.

"Don't do that." Desta said, "I won't have it said we abuse our guests."

"We will have our revenge!" Maxamed said the moment he was let back up. His lip was bleeding.

"Is there a message you mean to deliver?" Desta said calmly.

Sahle remained quiet. He saw his mother look at him disapprovingly. What had he done? Or was he just imagining her ire?

"Remove your soldiers!"

"Adal is part of the Ethiopian Empire. We are brothers. Our soldiers live on our shared land as comrades. I have no doubt that Ras Hassan sees it the same way."

"We demand you remove your soldiers and allow the Emir the right to his own defenses!"

"Demand?"

"I am making a reasonable request!" the Somali roared.

"His Imperial majesty has heard your request. Would you be so good as to remove yourself, knowing your message is delivered?"

"I demand an answer now! Justice demands it!"

The two men watched each other intensely. At last, Desta nodded. Maxamed was dragged away. Oddly, he did not say a word. Desta snapped his fingers, and a small band in the corner began to play. Desta looked meaningfully at Sahle and walked to the dais. Sahle followed.

"Have the agents been returned?" Eleni asked.

"Not yet." Desta replied.

"What agents?" Sahle said, keeping his voice low.

Eleni looked at him. There was a sharpness behind her maternal gaze, and Sahle felt guilty that he'd been partaking with Rudolph only moments before. After a moment, she spoke. "Hassan has gathered his warriors. Isn't that suspicious, son?"

"It is suspicious. Why did I not know about it?" Sahle's embarrassment about the hashish morphed into an embarrassed anger. He was the Emperor. Why was he the last to know?

"It is a delicate situation, your Imperial majesty. But one I have in control." Desta said with a smile. "I do not think Hassan is powerful enough to try anything. We have taken the necessary steps, but we don't want to provoke."

"You aren't thinking on withdrawing the troops?" Eleni asked, casting a severe look at the Minister of the Pen.

Desta smiled. "Of course not. But we shouldn't take this insult as anything more than foolishness."

"That man spit at the feet of the Lion of Judah!" Eleni said, "That isn't just foolishness! Do we allow everybody to spit at my son's feet?"

"He spat at my feet too." Desta looked out at the party.

"Your feet are not sacred."

"We will handle things as they come." Desta caught somebody's eye. He turned around and bowed to the Emebet Hoy. "I have business to attend to." She nodded. He walked away. Sahle was left alone with his mother. It was only then that he noticed Rudolph had left his side.

"That man is a coward." Eleni said, "He would not protect you."

"It doesn't seem wise to start a war over nothing." Sahle responded. He took a seat next to his mother, looking out at the party. Desta was at the table of Daniel Gablogian, a stout Armenian handling Negus Coffee's business in his country. Rudolph had disappeared. Sahle's eyes fell upon Livy Carnahan, seated at the same table as the corpulent pomegranate of a man Jefferson Davis Bacon.

"War is not the answer to everything, but it is not the only result when you stand up for yourself. Being a coward is more dangerous. If Hassan thinks we are weak, he will take advantage. If we show that we are strong, he will back away."

"I did not know Hassan was our adversary."

"You do not know because you chose not to know." his mother scolded.

"I cannot know if nobody will tell me." Sahle retorted. He looked at his mother. She kept facing forward, her expression placid but bold, like the statue of a pharaoh.

"It is your duty to take control, not to let control be given to you. If you spent more time thinking about being Emperor, instead of thinking of yourself. If you hadn't sent away your siblings, they could help..."

"We won't speak about them again." Sahle muttered. He sank in his seat. Every time he talked to her, she lectured him. It made him weary of her. Only this morning they'd argued about the other thing.

He looked back at Livy, a daffodil yellow dress on, seeming to glow among the rest as if she were the holy mother. She looked up at him shyly, then went back to her conversation with Bacon.

The evening was dead. Sahle knew a finished party when he saw one, and this was one. His mother brooded in the seat next to him. Outside, the conversation was low, eyes shifty. It was as if someone had let out an audible fart and everyone was avoiding taking responsibility or being blamed for it.

Eleni stood up. The music died. "I am an old woman, and I have yet to say my prayers! Let us retire to our tents! You will find your place in the field behind us. Your names should be posted."

Sahle stood up. The guests stood up and bowed.

"Go! Find your place! God bless you all!" Eleni gave the benediction. Sahle strode across the packed dirt. Rudolph came up along side him, a girl in his arms. "I have a place I assume?" he asked.

"Yes." Sahle waved him away, not looking him in the eye. He only had eyes for Livy.

She was surprised when he came to her table. Bacon bowed, and Livy quickly followed his lead. "How are you, your majesty?"

"I am well, my friend. I have came to tell you that you don't need to stay in a tent."

"Oh?" she looked uncertain. Off balance.

"I have a place near here for you. Come with me. I will show you."

"Are you bringing Mr Bacon?" she asked, looking at the old man. Bacon had been watching the exchange as if he didn't see it, but when Livy talked to him, he smiled wide. "You kids have fun without me." he said. He turned to Sahle and bowed. "Your majesty." then he walked off.

Livy looked at him. "Okay." she said breathlessly. They walked together.

She climbed into the Landrover with him. Two Mehal Sefari rode in front with the driver, another clung onto the back with his feet balanced on a steel beam welded to the car for exactly that purpose.

She seemed shy. That woke some instinct in him, to protect her, draw her closer. He embraced her, and she took a moment to accept it, leaning into his body. She felt warm. The wave of red hair beneath her hat smelled of flowers. "Thank you for the invitation, your majesty" she said. Her voice was like a squeak.

"You don't need to be in the wilderness." Sahle replied.

"I haven't been camping in a long time" she giggled, looking up at him. In the moonlight her eyes were the color of tears.

"I have a better thing for you than tent life, my friend" he said.

"You are a good friend." she said.

They came into the drive of a manse balanced on the edge of the mountain. It was in the Italian style, looking like it could be a wing of the Imperial palace. They stopped. The guard on the back hopped off and looked around nervously. Sahle was not nervous. He drank in the smell of Livy, and of eucalyptus on the mountain breeze. Beyond the manse they could see the lights of the city below.

They went inside. It was decorated with new furniture, and smelled of fresh lumber. There was a record player on a sturdy mahogany table.

"This is a beautiful place." Livy complimented. Her heels tapped against the hardwood floor.

"It's yours" Sahle said.

"What is?" she casually browsed a crate of records.

"This house. It is a gift to you."

She looked at him, slowly comprehending. "The house?"

"And the land it is on." Sahle replied, grinning.

There was a twinkle in her eye. Her shyness seemed to drip away slowly as she comprehended, looking around. What was going through her head now was a mystery to him. He wanted to know. Her mouth gaped slightly open, and she held her tongue up as if preparing to speak. "I don't know what to say." she said..

"You accept it? Surely you don't want to stay in the city."

"No. Yes. Of course I accept it. Yes! This is the nicest thing anybody has given to me."

She spread open the red curtains. The moonlight poured in, and danced on the crystal water just outside. She gasped. "There is a pool! I have not seen one in this country!"

"I know it is a feature Americans like. I requested it be put in."

"This house is new?" she went to the back door and opened it, letting in the strong smell of chlorine.

"Well, it has been redone. The pool is new." he said. She went outside. He followed.

On the deck, she kicked off her heels, showing off painted toes, a line of dust ending where the shoe had started. She looked out at the city twinkling below. The clouds were the rusty pink of an urban sky.

"This will be so good when it is hot." she said, smiling at the still water.

"Try it." Sahle suggested.

"I haven't brought a suit." she said. Then she looked at him. The excited grin fell down to a warm, slight smile. She looked back down at the water. Then she reached behind her back and unzipped her dress.

Sahle's heart pounded like a drum. In the few months after meeting Livy, he'd slept with a dozen or so women, but that hadn't meant anything. They'd been his like servants, his at the snap of a finger. But there was something else here. The other women had been the mechanical release of desires. Livy was love in the flesh revealing herself to him. She slid out of the yellow dress. The skin beneath was so white it took on the colors around it, in this case blue from the dancing water. She wore a matching set of beige undergarments, the panties coming up to her belly button. Her gaze went from him to the sparkling water as she unclasped her bra and pulled it gently away. The sight of her petite breasts made his soul jump into his throat. She reached down and pulled off her last item of clothes. The moonlight on the pool danced blue against her smooth skin. She jumped in.

Her red hair was soaked, turning auburn when her head plunged up above the surface. The rest of her body danced below the rippling water the same color as the reflected moonlight. Sahle, without realizing it, began to undress. His manhood was stiff as a rod once he was naked. She saw him and watched as he jumped in after her.

That shy look returned to her eyes. The pool was only deep enough to come up to his chest. He walked over, the water cold against his skin. He took her in his arms. His manhood pressed against her soft belly.

"You are good to me, your majesty." she said softly. He kissed her. In his mind, she was already his Queen.
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Hidden 6 yrs ago Post by Shyri
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Shyri Some nerd

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Yastreby, Russia

"It's Vyazma, right?"

"No, no. Vyazma was taken over, we're Muscovite's now."

"No, that's not right. It was those democratic folks in Smolensk, they freed us from that tyrant."

"Are you sure? I thought it was the Tsar."

"Yes, the Tsar in Moscow."

"No, no. Not that pretender, I mean the real one, up in St Petersburg."

"What, no, their borders are way too far... Right?"

"I don't care... As far as I'm concerned, they're all Russian. Eventually one of them will kill the others, and Russia will finally fix itself."

"So you don't care if we end up being stuck under another tyrant?"

"At this point, I just want a reliable meal every day. I couldn't care less who provides it."

"Ah, yeah... I can understand that. I miss those imported snacks from England... They were my favorites."

"Does England still exist? I thought something like this happened over there, too."

"I heard the Germans rule all of Western Europe now."

"Oh, come now, that's ridiculous."

"No, really. The Germans took over Europe, and the African's have united."
"You need to lay off the alcohol, man. There's no way that's true."

"Yeah, next thing you're going to tell us is that Siberia is Chinese, and that the Byzantines rule Greece again."

"I mean, it could. For all we know, the world ended, you know what I'm saying? We don't even know what country we live in anymore. Who knows what's going on in the rest of the world."

"Yeah... I suppose you've got me there."

"… God, I miss those English snacks."



Moscow

The Tsar sat in a dusty old office, her feet up on the desk, as she read through a stack of letters that had piled up over the last week.

"Hmm... Smolensk is demanding we surrender, again. The St Petersburg front is requesting more men... Oh, what's this?"

Sitting up, she read over the parcel in her hands once more and burst out laughing.

"Oh, that's rich. That old crone wants to make a deal. How does he expect to pay for this venture of his? Muscovite money, or Ukrainian? Then he has the nerve to invite those bastards in Smolensk? Oh, that's rich. He expects us to make a truce so he can have a line to his sponsor. Fantastic!"

Letter clutched in her hand, she stood, and walked out of the room, heading towards another office in the building, and opening the door. The man on the other side seemed startled by the sudden entry but straightened up upon seeing who it was.
"Yes, my Tsar?" He asked.

"Yulian, take a look at this, and tell me it's a joke." The Tsar said, passing the letter off.

After reading it over, and then rereading it for clarity, he looked up at her, confused. "No, my Tsar. This looks to be official. Maybe even written by Yukarev himself. I..."

"So, what do you think? Is he just getting senile, or is he really trying to scam us so he can get some oil?"

"I... Sadly, think he's being quite serious. He invited Smolensk, as well. Does he have nog rasp of the political situation outside of his snow and trees?" Asked Yulian, incredulously.

"That's what I thought, exactly. He might as well have invited the boy up North, honestly. My God..." Wiping a small tear from the corner of her eye, the Tsar let out a sigh. "Well, that said... I got a letter from the men on the northern border. They need more bodies if they want to make any progress. Can we spare anybody?"

"I... No, I don't think we can, unless you want to pull some from the Nizhny front. We do have a truce with them, after all." Replied Yulian, looking a bit flustered by the tone change.

"No, we shouldn't. We have a truce, not peace. If they see us pulling away, they'll strike. It seems that old man is the only one who doesn't want to sit in Moscow-" the Tsar said with a sudden stop, looking at Yulian, who had the same look in his eyes as she had in hers. "Yulian... Prepare to have our men on the Cold Front prepare to move to St. Petersburg. I'm going to write a response to Yukarev. These plans of his will take some time to even kick in. If we can make the old dog sit at our heels for a while, perhaps we can actually move on the St. Petersburg front. While we have Yukarev bending over for access through our territory and begging for our funds, the soldiers we take from his border will prove more than enough to reinforce St Petersburg. If we can take the Jewel while playing him a false hand, we will become the strongest players in this shattered country. Then, when St Petersburg falls, we can take him up on his offer. Our soldiers will walk to his office and greet him cordially. I doubt Anastasiya would mind much if we cut out the old dog and gave her a much bigger cut."

"Wonderfully put, my Tsar. I'll relay the orders at once." Yulian said, rushing out of his office.

Sitting down in Yulian's desk, the Tsar picked up a small picture frame with his family portrait in it. She specifically focused on teenage boy smiling awkwardly, and smirked.

"Looks like the game is finally beginning. All I have to do now is crush the boy-king, and all the other pieces will fall into place. Once we establish an alliance with Ukraine, Smolensk, too, will fall. After that, it's a straight shot East- No more need to watch our backs.



With a smile, the Tsar looked out a nearby window, facing the North, and threw Yukarev's letter in a garbage can.

"Rossiya prinadlezhit mne, poetomu ya voz'mu yeye. Vse, kto protiv menya, upadut."
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Hidden 6 yrs ago Post by TheEvanCat
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TheEvanCat Your Cool Alcoholic Uncle

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Yerevan, Armenia

The wide, round table was quickly becoming a fixture in Hasmik Assanian’s daily routine. It was wide enough to accompany, at once, his Vice President, Prime Minister, cabinet ministers, and anyone else called in for any situation. Ornate wooden chairs upholstered with modest blue padding, pushed neatly into the table when not in use, bore intricate carvings from traditional craftsmen. A bronze placard had been set into the table bearing the name of each man in Assanian’s circle. Many of them were absent today. Hung on the dark green walls were paintings of Armenia by local artists, depicting natural beauty, folklore, historical victories, and even a few of daily life. One had recently been purchased from a rural artist depicting a solemn girl, no more than fourteen or fifteen, weaving a carpet on the stone steps of her home. Assanian took a liking to that one: it was quiet and peaceful yet busy with life, in contrast to the vibrant scenes of battle or landscapes that he considered boring.

Beside the table, a chalkboard was propped up on a stand. Written on it were the five parties of Parliament, while their numbers after the election were represented by a colored number, all adding up to a hundred and one. Atop the board was “votes” written in plain white. Assanian leaned on the table, staring towards the board. Beside him, his vice president twirled a pencil through his fingers while the Prime Minister stood stoically in a mute grey suit with his arms crossed and a look of deep concentration on his face. The Prime Minister was much older than both Assanian and Idration, balding with only a thin combover atop his wrinkled head. Serzh Antabian had been a politician with the Armenian Liberal Democratic Party for decades now, having been a founding member back in the 1930s. A few moments of contemplation went by, before he turned to the president: “You know this is going to be divisive, right?”

“Of course,” Assanian replied coolly, his focused brown eyes poring over the board in front of him. His hand moved to leaf through a revised copy of the Georgia Plan, laying nearby, fresh from the Ministry of War with additional information updated, mostly an accurate troop deployment schedule. The goal was to draw as few men away from the Turkish border as possible, requiring additional reserve and paramilitary units like the Border Service to take part. He was considering pushing that back to his Minister to limit the impact on society. The War Minister, Yegishe Eminian, was a brilliant strategist… in military terms. While his idea of drawing reservists to maintain a two-front operation was nobly-intended, Assanian and Antabian both agreed that it would hurt its chances of passing through the Parliament. People at home didn’t want to be called up for some foreign adventure, but if soldiers were already on the front then it made little difference to them. Eminian wouldn’t like the plan, but would follow the recommendation and try to mitigate the risk of pulling troops from the front to go to Georgia. He was a clever man, and Assanian appreciated it.

“The Liberal Democratic Party has heard murmurs of this plan and they’re honestly unsure of what to think. You and I both know we’re trying to work on our own problems, and going somewhere else isn’t on our agenda,” the Prime Minister warned, pointing lazily at the purple column on the board. “I can try and spin it for you, and I think party loyalty will help. I don’t foresee many dissenters on this vote. They like you, and if you can spin this as good for the country then it’ll be fine.”

Assanian looked back at Antabian, shaking his head: “Remember, I’m the President now. Things change, I’m not exactly beholden to the party’s leash anymore. Or as much as I was.” He smoothed out the purple tie sitting neatly below his jacket, a reminder of the party he came from. Idratian, beside him, made eye contact with his President and shrugged, but remained silent.

“We’ve always been in two camps, we’ve always had our hawks and our doves, Hasmik,” replied Antabian with a stern look, almost like he was scolding someone. “And I know you’ve always been a brash hawk. I don’t blame you, you were a cavalry commander. It will just take a little bit of work to ensure this success. We need to keep party unity, your term just started. Sacrificing it now will make things very difficult in the future, and that’s not what we need at this point in our history. If this proves too controversial, then I suggest we back off.”

“The good news is, however, the Enforcement Party will be all for it,” Idratian interjected, nodding towards the board at the ten politicians voted in primarily because they wanted to expand Armenian force projection to neighboring states, a rarity in a country so focused on domestic politics and unaccustomed to the idea of foreign interventions. “They’ve actually been saying something like this for years now, ever since Artsakh.”

“Then let’s put ten on the board,” Assanian announced, moving towards the chalkboard to circle the Enforcement Party and strike a ten next to the votes column. “Obviously for foreign military action, we need a two-thirds vote. Sixty-eight.”

“With the ALDP fully in, which may or may not happen, we’ll have fifty-three,” Antabian continued. He looked back at the board, towards the red column: The Armenian Communist Party. “I’m not even going to consider the Communists, they don’t want to work with any government, be it yours or Vadratian’s.”

“Are they even a real party?” joked Idratian with a scoff. “They don’t really do much, do they? Just kind of sit there and ramble. I wouldn’t count on their vote even if we were trying to print off Marx for every man, woman, and child.”

“Well,” sighed Assanian with a hint of resignation, “when the working class comes for our bourgeoisie heads I’m sure you’ll be the first one up against the wall for saying that.” He rolled his eyes and scratched in a “no” category, writing in the two Communists as definite opposition. He looked towards the Revolutionary Party and cocked his head. Despite his meeting with Serovian and the Council, the Armenian constitution was written more internally. It rarely mentioned limitations on Armenia acting outside of its borders, perhaps because the Council never anticipated a situation like this. Armenia, fatefully, was one of the larger and more established states in the Caucasus and Near Eastern region. This was interpreted different ways, and the Revolutionary Party was well-known to be against intervention in general. Taken literally, if the constitution said nothing about it then it shouldn’t be done. Defection was also rare in the hardline party, with other members shaming rogue voters as unpatriotic and un-Armenian: it was a savage sight to see. They numbered eleven, bringing the opposition vote to thirteen.

“I’ll put my estimates to about forty ALDP voters, just to give us a nice number to work with,” Antabian said with some thought. “There are a few known troublemakers… Erebunian is a nice guy but he’s definitely a bit of a flamboyant rogue. He has his posse of clowns, but they’re only three. I’d have the most trouble getting votes from them.”

The President went back to his board, marked up to fifty, and looked down at the Independence Party. Joseph Vadratian’s party, currently in a full retrograde after a disastrous election. While the ALDP and the Independence Party were often at odds with each other, the ALDP held a slim majority but not in excess of fifty-one seats. On controversial subjects, where the parties were deeply entrenched, success required coalition with the three minor parties whose loyalty very often fluctuated. Historically, the Enforcement Party and Revolutionary Party were friendlier towards conservative Independent Party policy: the Georgia Plan, however, could tickle the fancy of some Independence parliamentarians who wanted something to hold onto in the wake of Vadratian’s ousting. The party was in disarray, so defecting to the rival party would not be difficult. Strongmen inside the Independence Party controlled smaller groups of members, with the party leader working to control those factions. It was going to be at least eighteen members, however, close to half their elected population. This would require a little more work.

Antabian, thinking the same, tapped his foot absent-mindedly. His wise, dark brown eyes pored over the board. He was a quiet man, reserved in both person and Parliament, preferring to formulate his speech and actions. As such, his decisions were rather profound: when he spoke, people listened. Assanian liked that in a Prime Minister, since he had the task of wrangling politicians assigned to him. Assanian was, by nature, a military commander. Soldiers had orders, leaders, and subordinates in a neat structure. Politicians, on the other hand, made no sense, and the President oftentimes resented their behavior despite being one of them. Self-interest and political games permeated even the most checked and balanced system or the most robust arrangement of national service obligations, so it was up to Antabian to wrestle his way through the swamp and help the President out. After a few moments of contemplation, the Prime Minister spoke again: “Alright, I think I know who to talk to. I’m going to make a few phone calls.”

With that, he pushed up the sleeve of his jacket and took the time from a battered silver wristwatch. He cocked a thin eyebrow, before standing up and looking down to Assanian: “It’s also time for me to leave. I’m afraid the wife is making lahmajun tonight,” he said, referring to the pizza-like dish of bread topped with tomato sauce and spiced meat. With a rare smile, he adjusted his tie and added: “And half the reason I married her was for the lahmajun. I’ll let you know how the calls to Parliament go. Have a good night.”

The Black Sea

They appeared on the horizon at dawn as a gaggle of small, black silhouettes. The squadron of boats quickly resolved themselves to be the low-profile, fierce shapes of Russian pirates. The Breadwinner’s return lane took it away from Odessa, hugging the coast of Crimea until it turned off towards Georgia. A certain percentage of wheat, fruits, vegetables, meat, and other foodstuffs from Ukraine’s breadbasket were taken first to the military garrison in Poti as part of Captain Sarkisian’s contract before the rest of the consumer goods were delivered to Trabzon, necessitating the somewhat more dangerous route. The pirate bosses in Sochi, the wretched hive of scum and villainy it was, had caught onto these predictable Armenian merchant contracts. The visit of the Russian flotilla was not unexpected: a typical raiding party consisted of three gunboats and a boarding vessel packed with pirates, mostly teenagers scraping together a living from the unluckier merchant mariners. Captain Sarkisian, however, had seen the Russians before and had fought the fight he knew was just moments away. They were still several nautical miles out before he hit the alarm.

“Put her to broadside, I want all the guns trained on these guys,” Sarkisian ordered calmly, peering through a set of binoculars out the bridge’s window. The Breadwinner, like most Armenian cargo ships, maintained a pair of machineguns with sectors of fire covering the side of the hull. A single light naval cannon mounted to the bow was being rotated into position by its crew. On the bridge, Sarkisian’s crew went to their positions and fixed their eyes to their instruments. A klaxon blared, while the signalman announced an action stations call over the intercom. Nazarbekian, his executive officer, quickly downed the rest of his coffee from a ceramic cup and lit a new cigarette while he reached down to put on his intercom headset. This allowed instant communication with his ship’s section heads: engineering, damage control, gunnery, and medical. They checked in one by one as they came up on the intercom. The Russians drew in closer, their gunboats fanning out and starting a circle around the ship. They tried to stay out of range of the Breadwinner’s side guns, while confusing the bow turret’s gunner.

“All men are set,” announced Nazarbekian, acting as the communicator for Sarkisian.

“Thanks,” replied Sarkisian. He looked down at his watch before going back to the binoculars: “Give me a slow to seven knots, helmsman.”

The thrumming of the engine dulled and the ship slowly decelerated to give the gunners a better chance at reacting to contact. This presented more of a tactical risk, but Sarkisian was a fan of the strategy. The Russian pirates, noticing the change in its wake, began their charge. One of the gunboats gunned its engine as it tightened up its circle around the Breadwinner to slide away from the broadside. The Russians took the first shots: semi-automatic rifle fire, poorly aimed in the choppy sea, trying to keep the Armenians’ heads down.

“Hold fire until he reaches the starboard guns,” Sarkisian ordered. Nazarbekian repeated it into the intercom, where the message was taken by runner from the gunnery chief to the sailor manning the 12.7 millimeter heavy machinegun on the ship’s side. The other gunboat took the opposite direction while the boarding ship and its escort stayed away. Sporadic rifle fire erupted from the pirates’ ships, answered by Armenian sailors’ own personal weapons. The gunboat at the bow turned abruptly towards the ship, training its weapons right onto the Breadwinner’s gun positions. Armenian Independence class vessels had been traversing the seas for over a decade, and the pirates were smart. They trained almost as much as the sailors did. A volley of their machinegun fire ripped out towards the starboard guns, who began their answer. A rapid rhythm of fire crackled through the air as the gunners began engaging. Trails of water spouts sprang from the water behind the gunboat, while tracer rounds arced their way over the deck. Sailors dove for cover and returned fire in a back-and-forth.

“Do we have eyes on the other boat?” asked Sarkisian, switching his view from the starboard side to the boarding vessel still waiting out of range of the guns. “I need to find out where he’s going!”

Nazarbekian spoke into the microphone of his headset, trying to get information from the lookouts. With attention focused on the pirates in the direction of the coast, someone had to head to the rear and try to locate the flanking gunboat. He pressed his hand to the earpiece, listening to the crackly voice of the lookouts. His eyes narrowed and he took a drag of his cigarette. “Shit!”

“What?” Sarkisian asked with a jolt, spinning towards his executive officer.

“Another squadron is coming up from the rear! That’s two, what the fuck is going on?”

A chill ran through Captain Sarkisian’s spine. His eyes widened: “We need to flex our defenses. These guys are playing around with us. How did we let that slip?”

“Sir, they’re gunning it our way. The lookout says they look like they’re maxing out their engines coming for us. They’ll be within range in a few minutes.”

The second gunboat reached the stern by the time Sarkisian returned to his position by the window of the bridge. The arrival of the second squadron was quickly enveloping them, and the pirates were starting to close in. The stern gunners began to shoot and try to ward off the pirates while Sarkisian frantically tried to plot a course to get out of it. He shouted to his helmsman to increase speed and try to get out of the ambush: “We have to go, our gunners will just need to suppress and wave them off!” he ordered urgently. Back to his map, he calculated the distance to Poti. Over a hundred and thirty nautical miles: they couldn’t outrun the pirates to safety any time soon. He cursed again, they’d have to stay and fight. More of the guns became engaged while the main cannon locked into a tracking pattern on the boarding ship’s escort, which had started to swerve in and out. The machineguns were overshadowed by the loud thumping of the cannon as it send an airburst shell out to try and destroy the third gunboat.

On the gunboats, the Russian pirates emerged with rockets: they carried their shoulder-fired tubes to positions on the gunwales and took aim. A lookout reported the sighting of rockets, but he was too late to direct any fire to it: a rocket launched, swirling through the air and just missing the bridge. The crew ducked, hitting the ground with their hands on their heads before Sarkisian ordered them back up to their stations. “We almost got it there, boys!” Nazarbekian cheered, before his voice was drowned out by a cacophony of fire. His pride was short lived, the Russians got another rocket off. This one hit the bow, crashing in dangerously close to the cannon and sending an explosion roaring over the deck. The ship vibrated with the impact as a wall of flame swept across towards a group of personnel who dove for a cover. A fire started, smoke blowing backwards across the deck while others rushed for the hoses. “Fire, fire, fire!” came the report from the damage control officer.

Sarkisian watched from the bridge as a team of sailors moved out with the hose. He looked towards the smoke that was now threatening to obscure the main gunner’s optics. The gunner, too, saw this and let loose another round from the cannon before it was too late. Through good aiming or simply luck, this shell flew straight past the deckhouse of the third gunboat and exploded exactly over its stern. The pirate ship’s stern disintegrated and rocked the rest of the hull forward, bodies and debris launched like ragdolls. The gunboat started sinking instantly, a raging fire starting on its deck. Again, the Russians answered this victory with another round of gunfire, now getting dangerously close to the other gun positions. Nazarbekian checked into the intercom for reports from the other lookouts and had opened barely his mouth to relay information to Sarkisian before a horrific crash threw everyone to the floor. Nazarbekian’s coffee cup lurched off the center console and crashed into a steel pillar, shattering all over the captain. The electrical power flickered and went out. “What the fuck was that?” shouted Sarkisian.

While the battle had been raging near the bow of the Breadwinner, the second squadron of pirates had rushed into position through a hail of gunfire. Of their three gunboats, the lead was riddled with machinegun fire and left immobilized in the sea. Two more arrived in position, one with a weapon nobody had seen in this region before. A Tsarist multiple launch rocket system, affectionately called the Katyusha, had been cut off of its typical truck mountain and welded to a pirate gunboat. Eight racks carried thirty-two rockets, seventeen of which impacted the rear of the Breadwinner’s deckhouse, completely shredding through its superstructure and setting the topside alight. Sarkisian struggled up on shaky legs, smelling smoke in the air. Nazarbekian had been thrown to the console, hitting his head: he bled from his temple, but was grunting and steadying himself as he rose. “Is anyone hurt?” he asked, wiping the blood away. Nobody on the bridge was, aside from cuts on shattered glass, but a fire was slowly moving to the bridge. Nazarbekian tried the intercom one last time, getting only static.

Sarkisian kept panic at bay on the bridge: he ordered the bulkhead be closed to slow the fire down, and moved everyone out to the railing so they could climb down the exterior ladder and make it to the alternate command location. More rockets pummeled the ship as the Armenian gunners failed to take out the Russians’ gunboats: gun positions became damaged or destroyed, with the pirates suffering another loss of a gunboat from a fuel tank explosion. The fire became increasingly accurate: casualties were beginning to flood the lower decks where the ship’s surgeon was triaging. With nobody to coordinate them, the machinegunners’ sectors of fire began to lapse and the pirates, still circling the ship, started to find gaps. Sarkisian lost his lookouts, the eyes of the ship, and had no idea that the Russians were now moving boarding vessels into these blind spots. The crew, now fighting for their lives at the gun positions, were unable to stop them. The armored boarding vessels raced in towards the Breadwinner as Armenians fired their rifles in desperate attempts to hit crew members on board.

With a clang, the first of the boarding ships made contact with the Breadwinner. A Russian pirate, under fire, moved with a hooked ladder out to the side and hoisted it up with the aid of two others. They flailed it about until it got caught on the railing of a lower catwalk, securing it into place. The boarding ship had matched speed with the Breadwinner, and a boarding party began to scurry up the ladder. Two Armenian sailors began to shoot at the ladder, knocking some Russians off with their gunfire. It was too little, too late: the pirates had climbed aboard and were now engaging the Merchant Mariners with shotguns, submachineguns, and handguns. A breathless runner arrived at the command post as Sarkisian started receiving word that the other boarding vessel was near: “Sir, we’ve been boarded!”

The captain swore, his heart beating through his chest. His command and control over the situation was totally shot: there was no way he could communicate with his crew from the alternate command post, the power was still out. Russian boarding parties were already shooting with Armenian sailors in the cramped, tight passageways of the ship. The gunfire rang out through the metallic halls, the shouts and screams of men in combat accompanying it. On the stern, the other boarding ship had made contact and hooked in their own ladder, dispersing freely throughout the ship. Their first target was the bridge: Captain Sarkisian and his executive officer were prime targets for ransom. He ordered his crew to guard the entrances to the command post while his hands patted his belt to find his keyring. He fumbled amongst the brass keys, searching desperately for the alternate arms locker at the command post: each ship maintained a few guns in the bridge and backup command post in case of this specific event. Shaking, he went to the locker and tried the keys. The first few wouldn’t work: he cursed them loudly. The gunfire was getting closer.

Only two of his bridge crew had actual weapons on their person, a shotgun and a carbine. They posted up together at the entrance to the superstructure’s main stairs, where they heard the voices of the pirates below. “Sir!” one of them shouted, before letting loose a pair of shotgun shells. “They’re coming!”

“Fuck!” shouted Sarkisian, finally getting the key into its lock. With a click, the arms locker opened and five shotguns were sitting neatly in their racks. The Captain quickly distributed them to his crew along with a cardboard box of shells, which they began loading. He took a pair of pistols from the bottom shelf and handed one to Nazarbekian. A chorus of racking and clicking followed as the Armenian sailors prepared for the Russians. Tension was thick in the air: the Armenians took cover behind desks and lockers, aiming at the entrances. The stairwell guards shot again, now exchanging fire with the Russian boarding party. Sarkisian exchanged looks with his executive officer, then closed his eyes and muttered a quick prayer. His amen was punctuated with a shout from the hallway: “Stoy! Stoy! U menya yest granata!

Then, in broken and heavily accented Armenian, a different voice translated: “He has… grenade! Put gun to floor!”

My ne khotim prichinyat tebe bol! Sdacha!” angrily shouted the first one.

“He says… We are not wanting to kill. Put it down.”

Gunfire on the ship showed no signs of ceasing, as the crew bitterly fought in the corridors against the pirates. Sarkisian knew he couldn’t tell his men to stand down without electrical power to the intercom. Did they even have a grenade? Nazarbekian looked to him sternly: “What’s our decision? I don’t know if we can win this fight,” he warned.

“Shit…” Sarkisian muttered. He peeked his head over at the stairwell. “If they have a grenade we’re all fucked,” he whispered.

“Are we going to take that risk?” asked Nazarbekian. He looked over the railing. “A grenade goes off, we die. We fight, maybe we die. We surrender… these guys are pirates, not murderers: they’re financially motivated. We’re captured, yes, but… we could go home.”

“Who the fuck is going to grab us from Sochi?” asked Sarkisian, frustrated. “Who’s going to pay a pirate king in Russia?”

“It’s better than nothing,” Nazarbekian shot back. He sighed deeply. “I don’t like it either.”

The Captain closed his eyes again, the grip of his hand tightening around the pistol. He shook, frozen behind the desk. Inside, he pushed against it, but he knew it was over. The Russians repeated their request. His crew looked to him, wide-eyed, awaiting an answer. The fear in their eyes was amplified. So Captain Sarkisian exhaled harshly and muttered: “Please God, forgive me.” He put his pistol down on the floor gently, before motioning Nazarbekian to do the same. Sarkisian kept his eyes to the floor, shame washing over him: he did not want to see the faces of his crewmen. With great effort, he stood up from behind the desk and looked to the stairwell. The Russian had emerged from the staircase as soon as he heard the guards put down their guns. His eyes stared down the sights of a rusted rifle with rotting wooden furniture. The sights were aimed directly to Sarkisian’s chest, with the captain staring down its barrel. Sarkisian raised his hands slowly, shakily above his head.

“It is done. We give up,” he announced to him. “No more killing. It’s over. It’s over.”
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Hidden 6 yrs ago Post by DELETED32084
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The Isabel Gemio Story - Part VI


Rain pounded on the tin roof of the aircraft hanger, drowned out by the crack of thunder as lightening ripped across the heavens. Sheets of rain, propelled by gusts of wind swept across the airfield like grey curtains against the towering black clouds that filled the horizon from end to end. To the men who stood on the tarmac watching the huge four engined aircraft descend toward the it seem as though it would crash for sure as the wind and rain buffeted it. They could see the wings rising and following as the pilot fought with the controls, the black bladed propellers clawing at the air as the aircraft dropped toward the run way.

The landing gear appeared to brush the tree tops as the plane lumbered over the outer perimeter of the airfield and the watching crowd released a collective gasp of breath they did not realize they had been holding. The tarmac below the aircraft, as far as anyone could see, was running with so much water it appeared as though the plane was trying to touch down on a river. Landing lights blinked feebly against the encroaching darkness and fire crews had been mobilized to stand by.

Dropping lower, the plane flashed past huge hangers that housed the airships grounded by the storm. Lightening strikes hammered the tall buildings and everyone waited for the awful moment when one of the strikes would shatter the aircraft in mid-air. It seemed as if there was no way they could not, the strikes were happening with such frequency there was no doubt that the heart of the tempest was passing over them at that very moment.

Then the wheels hit the ground and water exploded upward, drenching the aircraft, drowning one of the engines so that it sputtered and died. The plane slewed violently for a moment before the pilot was able to regain control, and then the tail struck once, twice, a third time, finally onto the runway and steadying the aircraft.

"That was some amazing fucking flying." Breathed one of the watching groundcrew.

Landing lights from the aircraft lit up the São Paolo sign as it began to slow and taxi toward the large hanger that had been cleared specifically for its arrival. The interior was bright with floodlights and a row of cars was parked to one side, mostly unmarked sedans, but two marked Police cars as well, the Brasilian flag on their bumpers indicating they were federal officers.

"Who did you say is on that plane?" The same man had turned to a dour looking policeman with the rank of Captain on his shoulder.

"I didn't. And you would do well to not ask again." The policeman replied coldly before walking away.

The short conversation summed up much of how the evening had gone so far. The groundcrew had been spirited away from their usual jobs and hurried to this distant hanger on the far side of the airport. No explanation was given save that an aircraft was arriving from Spain and it was a priority flight. Now the crazy fuckers were trying to land in the middle of the worst thunder storm they had seen in years. At first it had been exciting, the secrecy of it, but that slowly wore off as the groundcrew began to realize just how mysterious their arrival was. The cordon of police, about half in uniform, were all fully armed and no one had been allowed to enter or leave the hanger since the doors opened. For a bunch of airport jockeys on minimum wage, it was the type of event one thought might involve a bullet in the back of the head at the end.

The big plane, its long silver body turned a brilliant blue by a nearby lightening strike, was turning toward the hanger now, one engine still spinning slowly to a stop. The words Unión Aérea Española were emblazoned on the fuselage and the tail had been painted over with a Spanish flag. The plane with its four huge engines was a common enough type used by the Spanish airline industry, big, reliable, and able to make the Atlantic journey with minimal layovers. On this particular day however, there were no expectant faces pressed to the windows, in fact the plane looked completely empty.

The roar of the engines were deafening, even through the ear protection they wore, as the plane nosed its way into the hanger. Wet brakes squealed and crewmen hurried forward to place chocks beneath the huge rubber tires as the aircraft came to a halt on the dry concrete floor of the hanger, water pouring off its silvery flanks to create a treacherous puddle. The remaining three engines quit abruptly and the pilots sagged in their harnesses, the looks of abject terror on their faces visible even to the men standing outside. No one could blame them, most had assumed they were dead men. A ladder was pushed forward to the door of the aircraft and an audible "click" as the door swung open.

"Eyes down and turn around. Any man who tries to look will be shot!" Roared a police officer, racking the action on his machine gun as he turned on the groundcrew, all of whom suddenly found the concrete floor and wall behind them fascinating.

Sara Reicker stepped onto the top step of the boarding platform, her senses assailed with the smell of rain and heavy ozone from the storm that rippled and cracked beyond the confines of the tin walls. Beneath it was the sharp smell of aviation fuel and chemicals commonly associated with an airport. The wind whipped her black hair around her face and tugged at the blue dress that she wore and she felt a surge relief to be out of the plane after so many hours in the air, and, frankly, she had thought they were going to die on the approach to São Paolo. But they hadn't, and here she was. She still hadn't decided if she wanted to throw up or not.

"Senhora Guerrero, welcome to Brasil." A well built plainclothes policeman had stepped to the bottom of the ramp. "I am amazed you're alive."

Sara spared him a wide smile and she made her way down the steps. She was travelling under a false name on a real Spanish passport, prepared for her just four days ago when orders had at last come to her in Malaga. For the past while she had been content to wander the streets, taking time to study Spanish and Portuguese in the comfort of the Royal Palace with a private tutors.

"Thank you. I was quite certain we were going to get knocked out of the air," She glanced down at the mans badge. "Capitán Aveiro." Her Portuguese was clipped and precise, the type of pronunciation typical of someone who wasn't native to the language.

"José Dinis Aveiro, at your service." He replied with a small bow of his head. While he was unsure who exactly Sara was, his government had made it very clear that she was to have complete cooperation from him and his office. "We have a car that will take you to the hotel at once."

"Ah, no need, thank you." She held up a hand. "Take me to the newspaper instead. I believe you still have it cordoned off?" She smiled again and touched a hand to her belly. "I am still not sure I will not throw up. The hotel will not help, but work will."

Aveiro nodded and gestured toward the waiting cars, their engines rumbling to life as they approached. He and Sara took their seats in the middle car, the vehicle pulling forward as soon as the doors had slammed close, moving out into the pouring rain and toward the city.
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Hidden 6 yrs ago 6 yrs ago Post by Isotope
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Isotope I am Spartacus!

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Tsaritsyn, Office of the Provisional Governor


With a heavy sigh Vasily leaned back in the old chair, its wooden frame creaking under the strain, and cast a weary look on his son before speaking, “What of it?”

Grigori was far too accustom to his fathers flippant demeanour for his composure to break, but Vasily took more pleasure than he’d admit seeing his boy go to such effort to avoid scolding him. Where he got the stone face that captured the respect of all the soldiers he’d come to command Vasily would never know, certainly not from him or Sasha. With a pause only just long enough to make his displeasure clear Grigori replied, “What of it? Father this isn’t like their campaign against the communists, the assault on Crimea is a blatant show of aggression. Their ‘Hetman’ has no intention of keeping to her supposed national borders.”

“I never assumed she did,” Vasily straightened up and scratched the bushy moustache that acted as a centrepiece for his broad face, “but just because she means to occupy Crimea doesn’t mean she has an eye on Rostov my son. Sevastopol is a prize, Rostov is a ruin. What our people have done in the years since its liberation is what gives me the strength to keep this little corner of Russia safe, at least until the day comes when I no longer have to. Nevertheless Grigori, we’ve managed to repair less than a third of the cities factories and refineries. There is no fleet at anchor here, nor great treasure for the taking.”

Vasily laid his hands on the old desk before him and stood with some effort, “All that Rostov has to offer is a people prepared to defend her. The Hetman has no designs on the east my son, and we would be wise to avoid provoking her into creating them.”

Grigori looked his father in the eye and spoke seriously, “And if you’re wrong?”

“Then,” Vasily locked eyes with Grigori solemnly, “we fight as we always have. Until that day comes I will not look to hasten it by amassing an army on my neighbours border, especially one we may come to rely on. If the Hetman takes Crimea she will control the Kerch Strait. We cannot be cut off from the black sea, what little we can bring to market means more to our people than we can possibly comprehend.”

Grigori nodded, but somehow Vasily knew the boy was unconvinced. It pained Vasily to see it, but it didn’t surprise him. His boy was twenty seven, and he’d been fighting for the better part of a decade, of course Grigori thought to plan for war rather than peace. It was, after all, what the boy had become so capable at. With a sigh Vasily stepped around the desk and embraced his son, the surprise on the boys face as rewarding as the simple feeling of human contact, “You must trust me Grigori, have I not managed to keep us afloat so far? Go back to your men, ensure they’re ready if the day comes, but join your old man in the hope that we may hold onto the fragile peace we’ve managed to grasp in the midst of this broken world.”

With a muttered, “Of course, father.” Grigori made his exit in the simple green uniform that’d come to symbolize the defenders of the south. Vasily watched him go, his gaze lingering past the departure of his only son and seemingly looking for something in door that shut behind him. He sincerely hoped peace would find his son before death did.

With the fullness of his fifty seven years weighing down on him Vasily slumped into the simple wooden chair he’d brought to the office when he’d taken up residence in it. It was, he reflected, unlikely he’d live to see either outcome. The doctors assured him he was fine, but years at war had taken their toll. He felt like a walking ruin. If not for all those who’d come to rely on him, all family in their own way, he’d have surrendered the post of Provisional Governor years ago. Hetmen, Tsars, Dictators, Presidents, what horrible illness had they contacted that drove them to want such a position, let alone pursue it so singularly and callously?

Some questions, Vasily presumed, didn’t have answers.

Outskirts of Rostov


The airports outlying buildings had been, miraculously, spared from destruction in the two year siege Rostov proper had suffered. There had been damage to the main complex, the runway itself only having been repaired in the last year, but the old warehouses around the site must have never proved interesting enough to warrant their annihilation. Which was a hell of a good thing, as would later be discovered.

Nikolai grinned broadly at the sundry of aircraft in the southern hanger as he entered it, raising his voice to catch the attention of a mechanic working on an old transport plane, “How does she look Pavel?”

Pavel, a thickly built man who seemed at home covered in engine oil yelled back irritably, “Like she did last time Nikolai, shit. If she was my wife I’d have drowned myself in the Don.”

“A shame she isn’t Pavel,” Nikolai chuckled, “We’d all thank her for it.”

Pavel grumbled testily but smiled nonetheless. Without another word Nikolai walked around the other side of the plane and started working on the other engine, swearing when he tried to move the prop only to find it seized. Without bothering to check if he was listening Nikolai rambled to Pavel, “How many of the damn things have we gotten flying again? Four? Five? I swear if the Governor bothered to look at the stuff crammed into these hangers he’d give us a whole crew. Selling the damn things to the farmers for whatever they can cough up is barely enough to feed the two of us, let alone get more of these old birds flying.”

Pavel grunted and Nikolai went on, “I mean, really. I hear the Tsar’s have whole air wings, and we have what? Seven or eight fighters and as many crop dusters as there are idiots like us working on them. Who cares about the damn wheat, what if that witch in Moscow decides to bomb us Pavel! Then the Governor will be down here shouting ‘Save me Nikolai! Save us all!’ and we’d have all the damn money and men we needed to get these things flying.”

Without acknowledging his partners tirade Pavel asked, “You have the 15mm wrench over there?”

Nikolai kicked the tool under the airplane before continuing, “I bet we could cut a big fucking hole in the bottom of one of these old things and use it to bomb those fucking Caucus assholes into the dirt too. Put an end to those idiots in a day. Then we’d have all the gratitude we deserve you know? Money and girls and land. We’d be proper nobility Pavel! We’d-”

Nikolai swore loudly as the prop actually spun when he yanked it, directly into his forehead. He staggered back, rubbed the sore bump, and cursed, “One of these days we’ll get what we deserve, you hear! You fucking hear!”

From the other side of the plane Pavel heaved a sigh.
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Hidden 6 yrs ago 6 yrs ago Post by Vilageidiotx
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Vilageidiotx Jacobin of All Trades

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-----------------------------------------
Late August: Washington DC
-----------------------------------------

At night, he could still feel his right arm, and it hurt like the dickens. He was in the Senate, a faceless colleague giving a speech about Southern rights. His arm hurt. It was pure pain. He squirmed in his seat, his blood pumping, his face flush. He wanted to use the reclaimed arm against the man. Southern rights! Outside, he could hear the guns. The big ones, that thrummed in the pit of your stomach, like the Lord himself striking the earth with supernatural force. He clinched his fist. His right arm felt entirely like a clinched fist. How could they talk of Southern rights in here, while the traitors bombed good men just outside? The guns thrummed. A vase smashed. But that was a different kind of sound. It was three-dimensional. Real...

Milford sat up straight. He felt the missing arm fade from pain into nothingness, remembering slowly it's own absence. He was drenched in sweat, as if he'd just climbed out of the bath. His blankets were twisted around his leg, his pillows thrown to the floor. In the night, his boxer shorts had fallen below his waist. He hoisted them back up with his left arm. There were footsteps down stairs.

He pulled himself out of bed, ignoring the ache in his joints. His eyes adjusted to the weak light. Next to a maritime painting, there was an American flag hanging from a four foot steel pole: the essential decorative theme in every room. He grabbed it and carried it like a spear as he entered the hall.

The stairs creaked. Someone was coming up. Milford tried to crouch, though he did a bad job of it. A shadowy figure appeared, head first, coming up the stairway.

Milford sprang up like a warrior out of the trenches, screamed, and kicked the man in the chest.

"Get out of my house!" he roared. The man tumbled down the stairs. Milford chased after him, feet only barely grasping the carpeted steps. Before the man could heed him, Milford was on him, smashing him with the pole, the flag waving full in his face. The intruder scrambled to his feat and burst through the open door.

The night was dark and misty. Milford hoped to make out a getaway car, but the intruder hopped his neighbor's fence and disappeared into the murk.

--

"Senator, You didn't get a look at this man?" The cop asked. Red light flashed through the neighborhood. Milford was in the doorway, dressed now, spectacles resting on his nose. The lights were on, and hair that was ashy in the dark took on its peppered grey and red.

"I know who he was. I've been telling you, you need to beef up security in this town, there are war remnants out there!"

"I understand." The officer said slowly. He was a slight man, too much of an egghead to be a proper officer of the law. "But I need a description. We can't find these remnants..."

"You can find them! I saw a bar in Georgetown flying the Commiefornia flag! That one! I reported it, but last time I checked..."

"We can't tear down flags sir..."

"I'd call it probably cause! What, you can't guess what that means? What if some scum murders a kid and flies a flag that says 'Look I killed them and the fucking body is in here?' That's probably cause, right? Well, what the fuck are they flying remnant flags for if they aren't fucking remnants?"

"We'll look into it" the officer.

"You'll!!!" he was going to scream, but it caught up in his throat. "I'll remember this when you people are asking for donations." he said, slamming the door in the officer's face.

He went to the parlor and pulled a bottle of whiskey from the bar, pouring it straight. He kicked it back. What was this country coming to? He looked up at the photos on the wall. He had no wife, or kids of his own, but the Carnahan clan was a large one. He saw the photo of his niece, the young Livy. His rage burned again. He poured another drink. And then another, tossing them down his gullet like fuel. What the fuck was this country coming to?
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Hidden 6 yrs ago Post by Dinh AaronMk
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Dinh AaronMk my beloved (french coded)

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China

Guangxi

Unmarked Location


The southern office of the Qingbao Ju had a veranda. A large open paved porch with arranged tables and umbrellas. The scene looked like one from a restaurant of a cafe in the city. And very much like those, the agents and bureaucrats of the office took their lunch there in the shade and the southern sun. Above them the brutal concrete edifice and slatted windows bore over them, with only the slightest breaking for ancient flare. An arching canopy of ceramic tiles swept out over a part of the dining deck. In its shade a man and a woman tended a bar counter, serving up fresh noodles in the off-hour.

From the deck, the wild vistas of forested valleys and mountains opened up to the agents. Easily, the bland and brooding edifice of the southern office could be excused under pretenses like that to some new resort. Stripping itself down to be unnoticed, devoid of attraction itself, so that in the context and environment it itself lived in, everything else was all the more beautiful and attractive. And not to be conspicuous and low cost.

Enveloped in the distant haze the rolling green mountains of Guangxi's interior rolled on. Many of which sprouted and thrust suddenly upwards to steep and jagged granite pillars crowned with foliage of their own. The lower valleys would be often carved by shallow streams and rivulets making their out to the Xinjiang River or any of its tributaries.

Arban, and Huang Du, reacclimatizing back to their normal post sat at one of the lunch tables. Bowls of noodles and pork in front of them. Both of them solemnly ate, noiselessly as they read intelligence briefs. The normal fare, appeals to assistance from local police departments in their district, an unsolved murder or two, a rape. Or the continuing flow of refugees and migrants avoiding the spread conflict in Vietnam to the south. Ever since identifying the Filipino cargo ship headed out of the Vietnamese waters, the two agents had been sidelined from major operations. They were in waiting.

The isolation of their meal was disturbed when someone helped themselves down to a seat with them. Looking up they were startled to find the office's second in command with them. Huang Du began to stand up, until she stopped both he and Arban. “No need to start a scene, this isn't official duty.” she said.

Su Shan, a small bodied seemingly unaccustomed looking figure for the service was in her middle age. A veteran of the civil war, where it was rumored she had posed as a prostitute and house worker to gain access to Republican officers. She perpetually looked tired, the wrinkles under her eyes outlining sullen woeful bags. Her graying hair was wrapped up in a bun behind her head.

“OK then,” Huang Du said, settling back into his seat, “What's the treat for today.”

“I figured I would let you know the two of you did good work. You didn't hear from me, and you won't tell anyone else. But I got information from on high that the Central Office is looking into an expansion of the intelligence gathering mission. I don't know the hypothesis behind it, but from what we're being told they're looking to branch out into foreign offices.”

“Foreign offices then, what are they saying?” Arban asked.

Su Shan shrugged, “Singapore, Manila, Saigon, Hanoi, Hai Phong. The information you two got in the field was enough to begin the pursuit of solid leads. Which means to me that the Central Office is willing to press action into legislation, or being it before Politburo in the coming weeks. It'll probably be one or the other that'll grant the approval. I'm giving you forewarning that when the order is sent out for agents, I'm willing to put down either of you to serve in the new foreign offices and to manage the informants abroad.”

Arban and Huang Du were flabbergasted. Crossing his arms on the table, Arban leaned over, “This really hasn't been anything we've done.” he said.

“Not to the extent that we used to during the war.” Su Song said, solemnly, “But you two have been working something similar, albeit perhaps not the most discreet way. Collecting and interviewing war refugees, interrogating captives from across the border. All you will end up having to change is the willingness of your new informants is all, you'll be working from within foreign systems. Not ours.”

“This is all we need to know?” asked Huang du.

Su Song nodded, “I hope you two have a good rest of the day.” and rose, leaving as quietly as she had come.

With her gone, Arban and Huang Du were once again two. They looked over at each other. Closing their case work Du made the remark, “I suppose we should change priorities.”

“We probably should. We're going into the archives after this?” Arban asked.

“Going to have to. Learn Filipino, or Vietnamese.” Huang Du added, “Don't think you can learn a language that fast, can you?”

“Not before the next Politburo session.” Arban confirmed.

“Good, neither can I. Don't need to feel inadequate.” Huang Du commented. Arban laughed.

Shanghai


Cars rolled down the Bund, as did trolley cars. The rumble of their engines, tempered by the decades of isolation as well as decades of personal care intermingling with the soft bell chimes of clicking wheels on inlaid track and ringing from the cabin. The later afternoon sun was beginning to push and stretch the shadows of the buildings along the Bund, many of which for one reason or another had been rebuilt as they were. The Monument of the International Martyrs, a memorial erected over a monument to the men who had died in Europe; but had been destroyed in the Civil War stretched long and thin over the wide bricked pedestrian walk way and quay, out into the swirling milky waters of the Huangpu River.

Pedestrians, families and individual workers on their way home from work, or to the theater or restaurants after a day of work filled the waterfront. Competing with the sound of traffic the sounds of chatter and foot steps filled the air as gulls flew over head and the partly cloudy skies brought threats of rain and thunder. Leaning against the iron railing the man looked out over the water, gazing out over the Huangpu to the far side where warehouses and shipyards stood sleeping. Here and there the little riverside villages and communes that made up the easternmost township of Shanghai shown in the little afternoon sun, with little boats docked out front.

It was going to be a warm evening. The air was fresh with the smell and life of the river. The man leaned off of the railing and sliding his hands into his pockets began to walk slowly along the river. He was Chu Chang, a new student to the cultural scene being tenderly grown in the bossom of the new Shanghai and a student and resident of the communes across the river. There among the musician and artist collectives they dreamed of the new spirit and future of China. Across the water they looked over at the old heart of Shanghai with its heritage of colonial occupation and war, but also its rising from the ashes like a phoenix. Where some places had been reconstructed as they were, it was against a backdrop of radical re-imagining orchestrated by he and his people.

The Monument to the International Martyr, a towering pillar of humanity wrought in bright white stone and patinaed copper represented one of their first imaginings. An assembly of abstract figures, ambiguous in their depiction reaching up to support one another with sinewy arms to hold aloft a single figure clasping a flag pole, a great red flag flying out over them as large as the sky and a fiery evening sun red. It changed color throughout the day, or at least the white marble did. From orange in the morning, to a fierce red in the setting flame of the evening; to a somber gray-blue when a stormed threatened. It was muted now.

Chu Chang, a young twenty-three year old was a musician. Handsome and lean, he was a sure-win for the popular music out of Shanghai. Though early in his career, he had not nourished a popular image yet. Even though as he walked along the Bund a song came on featuring him singing, a cover of one of the old Revolutionary marching songs. Its low smooth voice wallowed out from the municipal speakers like an American styled crooner. If it ever broke out of Shanghai was up to question, but for now it brought a smile to his face, his thin lips pushed his boyish cheeks out, his chest filling with pride. He could hear and identify each of the backing vocals in this largely acapella take, Song Wu, Shi Sing-Huang, Song Cho.

Chu boarded the ferry, the terminal a small building and short dock. Accompanied by crowds of others, he packed himself inconspicuously in with gangs of farmers headed across the river, with mothers and their children, and workers on their way home. The deck echoed with excitement and calm chatter as the motor of the small ferry boat fired up and they plied their way across the wide Huangpu. Behind them the center of the city was pushed further away. Its multitudes of futuristic buildings rising out over the historic waterfront of the Bund.

The deck of the ferry boat road low, it was not a very large boat, its deck covered and dressed in a blue canopy over head. Leaning against the railing Chang could feel the cool spray of the river water against his face, smell it. He looked into the rippling waves and there broken by the water he could see him. His reflection. The narrow face, round chinned Chu Chang. His eyes, narrow set and evenly balanced. His brows smooth and thin. His face lit up in a small as he smiled down at himself and ran his fingers back through his oily black hair. He allowed himself to admire his youthfulness, his cleanliness as he crossed the river. He looked up when they were half way across and watched the warehouses and the docks of the opposite side draw nearer.

The Bund side of the river, Chang always thought was cleaner, more aesthetically appealing in its water front, with its high brick and paved river side, elevated high up over the river. In contrast, the far side was much more utilitarian, felt lower, and with the ground butting against the river with field stone and iron supports far less cosmopolitan and far more industrial and crude. The far side was a mess of wooden docks, at times seeming unused, or underused, or never used. Here and there along the Pudong Riverfront the old fishing and shipping docks of the river continued to bare the discrete signs of the war; lopsided, broken, cut short, some were still just posts in the water graying and green and covered in bird shit. During dry, hot summer periods the water was low enough that the masts or twisted bows of small boats sunk during the war emerged from the water as a hint and indication of something that had come to past, and if not lost momentarily may be gone forever.

But perhaps this is why he chose to live there, he and others like him. Functionally forced out of Shanghai proper out of concerns over space, they sat writing and painting and commuting from Pudong looking across to the Puxi, the West Bank. The fall from grace, and the loss of what future the Pudong had was long gone, but was a blank slate to the residents to decide for themselves. And, they had the far more pleasing Puxi to look at.

The ferry docked and unloaded. Stepping back onto dry land Chang turned down one of the roads and split like the crowd. On the far side the automotive traffic was far less heavy, the roads in better repair for that. A newly installed trolley cart track glistened in the sun as the distant ringing of its bell heralded its coming from around the distant bend. Milling in the road were rickshaws and bicycles. As the day grew later, so did come the farmers who came in their trucks or their animal pulled carts to bring to the river-side warehouses the groceries harvested that day, and there were wagons piled high with butcher-ready chickens, crates of eggs, and sheaves of rice.

Passed the ferry stops and the river side warehouses came the new experiment for the new Shanghai. The communes and communities of the artists who had come to put their mark on a city rebuilding itself a new after years of harsh destructive war. And for all those who came after, picking up the notoriety, and the conditions the city had built, and was still building for itself in the years growing longer after. Set off on narrow roads off the main road, the communes of the writers and the architects nestled themselves in reclaimed green spaces and gardens of young trees. Roads barely wide enough to accommodate a single car wound back and forth along, meeting the river and peeling aside again in hectic continuity. In warped plots, high rises designed by the new generation stood among their gardens, some resembling the enclosed compounds in the northern Hutong, others as open as a park.

The styles were many. There were structures built of stone, like in the old way; but their roofs bowed upwards and out so dramatically it seemed to be a cartoon. There were buildings made of glass. Others or cement and mortar, bleached white and with a lattice work of wooden beams or steel beams painted red to break the monotony. Windows were octagonal. Windows were tall. Doors were sometimes wide and opened onto covered porches were the awning swept up like a wave at sea.

The older designed compounds were easy to point out, they were either the closest to a western or Chinese tradition and as complex as they were diverse in the range of modest conservatism or absolute mechanical brutalism. But the newest had taken on a more consistent tone, as the community grew and debated among itself; it had created a new form. They called it the wind and wave.

At where the curve of the river began to steer away from the Bund and Huangpu. Staring across the river, the apartments which Chu Chang lived looked directly down Suzhou Creek and the industrial lattice work of the Waibaidu Bridge.

Standing three stories tall, the bows of the roof reaching up like the sails on a ship and its walls warped and waving, the Artist's Communal Apartments #34, or the Pearl House stood bathed in the late day sun. Its white walls turning orange by the light on the western side, and fading to a deep dark purple on the other. A garden, complete with a pond surrounded it, not large as the structure itself took up much of it, but this had been made up for. A second story patio was rich with small green shrubs and flowers, and a man standing there looked out and saw Chu Chang and he hailed him with a pleasant voice. Chu Chang returned the favor and he could hear cheers of celebration from the deck.

He came up to the front door, a red double door, set in a niche in a white turret that came off the side of the building, but did not go so high as the roof. Opening, he stepped into the relative coolness of the main landing and living space. Light poured in from the western windows high up in the turret attachment, flying down in long beams from the tall narrow windows that spiraled up the height.

The interior had a sparse, minimalist cleanliness. With the same organic curves, but with little decoration. Save for the rugs and a few couches and chairs scattered about the floor there was little in the way of overdone decoration. A man seated in a chair looked up at Chu Chang's entrance and rose, calling out, “Chin Chun!”, his courtesy name.

The man dropped a notebook on a table next to the chair as he stepped forward, “How was the city?” he asked, invitingly. He was a short man, round, and balding early.

“It was well.” Chang said matter of factly.

“The appointment went well?” the man asked.

“I did, clean bill of health.” Chang laughed, “Jiao-Long, is dinner made?”

“Yes, yes. Xiu is serving it up on the deck. She thought it was such a good day everyone deserved to eat in the open air.”

“Ah, that would explain that then.” he replied, thinking to the people that hailed him on his way in, “How is it?”

“I do not know, I didn't go to eat.” Jiang-Long admitted.

“That is absurd, even for you. How come?”

“I told myself I would hold off on anything until I finish this chapter.” Jiang-Long confessed, turning and pointing to the book on the table, “I've been having a hard time with it. And I should just get it done. No, I'll go and eat when I'm done. Just, save me some.”

“I don't know if there'll be any left, but I will try.” Chang said with a bow, walking away from his neighbor to join in with the dining.

In all, there were some thirty people sharing the apartment. Sometime more, sometime less, living as a loose family, as a tribe and village in its own right. That evening, a little over half were sharing space on the upper deck, seated at the benches stuffing plump dumplings into their mouths with their fingers, waving about skewered pieces of pork and beef, and slurping down noodles. Of them all, the oldest, the architect that designed the structure held the head of his table with his wife, the cook. They held court over a gang of budding and growing journalists, writers, chefs, writers, and painters. Visual theorists and literary engineers answering the call to realize the new world. It couldn't be said how long any of them would last here, if they would move on or return to their homes; though perhaps they might stay for the long term like Chang.

As soon as the elder head of the table noticed his arrival he stood, and beckoned him to come. He was a middle aged man with graying hair. The lines in his face could either be from the laughter and smiles of his company, or the marks of sorrow from the war. Either case, they carved and marked his face heavily and he looked like an older man. A gentle man.

He had not sat down for longer than a minute before his wife descended on Chang, eagerly putting a plate before him and piling onto it the wide array of things, rice, vegetables, meat, and dumplings. She was a few years younger than her husband, but the lines of age were just starting to be defined in her features.

“How was your appointment?” the old architect asked, Fu Huan.

“It was fine.” Chang answered, scooping up rice in his chopsticks. Huan's wife, Jia set down before him a class of wine before returning to Huan's side. “They said just to keep off of the fat and I'll be fine.” he added, half joking.

“Oh, what do they know.” Fu Jia said in a laughing shout, “I have a brother whose eaten nothing but fatty, fried pork all his life and he's healthy as an ox. You're fine, Chun dear.”

“You said to you were going to check on how the record progress is going yet. Do they have anything pressed?” asked Huan, showing a genuine interest and concern.

“I did, but they didn't come back with anything!” he declared.

“They like to drag their feet. You go back again soon and start asking questions. After all, you don't get paid until things are made. That's your labor there too.”

Mohe County


The passed few days had not been going well for Man Wu. While reports had come in the forward men had managed to make their way to the target, his mind had been daunted by thoughts of the renegade Japanese pilot, still at large in either China or Russia. While nothing definitive had come up yet, his men in the field had been reporting in just enough to keep them on the trail. The problem now though is: the trail seemed to have split. Man Wu did not know which way the Wokou pilot had gone to. He figured most of the trails were animal paths, or used by the local hunters. But one of them had to be the Wokou's.

Sitting in his tent, he leaned back in his chair. His feet resting on the table in the middle of it. It was not a small tent, neither was it very large. He had room to move, and had his numerous required instruments of command scattered around. In one corner stood a uniform on a rack, his own. And in a chest below that was his rifle, shovel, and ammunition and tools for engineering work; though it seems he did less of that these days.

Trying to force aside the doubts about the pilot, Man Wu forced his mind onto other tracks of thought. Progress on the bridge was advancing along at the expected click and clearing teams progressing through the Russian wilderness was actually ahead of schedule. If they were not ordered to break they might catch up with the survey crews between them and the advanced occupying force. On that he figured that it had been some time since they had orders, and he began to mull over if there was anything more engaging for them to do then sit and wait. But he realized he would need permission from command to issue anything that wasn't reactive at best. So he had to sit and wait. And think about the Japanese pilot.

He cursed himself that he could not capture him. It was such a fundamentally easy job. How had they not caught up with a man on foot, and possibly injured. But if the fugitive wasn't simply an air force pilot, could his elusiveness suggest he was something more than a common Japanese pilot?

He brought his feet back to the floor and leaned forward interested. Resting an elbow on the table he held his chin in his hand and stroked at the side of his chin as he meditated that. Supposing the bar of the man's skill, could he be Japanese intelligence? A spy? Did the Japanese train their men on moving with broken legs? Did they break their legs in training so they could know how it felt to move on it, march on it, crawl on in?

He realized he was going down dangerous pathways, and shook himself from it. “Fuck!” he hissed under his breath and stood up. Agitated he left the tent and went to wander about the tent. Before he could get far a junior communication's officer raced up to him. Hearing his name called Colonel Wu looked across to the pale faced young man stepping up to him.

By the hollowness of his voice he could tell something was very, very wrong. “A survey patrol was hit.” he said, forcing himself to subdue the terrified rattle in his voice.

Thoughts of the pilot at large washed out of him as he heard those words. A survey crew was hit.

“Shit, what happened. Speak!” Man Wu said forcefully as he turned on his heels and marched instinctively to the communications tent.

“I-I don't know sir. One of the other patrols stumbled upon them after they heard gun fire. The firing had stopped before they made it to relieve them, but he entire group had be eliminated.” the officer stuttered, startled.

Shit, shit, Man Wu thought to himself. He went into the tent and called out, “Is that patrol still on?” he demanded.

“Yes sir.” a radio operator reported, standing up and stepping away from his radio. Man Wu came over, and took his seat.

“This is command, come in.” he said into the handset.

“Third patrol, survey group. Reporting in.” a man said on the other end with a deeply western accent, a Uyghur perhaps.

“What's the situation in the field?” Man Wu asked.

“We heard gunfire, maybe a kilometer out, towards the direction of second patrol. We went to investigate and assist. By the time we arrived though they were all killed. We had one who was wounded sir, shot through the neck. But he died before we could administer any medical attention.”

Man Wu could feel his heart beat through his hands as his knuckles went bone white. “Any sign of the enemy combatant?” he asked.

“No, comrade. It seems they came, open fire, and left.”

Man Wu bit the inside of his lip, and for a few tense moments was coldly silent. “I want everyone to tighten in on the main group. Maintain visual contact with one another. Keep command alight to anything on going. I'll radio to base and see if aerial assets can be moved in for reconnaissance, they couldn't have gone far.”

“We copy that.” the patrol responded. By this point a flurry of copies also came in.

Siberia

Yerofeysky


Night was falling. In the sky the sparse clouds and the once clear blue was aflame with oranges and purples. But there was also a rising darkness that was coming to mute those colors. On the ground things were becoming almost as night. Flash lights from the patrols on the streets lit up the unpaved streets of the villages as groups moved about on their night patrol. For the rest, they came to the impromptu barracks in the uninhabited houses that dotted the village community. Packed in tight, soldiers sat at cots or on the ground smoking and complaining. As the night darkened the lamp and candle light of the local resident's homes went out as the soldiers lights continued to stay on passed what was reasonable to the villagers.

Tonight, Wu Hong was unlucky. Picked at random by command, he and his squad were one of the several that had to patrol and secure the streets that night. But things seemed tense. Earlier that evening word had come over the radios a survey patrol was attacked, all shot dead. There were other rumors about that night as well, and there was a sense of tension in the air that made the rifle in his hands all that more heavier. Cradling it and a flashlight he shone the light down the side of darkened houses, into stables and barns where the eyes of curious cows or cats peered bright and luminescent from within. He even shown it down along the base of the houses, underneath the raised floor boards half expecting some snarling Russian with a massive knife to be ready to pounce from the dark shadows underneath.

“I was there when we found the horse.” Keung said. The whole squad moved as a loosely packed group through the night. Flash light beams danced across the road and up into the trees or across fence lines. Flowers closed up for the night were caught in the beam and cast sharp long shadows across the ground, “We were going to go out and zero in our guns at the edge of town when we saw it.”

“I heard it was fucked up pretty bad.” Yu Huan said. Their voices were hushed as they moved along. A faint courtesy to those who were sleeping.

“Fuck, you're telling me.” Keung said, “Someone had cut its head off and set it up on a stick. I tell you, it looked like some spooky totem. And it was just there, covered in flies and watching us. The rest of the body wasn't far off.”

“And what had happened to it?”

“Well whatever happened, it was gutted open. Stunk like shit, I wanted out as soon as I saw that because of it. Shit, comrade.”

“You think it was wolves?” Yu Huan thought to ask.

“I don't think wolves would decapitate a horse and stick its head up on a pike.” Keung confided, “That's some very unwolf-like behavior.”

“Well... Bears maybe? I hear there's bears around here.”

“I don't think they do that either.”

“Some woman's cat got killed today.” Wu Hong pipped in, compelled in his anxiety to plug in, “I saw her crying in the street today. She had it out on the ground in front of her.”

“It was probably Tou-Wan Hui.” Keung said, “He likes cats. Thinks they go good with beer.”

“But, would he crush it?” Huan asked.

“Well, that might be extreme.” Keung admitted, “Usually I'd expect him to shoot it and be done with it. No need for drama.”

“How'd it look?” Cheng Bao asked.

“Bad.” was all Huan could say.

They walked on in silence for some more time. Walking a narrow foot path along the edge of the village. They would pass through some orchards and open fields were some of the cows would graze. The sun had fully set by now, and the world was dark save for the light of their flashlights. Overhead a million stars and a full moon looked down at them. The song of crickets filled the air.

Someone stepping on a stick, and the squad went tense. Stopping in their tracks they swept their guns passed the dark night. Shining their lights up to the woods at the edge of the village. The under brush and the trunks of the towering pine trees were faintly caught by the passing light. But nothing was seen. They were starting to relax when a rifle shot echoed in the darkness, heralding with it an explosion of chaos as the air was lit up with rifle fire. From somewhere in the trees an automatic weapon was being unloaded and tracers tore through the cold night air, glowing white hot as all went to hell.

Training kicked in immediately and everyone dove to the ground. Yu Huan's heart raced into his throat and he held his arms over his shoulders as stray bullets and chunks of wood were blown off of the apple tree behind him and fell in a rain against the back of his neck. The suddenness number his brain, and all he could think to do was to curl up more and more until he believed he could achieve something so infinitely small he could blink out of existence.

As bullets flew whistles blew all over the village. From Ju Gan and all over elsewhere. Cowering in the grass, Yu Huan felt a hand reach down and pull him up, and before he could register what was happening he was pulled up behind the apple tree and thrown over a fence. He had time to see the wood line erupting in a constant stream of gunfire as relentless rounds were fired into the village, without concern for who or what they might hit.

Then, as suddenly as they had begun they stopped. Huan looked up to see Sergeant Ju Gan resting his rifle on the fence, aiming up in the dark moonlight to the wood line and searching. There was a moment of long silence where even the crickets were holding their breath. Even the wind seemed to have died.

The shouts from the village itself soon however confirmed all was not dead. “What the hell was that?” Yu Huan said, out of breath. He could feel his body shake in excitement. His ears were ringing, and his face felt hot.

Ju Gan looked down at him. His face as equally blank as his. Neither of them knew what had happened.
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Hidden 6 yrs ago Post by Jestocost
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Jestocost Lord of the Instrumentality

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Бала, Якутская область, Сиби́рь
(Bala, Yakutsk Oblast, Siberia)
23:00, 12 August 1960


Despite the late hour, the sun still hung low in the sky, casting long shadows from the scattered buildings on the bank of the Sartang. Nearly all the villagers were asleep by now, but grey smoke still lazily curled skyward from a few of the chimneys. It was warm, unusually so even for this time of year, enough that the priest had opted to leave the heavy black wool cloak typical of his profession back at the chapel in Batagay. The palm-sized gold cross that hung from his neck would have to be proof enough of who he was.

He emerged from the rough track he had been following through the larch-forested mountainsides for the last week into the clearing that held the small town.

’Town’ may be too generous, he thought, pausing to take in the scenery. A few clusters of old, wooden houses with stone chimneys and opaque windows. Some shops, clustered around a larger structure in the middle of the clearing that may have once been a cultural center. Fields of indeterminate crops. A small mill on the edge of the water, wheels spinning slowly in the current. All in all, there couldn’t be more than 300 souls here. He noted with some disdain that they didn’t even have a church.

He pulled a sheet of paper out of his trouser pocket and double-checked his orders. If nothing had changed in the seven months it had been since one of his order had visited this town, the man he was looking for would be found in a one-story stone hut, about 5 miles East of the village on the other side of the Sartang. In theory, it was his duty to attend to the town’s religious needs while he was passing through, but the priest felt he had wasted enough time doing so for the dozen other hamlets he had passed through on his way here. He briefly wondered if that made him a bad clergyman, but he quickly shoved that thought down. He didn’t want to alert his target to his presence by passing through the village, he reasoned, trying to justify his decision. And besides, he could give a sermon and bless whatever the locals wanted blessed on his way out.

Satisfied that he wasn’t really shirking his duties, at least not in spirit, the priest began picking his way around the fields on the edge of the clearing, trying to avoid being spotted by anyone still awake on this side of the river. He tucked his cross into his shirt as he walked, just to be on the safe side.

About half an hour later, he came up on the bank of the river, fairly confident his presence had not been noticed. The Sartang was about 600 feet across here, and would be too deep to stand for most of the crossing, but he was a reasonably strong swimmer. Halting at the water’s edge, the priest took his pack off his back and put his cross, his orders and his bible inside. He then rolled the top back down, tied it, said a brief prayer that the waterproofing would hold, and waded in.

“Ебать меня”, he spat under his breath. The water was freezing. Nevertheless, he began his crossing, cursing all the while.

It was almost midnight when the priest trudged out of the shallows on the heavily-forested far side of the river, his swearing now interrupted by violent bursts of shivering. As soon as he reached dry ground, he sat down and started wringing the water out of his clothing. While he was dumping his waterlogged boots, the priest privately wondered who this man he’d been sent to find actually was, that it was worth making him do all this dumb shit. Eventually, he decided he was as dry as he was ever going to be, and set off again through the trees.

It took him nearly three hours to find the damn place. After stumbling through the forest blindly for an hour without any luck, he’d decided to retrace his steps back to a lake he’d seen earlier, just half a mile east of the river. Surely, he’d reasoned, this man still needs to drink, so maybe he can be found by finding his water source. He felt very clever when, lo and behold, a half-hour of searching around the edge of the lake yielded a narrow dirt track that led eastward into the forest. He quickly stopped feeling clever when the track ended at a small glade with no other path in sight and he had to go back to randomly walking through the forest at night. Eventually, though, he found the place. It was another glade, this one with a small, windowless stone hovel in the center that still emanated wisps of smoke from the chimney.

As he broke from the edge of the clearing, the priest straightened the chain from which his cross hung, and tried to smooth out the collar of his shirt. He was starting to feel uncharacteristically anxious about meeting this man, and couldn’t pin down why. He turned the thought over in his head a few times as he walked, but was as a loss when he reached the wooden door of the hut. The priest checked his appearance over one last time, took a deep breath and knocked.

A dark-spectacled hermit instantly opened the door, making the priest wonder if his arrival had somehow been anticipated. He opened his mouth to speak, but the hermit beat him to the punch.

“The Presbyter sent you?” He asked. His tone suggested he already knew the answer, but fervently hoped he was wrong.

The priest nodded. He again drew breath, but again the hermit cut him off.

“You’d better come in. We step at first light.”

The hermit turned and walked back inside, leaving the door open. The priest looked around wide-eyed for a moment, still off-guard from the exchange, before following him inside and shutting the door.

The hut was a single small, dirt-floored room. A wood-burning stove of black iron, with an American maker’s imprint sat in the back-right corner of the room, the dying embers dimly illuminating the interior. An unvarnished wooden table with a massive black leather-bound bible, with two chairs of similar make neatly pushed in, dominated the remainder of the right side of the space. Some shelves with containers of what in the faint light he could only guess were food were on the walls above it. The left half of the interior was completely bare. The priest could see no bed, couch or any other obvious place to sleep.

The dark-spectacled hermit was standing in the empty half of the room, looking expectantly at him, though the priest was unsure what he wanted from him.

“Do you have a name?” the hermit asked.

“Er, yes-“ the priest immediately cut himself off, feeling foolish for answering like that. The hermit seemed amused. He stopped for a second, composed himself, and said,

“I am Father Grigoriy Gennadiyevich Sherstov, рясофор.

“I figured as much,” the hermit said, though it wasn’t clear to Grigoriy which part he had figured.

The hermit sat down, and gestured to a spot a few feet away from him. Grigoriy noticed, then, that the hermit was sitting in the center of a rectangular depression in the dirt floor roughly the same size as him. He sat down where he’d indicated, by the long side of the depression, and waited for a few seconds, expecting the hermit to say something. When he did not, Grigoriy began smoothing out his own patch of dirt to sleep on. He considered getting his bedroll out, but something told him it would be improper.

“You may call me Kirill,” the hermit said with that same uncanny timing as Grigoriy finished his work, and took off his dark glasses for the first time. Grigoriy utterly failed to hide his shock. He had heard rumors of what those most devoted to Dawn’s light had done to become closer to God, but he’d thought it was another one of his order’s strange metaphors.

Kirill’s eyes burned in the last moments of firelight. They were gold.
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Hidden 6 yrs ago 6 yrs ago Post by Isotope
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Isotope I am Spartacus!

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Rostov


In distance, beyond the Don River and somewhere among the farms fields, the sun dipped languidly below the horizon. After bidding Nikolai farewell Pavel had stopped on the side of the crumbling road to watch its descent. It was not a decison made out of sentiment, or even exhaustion, but rather one born of anxiety towards a situation as old as man himself: coming home to the wife hours after you'd promised to. It had been a long day, but what man had that excuse ever saved? Even as he loitered in the open fields between Rostov and its airports as a result of that worry Pavel sought to purge it from his mind; after all if a sunset could not bring serenity to he, whose fears were trivial, what good was it at all?

Of course, the longer he was away the worse things would be, and as much as he didn't look forward to coming home the thought of frightening Yulia with his absence was worse. With a deep sigh he turned away from the pageant of colours dancing in the sky and began his walk, the majesty that he abandoned was one he'd never be deprived of, the same was not true of his family.

By the time he made his way into town twilight had set in with night on its heels. Candles burned in many windows, but others were dark still. Pavel often wondered if the men and women who'd lived in those homes were dead now, or if they'd made the journey to betters lands so many in Rostov had in the bad times. It was a great irony, that Russians would take refuge in places like Armenia. Pavel would have laughed at that, but the bitterness the thought brought forward overshadowed any mirth it might have provided.

Russia was a husk of its former self, and in a way he was too. He would admit it to nobody but Yulia, but before the Tsar had been butchered and his country broken Pavel had been a sociable, charismatic man. He'd attended all the parties his status permitted him to, and often ones it hadn't. He'd had more than his share of booze, women, and the high life. Now? Now he worked on old planes with a partner whose ramblings he tolerated only because they drowned out the thoughts that had haunted him for years now. He spoke as little as he could. He'd joked with Nikolai some days before that he'd have drowned himself in the river if he'd had a wife as terrible as the rusted write offs they worked on, but the truth was he'd been prepared to do that anyways. It had been having her, Yulia, that saved him from that.

Still, at times like this the memories came. The Governor had called him and his fellows heroes, the great defenders of Rostov! He knew better. In their mission to keep the animals out that was exactly what they became. When the food ran short they'd eaten their dead, when the communists had failed to break them they'd crucified a poor bolshevik no older than sixteen in the blindness of their rage. None of them had expected to escape with their lives, but then most hadn't.

Perhaps the dead were lucky, those that remained at the end had to live with what they'd done. He'd told the Presbyter, he'd done what he could to repent, but perhaps absolution wasn't on the table for those like him. He didn't know what Yulia would think if he told her what he'd done in those days, or what she'd learned from others already, but he'd long since resolved to never tell her, to let that part of his life die as he should have.

That, he had resolved long ago, was all he could really do. Regardless of his past he'd ended up with a beautiful wife, a child scarcely a year old, and going forward his only responsibility was their well being. Before he knew it he was deep into Rostov, nearing the old house he'd been awarded by the Governor. It had been a fancy thing, once. Now the once elaborate brickwork was covered in ash from the old coal furnaces that'd been restarted, it's decorative columns crumbling as their white plaster peeled off and revealed the wooden super structure below.

It was too large for him now, but perhaps one day he'd have a family large enough to fill it. After wallowing in his memories the thought brought a genuine smile to his face, perhaps life wasn't so bad. Without further adieu he ascended the houses steps and fumbled for his keys before opening the creaky old door.

It was less than a second before he heard her voice ring out from a hallway, “Is that you Pavel? Where have you been? You said you'd be back hours ago, did you run into some thugs? You know how the streets are at night!”

This, he figured, wasn't the worst thing in the world. As Yulia turned a corner and came into view he took a moment to appreciate how lucky he'd been. She was a taller woman, but in Pavel's eyes it suited her. Her hair wasn't perfectly blond, but darker yellow that contrasted well with her brown eyes and habit of wearing darker colours like the dark blue dress she wore now.

Before he had a chance to continue on that train of thought she all but ran into him, taking him up in a hug that was surprisingly forceful. There would be no fight then, just shame. She didn't cry, but as he returned the embrace he knew she would have had he been out much longer. She didn't speak, nor did he. Both understood that veteran or not, and patrols or not, the streets of Rostov were not safe at night and Pavel had taken a stupid risk without any real reason, but the deed was done and nothing had come of it but frayed nerves.

Yulia let him go and frowned, “Why must you work out there? We both know Nikolai isn't worth the grief he puts you through fixing those things.”

Pavel hung up the jacket he'd worn on his way home, taking his time in an effort to think of a reply, “We do good Yulia, better than most. The farmers thank us whenever we have a duster to sell.”

She shook her head, “You could do better without having to walk to the cities outskirts every morning! The Governor announced an effort to rebuild some of the old power stations, so we don't have to burn that wretched coal in our own homes and rely on candles like our grandparents! Why don't you sign up to do that? They'd bus you out and back, no more dangerous walks. Think of our child Pavel, what would happen to Anna if something happened to you? What would happen to me?”

There was no answer to that. Pavel didn't dislike his job, but he'd already seen men with pipes prowling the streets on his way to work. They'd left him be for now, perhaps because he struck the presence of a frightening man, but how long would that last when a crop failed and they needed money more urgently? In his heart he knew Yulia was right.

Instead of replying he simply nodded, putting a hand on Yulia's shoulder and embraced her anew, this time for the future rather than the past. Behind them the incoherent babbling of a young child half walking and half crawling towards them brought about a mutual smile.
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Hidden 6 yrs ago Post by Vilageidiotx
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Vilageidiotx Jacobin of All Trades

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Early September: Begmeder Province
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Beneath the small provincial church was another chapel, an older one, accessed by an exposed window, buried in the ground and used like a cellar. It smelled of dust and musk, overpoweringly so. Ergete found it hard to breath when it was hot. Sometimes he'd crawl out like a wolf leaving its den, tasting the fresh air on his tongue. He'd see his body, covered in earth, all the same uniform beige. This is what they'd made him into. A wild dog. A feral freedom fighter.

When the sun came up in the east, a ray of light filtered through, and he could see all but the corners of his hiding place. At other times, he might use candles, if the priest was willing to lend them. He didn't ask for them often. Somehow there was more dignity in pawing his way to the surface than in begging for scraps. Most of the time, his den was as dark as death.

But when there was light, what he saw was ancient rough-hewn brick, the bottom half blackened with soot. The priest told him it was the work of Yodit, the bandit-queen of ancient times who'd brought down holy Aksum. Of course, people loved to make claims to the country's storied history. Perhaps a shepherd's stone pen was laid by Lalibela, or a groove in the wall of a well is where Sahle Selassie sat while drawing water for his horses. One day they would remember this place as the burrow that hid Fitawrari Ergete, the warrior for liberty. They would forget about Yodit. He would forge his own legend.

He kept this faith in himself, even after the defeat of his shifta army on the Tekeze River two months earlier. Not defeat. Obliteration. He was a hunted man now. His whole movement was hunted. The Neftanya and their mercenary militias were on the warpath, hanging suspected revolutionaries.

On the night of the first of September, the priest brought him cold chicken. A treat, better than dry bread and dusty water. It was not safe for him to go out and get his own provisions. The church was on a hill overlooking a nearby rivulet, along which a small village of stone and driftwood huts stood. It was a quiet place. But even here, the Neftanya hunted.

They had not participated in the final battle. The Neftanya were settlers put on feudal tracts forfeited by the old nobility when they rebelled against the Emperor. Now they were the over-proud new nobility of Ethiopia's old country, pretending they had quashed the rebellion on their own, or that they could do such a thing. The Imperial army had won that battle. The Neftanya only followed, squeezing rents from the defeated people. He'd heard from the priest how the Neftanyna now collected their rents at gun point.

The old nobility, the Makwanent of Ethiopia's feudal past, hadn't possessed the same cruelty. They had been warriors, knights in a sense, driven by the reputation of honor. It was different with the Neftanya. They were not warriors. They wore rich clothes, collected western luxuries, and fussed over every coin or ounce of wheat. Their greed bled the north.

It would all be avenged. Ergete knew it. He ate his chicken, spiced with dust. He would rise up again. The entire province would. The Neftanya couldn't put out the fire when it raged. They wouldn't be able to snuff the embers. He would bring democracy to this place, and fair dealing.

The nights were cold. He couldn't light a fire; the smoke would draw the wrong kind of attention. He wrapped himself in old clothes. His hair grew thick and bushy. They'd done this to him. And the days went on.

There were a few who knew who he was. They were friends of both him and the priest, as well as a couple of his trusted lieutenants. They brought him news. Houses burned. Men hanged. But good news too. Villages were banding together and driving out Neftanya militias. The government was silent. So was the Mesfin in Gondar. It was a civilian war, fought by the people, ignored by the state.

It was not a surprise then, when he heard horse hoofs beating up the road to the church. He didn't consider it might be the enemy. What would that mean? They would find him, hang him. But it was not his destiny to be a martyr. What good was that? So it would be his own people. And, that early September morning, he found his faith vindicated.

He recognized the young man, but not his name. When Ergete came out of his hole, his visitor grimaced. The young man was dressed in white robes and had an Italian rifle slung over his back, and a shawl slung around his shoulders. Though his hair was bushy, he couldn't grow more than a few patches of facial hair, clinging to his cheeks like dying desert shrubs. Ergete, by comparison, was caked in filth, his hair the same color as his skin and clothes. And what did he smell like? He didn't know, having lived with the smell for so long, but he was sure it wasn't pleasant.

"Fitawrari" the man said questioningly.

"Yes, my brother." Ergete put his hand on the warrior's shoulder. He left a dusty hand-print.

The visitor took a minute, as if considering. The elderly priest tottered beneath the eave of the old church. The former's expression straightened up. "I was sent by Shaleqa Kaleyesus. He has scouted a Neftanya home, and wants your opinion. He says he thinks it is safe you come out."

"Kaleyesus. Good man!" Ergete smiled. Then he laughed, looking up at the sky, professing his joy to the maker. "He has work! Yes my brother!"

"Good. There are five of us..."

"That is enough! But I need to be ready. Go! Get me a horse! Fetch my rifle, it is hidden in the church!"

"A horse?"

"I will be fine with a draft horse. Meet me that way" he pointed, "Up stream, where the water bends around the ridge. You can find this place?"

"Yes." The young man responded. He had the air of military discipline, though he was no soldier. Like many of his age, he put on an act learned from watching the Provincial militia. They drilled in Gondar, which gave the young man away as a townsman.

They parted. Ergete walked over the ridge. He relished the feel of the sun and the wind. Alive! In the world again! His joints were stiff, and his feet ached as if he'd never used them before. These were good feelings. The feeling of life returning to his blood.

He came to the pool in the river, beneath the hill, two miles from the sight of the village. He stripped naked and walked into the water. Layers of filth came off of him, the water tickling his skin. He saw the dirt float away. It was as if he'd shed a layer of skin. He dipped his head in, running his hands through the great bush of hair surrounding his head like a mane. When he was done with this, while he was still in the water, he dragged his clothes in and gave them a similar treatment, before hanging them on a branch. It was as if freedom was won, and he'd entered the paradise of his own make. When he was done, he sat in the sand along the shore and let the sun dry every inch of him. He could not get caught. That was not his place in history now.

When the young shifta came back, bringing the second horse and his rifle, Ergete stood up and got dressed. They rode together over the hills. The feeling of the horse beneath him was like coming home.

--

They met beneath a pillar of red rock, in the shadow of its lean. There were half a dozen of them, varied in age. Four of them, including Ergete, were on horseback. He knew Shaleqa Kaleyesus; a man with volcanic brown-grey skin and a beard that pointed down across his chest like a dagger.

"This is your party, my friend?" Ergete leaned over the pommel of his saddle and smiled.

"It is hard to find men." Kaleyesus replied, stony faced.

Ergete waved. "This is enough. Do not worry." he looked out over the undulating countryside. Renewed rain brought up grass in bright green tufts across the scrubby land.

"The homestead is there, behind the second ridge. Look, where trees follow that spine of rock." Kaleyesus said, pointing south.

"Is it guarded?"

"There is a man and his son. I know them. They collect rents in my village, riding together, carrying rifles."

"They are armed." Ergete spat. "A good house can be a fortress for two men."

"I am not sure we have enough to move on it without wasting men."

"We have enough! A fortress is pregnable. But it means we must bring all our skills with us. Men, were you with me at Tekeze River?"

"Aye!" four men called out.

"Well then, we have skills. You." he pointed at the man who'd stayed quiet, "Follow these men. They will show you how to fight." he looked at them all, "We will come in from the ridge, and see what we can see. What happens next we will decide from there. Ready?"

The others said nothing, but they rode.

They moved swift enough, the horses adapted to this kind of country, moving sure-footed over the faint trails cut into the sedimentary rock. Ergete paid attention to the countryside. He saw water to slake his horses, and outcroppings where a shooter would have an advantage. He noticed the slope of the land, how the hills rose to the east and diminished to the west. The flat lands in the thin river valleys hosted the towns, and the plump land for wealthy estates. Where the hills rose in the east, there would be the small villages and lonely crags. Hiding places. Civilization grows like the grass: thick and inescapable by the rivers where the streams meet, but thin and blind in the rocky places and the highlands of the world.

Two miles on, they came across a knoll that overlooked a farm. The house was in the spindly Italian style, a quaint African colonial cottage as might be envisioned in the European mind. Two stories. A veranda. It had its own well, stables, and a set of out-buildings. A field of green wheat stretched toward the west.

The shiftas leaned into the rocks. "Look" Kaleyesus pointed, "There is one horse. They own three."

"Two are out?" Ergete asked.

"The owner and his son. That would leave their women." the man said, "His wife, and their daughter."

"Let's take them then." Ergete left his hiding place and dashed down the hill, rifle in hand, jamming the bolt forward and loading five polished bullets. The men followed, kicking rocks down the hillside. As they closed on the bottom of the valley, the Neftanyna's horse whinnied. A dog started to bark from inside a shed. Kaleyesus and his men went for cover. Ergete walked patiently toward the house. Nervous, a young shifta followed him.

A shot was fired from a second story window. It whizzed past Ergete's arm and struck a stone fence post near the stable. Ergete and his follower dove for cover. A second shot rang out. It struck the second man in the back of the neck and came out his jaw, spraying gore into the dust. The dying man couldn't speak, but made a wet babbling sound as dark blood spread out beneath him.

Ergete put the bead of his sights on that darkened window and fired a shot. "Give up! We have you outnumbered!" he yelled.

Another shot rang out from the window. Kaleyesus fired back. "It was the same window." he said, looking at Ergete. "Put hell in that window. I will go in."

Four guns fixed on window. Ergete replaced the bullet he'd spent. All at once, the four of them opened fire, pouring what was in their guns as Kaleyesus dashed for the door. He kicked it in. There was screaming. Ergete reloaded as fast as he could, but his hands were shaky, his reflexes weak from his time in hiding. Two shots were heard in the house.

"Come." Kaleyesus yelled from the window. They went in, leaving the youngest shifta at the door. They passed rooms furnished with imported items. The stairs creaked under the armed men's weight. Upstairs, a woman wailed so mournfully it made Ergete's skin crawl.

A young woman in green silk was crouched over a dead man. The man was young, his face clean-shaven and boyish, his expression in death one of wide-eyed surprise. He'd been stabbed in the chest, and the wide wound poured blood, soaking into woman's shawl.

"Get out of here. Run for the bushes! We will burn this place!" Ergete told the girl. She did not seem to hear him. "We don't want to burn you!" he said, pulling her by the shawl. She held onto the boy until her fingers, slick with blood, lost grasp of him. Her cry was like an elephant, but she said no words. Downstairs his men had already began looting.

"That was the son." Kaleyesus said, looking down at the dead man.

"I am not worried about it." Ergete replied, "Would they have ammunition? Weapons? That is the most important thing."

"This boy rode with his father when he collected rents. I saw the father strike my friend with the butt of his rifle."

"Is this the first time you've killed a man?"

"I don't know."

"This boy has killed too. Come. We have to work." Ergete rifled through a chest, finding only clothes. He didn't pay attention to Kaleyesus, but instead tore through the room like an angry baboon, turning things over, looking everywhere he could. When he found money, he took it. He found a map and took that too. The rough wood floor complained beneath his feet. He stepped in the young man's blood. It stuck to his boot, and he heard its wet slap as he went into the next room.

He found ammunition for the boy's gun, but the rounds did not work for his. Kaleyesus had the weapon, so Ergete gave him the ammo. Two of the others had found the pantry, and were throwing the food into a burlap grain sack.

A gunshot rang out, striking the door. The shifta on guard duty scurried in. "I saw four!" he said, looking spooked. The shiftas dodged for cover by the windows.

"We should tell them we have his children." the lookout whispered.

"We let the girl go, and she knows the boy is dead."

"Her brother." Kaleyesus said. His voice was calm, matter of fact.

"Come out of my house, murderers!" A man screamed from outside. Two shots range out in quick order. Ergete heard one slam against the wall, cracking the plaster.

Ergete poked an eye out to see if he could get a sight on their besiegers. "It is no good here. Kaleyesus, you guard the door with this man. The two of you, follow me." He lead them upstairs, and directed them to take the second room facing to the front. He took the room with the corpse.

There was movement behind the back wall of the stable. Human? He couldn't tell. But the walls were thin, made from poor wood, so Ergete took the shot. The enemy replied with three, and he ducked. All three came through the window. Two burst into the back wall, the third striking the open chest. The shiftas in the next window returned fire. The short outburst over, it went quiet again.

Ergete went to the back room. The window looked out to the rising hills, and the shadows of the Semien mountains beyond. He squinted, trying to see something human amidst the red rocks and green shrubs. Surely they would cover it. But...

"Hold them." he shouted into the two in the next room. He flew down the stairs and went to the back door. Kaleyesus could see him from the front room. They exchanged looks: Kaleyesus inquiring, Ergete fired by determination.

"What are you doing?" Kaleyesus mouthed.

Ergete said nothing. He kicked open the back door and pushed himself flat against the wall.

Two shots range out from the back hills. One went through the door and struck the back wall. Ergete shut the door. Now he knew. He went back up the stairs and took up his position in the room with the corpse.

The siege rolled on. As far as battles went, it was boring, but both sides seemed to hold each other in check. Ergete ordered his men to spare their ammunition for when they were certain. Outside, the Neftanyna's taunted them.

"We will hang you in the stable! You will die smelling horse dung!"

"Come out, shifta murderers. We will send you to hell!"

There had to be a way out of course, this couldn't be his fate. It couldn't be the fate of the revolution. Ergete racked his brain trying to figure it out. No fleeing out the back. Could they get to their horses? Jump out a side window? There were plenty of crags to hide them once they got to the hill, but there was a good sixty yards of open terrain there.

"Fire!"

That was Kaleyesus's voice, from downstairs. No gunshots followed.

"Fire! This house is on fire!" Kaleyesus was shouting up the stairwell this time. They were being smoked out! Ergete scrambled out of his perch. Rifles cracked outside. He was rushing down the stairs, behind two of the others. Smoke filled the bottom room.

Much of the building was wood. It would go up quick.

"We need to go out! Get the ammo! Out to the barn!" Ergete barked.

"The Barn?" one shifta questioned.

Ergete ignored him. "Once you get out, shoot in the direction you know them to be. Ready?"

He didn't wait for an answer. The smoke was growing thicker when he burst through the front door, a grey cloud billowing after them. Gunfire burst from all around. He dashed, firing his carbine without aiming, frantic, bullets whizzing. A man screamed behind him. He didn't look back. The barn door was chained, but he shot it, and rushed in. A man in blue robe stood inside, holding a pistol, startled by the new arrivals. Ergete smashed his face in with the butt of his gun, and the man went down, his nose a bloody ruin.

"We lost two men." Kaleyesus informed him. They were down to the three of them now. The man who'd came to retrieve Ergete in his church hide out was one of the slain.

There was nowhere to shoot from. Ergete pulled a curved knife from his belt and slit the throat of the enemy on the ground. They were trapped.

"Can we rush out into the hills from the back?" Ergete asked.

"That is the horse pen." Kaleyesus replied. There was blood on his clothes, and on his face. Splattered. Not his.

"That is open ground..." the third man said.

"We have to do something."

"We have them!" he heard a shout from outside.

"They will burn this place soon."

There was movement. Ergete fired wildly at the wall, screaming like a lion. He saw the flames start in the corner.

"This cannot be it!" Ergete yelled, "It cannot end here!"

The fire rose rapidly like hell had opened a gate across the wall. Smoke filled their lungs. The grey air glowed a sickly orange. Not able to think of anything else, Ergete lead them to the back. To his horror, that door was also burning. He could hear the wood crackling, sounding like gunfire. They could no longer talk. He wanted to scream, but he could hardly breath. His eyes burned, and watered. His throat felt like sandpaper.

Something huge burst through the door, roaring at them, flames jumping all around. At first, Ergete's tortured eyes thought it was an elephant. Men came out and grabbed them. This was it, they would be lynched. The elephant was an armored car, rough looking, old enough that the wheels had spokes like a wagon.

They were brought outside. The fresh air filled his lungs, and tasted pure on his tongue. He couldn't see but a blue blur through his watering eyes.

"You are with the revolutionary shiftas?"

Ergete wheezed. His reply didn't sound like anything.

"You are wanted in Gondar. The Mesfin would like to speak to you."

As his eyes cleared, he saw the blood in the dust, and the fire engulfing the two buildings. A number of uniformed men were standing about, guarding well dressed prisoners.

"They are criminals! Shiftas!" and old man in green robes roared. The soldiers ignored him, walking right past as if he didn't exist.
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Hidden 6 yrs ago Post by TheEvanCat
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TheEvanCat Your Cool Alcoholic Uncle

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Aygestan, Armenia

The office of the Aygestan Logging Company wasn’t too far from the house: a short twenty minute walk led her to the iron gates of what used to be a military warehouse. The facility was liquidated to the public alongside two of their cargo-carrying halftracks after the Artsakh War: an entrepreneur by the name of Nikol Calrissian bought them at an auction and used investment capital from Stepanakert to purchase land rights to a sizeable tract of forest outside of the village of Aygestan. He entered into some contracts to supply the Artsakh’s biggest city with lumber for its construction boom and quickly turned into the village’s largest employer aside from the brandy company. Gor worked there for a few years before the accident and was well-known amongst the company staff. Mary hoped that the boss would be in that day, not working down at the camp. She never really knew where he went most of the time. The gate was unguarded: the widow pushed the creaky iron bars open gently, slipping inside and saying hello to the pair of mechanics who were busy fixing a halftrack’s wheel.

Of the two warehouse structures inside the dull, grey concrete walls, the one closest to the road had the company office in the back. Mary navigated her way through the maze of neatly stacked logs in the open warehouse, passing by crates of industrial equipment and tools. The smell of freshly-cut wood, the musty smell of the forest, permeated the air. She pushed through towards a featureless metal door in the back with a small painted sign reading “manager.” Mary paused and steadied herself, unsure of what she was going to say. She knocked on the door. A moment passed, the sound of the metal echoing off the walls of the warehouse. Footsteps were heard inside the office, then the jiggle of the doorknob. The door swung open and a tall man with a swarthy mustache and dark eyes greeted her. “Misses Kandarian?” he said, somewhat startled. “I don’t think… well, I didn’t expect you here. How have you been?”

Mary looked Mister Calrissian up and down and bowed her head. “I know my visit is a little bit of a surprise, but I have urgent matters I want to talk about.”

Calrissian stepped aside and waved her into the office. He went to his desk and pushed aside the papers that he had been working on. The smell of smoke replaced the smell of forest, a handrolled cigarette was still burning in a blue, ceramic ashtray. Calrissian sat back down in his creaky wooden chair and folded his hands across his chest. His brow furrowed: “I hope your family is doing well. I know Gor’s accident is hard on you. Hard on anyone. But he talked about how strong and stubborn you are.”

“Mister Calrissian,” started Mary. In her mind, she didn’t want to be coddled as a widow. Widows were helpless, mourning and dejected. While she mourned and missed her husband dearly, she also had children and ageing parents to take care of. She couldn’t afford to be complacent with pity. She couldn’t afford to let people tell her about how tragic of an accident Gor suffered. She didn’t need them to tell her what a strong woman she was. She needed security, not pity. “I… I don’t want to talk about what happened. I’ve talked about it a lot, I just don’t want to relive it anymore. I just know that he died in your employment and you were the one who paid him.”

Calrissian cocked an eyebrow, leaning back. He was silent for a minute, twirling the end of his mustache in thought. Mary stared him down, resolved to be stoic in the face of his response. After a few moments that felt longer than they were, the boss answered: “When Gor died, he died. I know this is going to sound cruel but… he can’t work for me anymore. I pay for work. I can’t pay dead men. That’s just not how this works.”

“I have a family. Gor had a family,” Mary answered flatly, still staring straight ahead at the boss as he took a drag off of his cigarette. “You yourself have a family, I know. I’ve seen you at the market and at church. You have to understand. What would they do without you?”

Calrissian shrugged, running a hand through his balding hair. “I… Well, I’m not sure. But I can’t help you with this, I’m sorry. I need to pay my own workers. This is my own livelihood. I am not a charity. This company is everything. I started it myself, I manage it myself. If I paid out money to everyone who was injured I’d just be a doctor, not a logger.”

“How much money do you make?” asked Mary, a hint of frustration creeping into her otherwise calm voice. “Surely Stepanakert pays well for your lumber. Surely you can afford that nice automobile you bought. I have bills that I have to pay. My sons are too young to work!”

“What I make isn’t of concern to you, Mary,” defended Calrissian. He posture changed: he leaned forward from inviting to intimidating. “I just need you to understand that this company can’t be giving handouts. If you want handouts, there are other options. We have no insurance for you. I’m sorry. That’s just the way it is.”

“But-“ Mary started again.

“There’s nothing I can do,” repeated Calrissian sternly. He stood up from his desk and walked to open the door. He cocked his head slightly. Mary knew that she wasn’t welcome anymore. Dejected, she stood up from the chair and thanked the manager for his time. She left the warehouse and began the long walk back to her house. The sun beat down on the road but the hot air was beginning to cool: signs that autumn was not far off from the black forests of the Artsakh. Soon it would be winter: she had to have a plan before then, or else her and her family would suffer through the infamous cold snows of the mountains. On the hill back to the house, she thought of the one place left she could go. It was in town, however, some distance away. Mary decided to stop in at her neighbor’s house to ask if she could be driven into Aygestan. She met with them, her husband was called out, and they graciously offered her a ride into town. Mary soon found herself on the way to see the pastor.

Father Deradoorian’s house sat down the hill from the church, in a small neighborhood with half a dozen other similar residences not far from the town center. In typical Artsakh fashion, the rustic country house was painted a modest blue color with a wood trim along the roof, its glass windows framed in pleasant white. A sole balcony faced out to the gravel road, a freshly-cleaned carpet drying in the sun on its railing. Below that, one of the pastor’s three daughters tended to a bright flower garden, watering the vibrant summer flowers with a metal water can. Mary rode to the house in the back of her neighbor’s car, staying silent with her hands clasped in her lap while her neighbor talked with her husband in the front. She nervously smoothed out the wrinkles in her mute, dark dress, sighing deeply. The door to Father Deradoorian’s house was already open by the time the car pulled up beside the lawn, airing out the house in the summer breeze. The daughter, whose name Mary did not know, greeted the widow. “Are you looking for my father?” she asked in her singsong accent.

“Yes, please,” Mary replied, looking back to the door. “I want to talk about some things with him. Is he, perhaps, free this afternoon?”

The Deradoorian daughter put down her watering can and brushed her wavy brown hair behind her shoulder. She called out for the pastor, who appeared on the balcony of the house. “You have a visitor!” she announced cheerily. The pastor looked to Mary, offering a smile to her.

“Mary, welcome,” he said to her. “Please, come in and take a left to the sitting room. Let me get the kettle going.”

He withdrew back into his house as Mary thanked the Deradoorian daughter and climbed up the steps. She took her shoes off at the doormat and entered through the entranceway. A portrait of Jesus, sitting barefooted on a bench and holding the cross, hung above a small altar with unlit candles. Like Mary expected, the house had a somber, respectful air to it. The church was never her favorite place to be, but she respected it nonetheless. Father Deradoorian could be heard calling for his wife to make a pot of tea before he entered the room with Mary and ushered her to his sofa. Father Deradoorian took a seat beside his coffee table while Mary got comfortable. He leaned slightly towards her with a priest’s look of kind concern on his face. “What’s on your mind today, Misses Kandarian?”

Mary sighed, looking towards her lap. “It’s been a few weeks since Gor died and… well, to be straight with you, Father, we’re running out of money.”

“Who’s going to work for you?” asked Father Deradoorian. Mary looked up at him and shrugged softly.

“My sons are too young to work. My parents are too old to work. My brother in law is on the Turkish border. My own brother is with the Air Force in Nakhchivan. He barely has enough wages to support his own apartment and remissions are… I don’t want to ask for remittance.”

Father Deradoorian leaned back into his seat and sighed. “It’s embarrassing, I know. There was once a point in time where I was penniless. You know, one of those street kids in Stepanakert. Long before I was a servant of the Church like I am today, I was actually involved in all those vices that you’d associate with them. Drinking, smoking hashish, small time crimes, all that. I used to scam people out of their money with phony card games. I spent many years like that. My cousins were all fairly successful, but they left to head west where the money is. The richest one, Ivan, is still a land developer in Yerevan. He could have cut me a deal with one of his apartments if I had asked. But I was too proud to. I didn’t want to be the little kid pulled out of poverty by my cousin Ivan, something for him to show off to girls at parties to show his sweet side. I knew he’d do that: Ivan has a thing for theatrics and the temptations of the flesh.”

Mary kneaded her hands in her lap and sighed. The clock continued to tick the seconds away while she thought about her family. Gor’s family wasn’t much better: they hadn’t even reached out to her after the funeral. For all intents and purposes, she seemed alone in the little village. They had a savings, of course, but that wasn’t going to work for them for much longer. Her pride, unfortunately for her, would have to yield before her finances did. “I was turned down by the logging company,” she said. “They said they had no insurance for injury or death. What happens… well, it just happens. It’s unfair, Father.”

Father Deradoorian nodded slowly. “You know that the Church will offer alms for those in need. I suspect that’s why you’re here today.”

Mary bit her lip and mumbled an affirmative. Father Deradoorian looked out at the window. “We can provide alms for a certain period of time to cover basic necessities. Outside of that, we cannot support you forever. As generous as we would like to be in the provision of worldly things, our resources are not unlimited. There must be some other option you should consider but… for now, we can provide you with a basic allowance.”

Mary was too crushed to feel happy that she was staying afloat. Everything in her, from her upbringing to her personality, fought against others supporting her family. Even the Church’s alms were almost embarrassing to her. “I just…” she began. “I would prefer it if nobody knew about this arrangement. I don’t need anyone knowing that I am taking money.”

Father Deradoorian nodded again and said: “We can provide that. I can send one of the church assistants discreetly every few weeks with the money. They have done this before, trust me. There are many who suffer in the community: most of them do not want to be known either. Expect the first of these payments to be delivered at the end of the week. One of my assistants will be at your house.”

“Thank you, Father,” Mary replied. The pastor smiled and asked if there was anything else that Mary needed. She said no and thanked the priest again for his time. Father Deradoorian escorted Mary out of the house and towards the car waiting outside. The neighbors greeted Mary and the pastor, making small talk about the weather for a few minutes before the pastor saw her off. The car ride again was quiet, Mary staying silent in the backseat while she thought. Choking down the shame, she returned to her house where her kids were listening to the radio in the sitting room. She greeted them, but quickly returned to her room where she stripped her heavy dress and sat in her undergarments. She scratched at an itch on her neck, looking over at a photograph of her and Gor on the counter. Who would have thought that she would be here right now, living off of the Church and hoping for a better way out? Frustration washed over her and she wanted to succumb to the feelings, but ultimately she decided to take a bath instead. Those usually relaxed her.

Mary turned on the water, heated by the wood-furnace water heater outside, and slipped into her tub. The warmth washed over her as she purged the thoughts of money and loss from her mind. Inside, she felt almost weightless. She closed her eyes and thought of far off fields. Outside, the sun set over the mountains. Dusk cast long shadows from the peaks that engulfed the village, before the stars rose over. A dog barked in the distance. The chickens in their coops relaxed and stopped clucking, the mooing of the cows ceased, and the rumble of the occasional car driving through the gravel mountain roads stopped. The Artsakh went to sleep.
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Hidden 6 yrs ago Post by DELETED32084
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DELETED32084

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"Desperta Ferro!" - Part III


The sound of pistols and rifles being reloaded was easily audible over the whimpering and soft cries of the two dozen men, women, and children, who knelt at the edge of the long ditch dug into the sand by a nearby halftrack mounted backhoe that waited with running engine to fill in the long grave.

For not the first time, Sargento José Jiménez Lozano reflected on the irony of his position in life. In Spain he had been a murderer, a thief, a rapist, someone reviled and hated by his fellow countrymen. But here, in the desert, wearing the uniform of the Spanish Foreign Legion, he was encouraged to visit those same qualities upon the Muslim population and would undoubtedly receive medals for it.

He had waited, along with the rest of his unit, as a Priest had approached the townsfolk captured as they tried to flee Constantine. The city itself was low against the green coastal belt in the distance, a huge black plume of smoke boiling into the sky, the final funeral pyre for the garrison after they had chosen to blow themselves up rather than surrender.

The Priest, a young man, full of zealous energy had prayed over the townsfolk and invited them to forsake their heathen ways, to join the most Holy Church, and so save not only their souls, but their lives. Some had done so, mostly the younger ones who had been only children during the rebellion against France. The elders held their heads high and refused. The women who had refused had been raped, and now they would all be killed.

"May God have mercy on your souls." Intoned the Priest as he stepped back from those still kneeling in the sand. He made the sign of the cross above them and then turned to the officer who commanded the platoon. "I leave them to you Capitán."

The officer shrugged and drew his pistol out of its holster. He nodded to his men and then stepped forward, his pistol inches away from a young girls head when he pulled the trigger. She jerked forward and her body slithered into the ditch, her already torn robes falling from lifeless hands so that her naked body twisted and thumped into the sandy bottom. Lazano raised his own rifle and shot a middle aged man between the eyes as he turned to try and plead one final time for his life. Gunshots sounded all down the line until not a single kneeling figure remained, the trench bloody and already filling with flies.

The backhoe engine roared and the driver set to work, piling the sand on the tangled corpses, burying them in the desert forever. The Priest had come forward again and made the sign of the cross once again, intoning a final prayer before turning back to the squad of hard bitten soldiers who accompanied him. He looked about at their faces and then offered a blessing to each of them, a briefly sketched cross and absolution.

"To kill an infidel is not murder, it is the path to heaven." The Priest muttered as he passed by Lazano. The Sargento would have rolled his eyes but checked himself. This was not the time or place to get into a pissing match with the Church. He was there because he had been given the choice between the gallows or military service. He had found he had a gift for soldiering and no qualms about killing anyone he was told to, Muslim or otherwise. The Priest moved away toward his own vehicle and, freed from the need to seem pious and humble, Lazano turned to his men.

Each face could have been a mirror of his own. Wind scarred, heavily tanned, with short cropped hair, helmet straps framing brutal faces that looked out at the world with dead eyes. Each one of them had done terrible things before coming to Africa and now their country was asking them to do such things again, and paying them for it. The Rif War had made the Legions reputation, and the Algerian campaign was only affirming it. Nor were they a uniquely Spanish unit. Everyone knew that the recruiters for the Legion asked no questions and so hundreds of wanted men from across Europe, Africa, and even the Americas, had come to fight beneath a flag not their own for a country many of them would never see.

"Five minutes to get a drink, stuff some food in your gobs, and then mount up. Constantine is our next stop." He glanced at the every growing pyre of black smoke from the city. "If there is anyone left to fight." He added. Even from where they stood several kilometres away they could hear the crack of rifles, the rattle of machine guns, and the deep horrible "whoosh" that told him flame throwers were in action.

Lazano returned to his own jeep, his driver was already turning the vehicle over, and Capitán Victor Alba was sitting in the back with a map over one knee, a canteen in the other hand, which he handed over to Lazano without even looking up. The heavyset soldier took a long swig of the lukewarm water and then poured a small portion across his face. It felt good, but he knew better than to waste to much. Even with the supply lines finally caught up and the port of Oran firmly in Spanish control, one did not waste precious resources.

"Constantine?" Lazano asked as he thumped into his seat, the leather cushion barely concealing the hard steel beneath him. The windshield had been pushed down to make visibility better, the driving sand had scratched the glass so badly there was little point in using it.

"No. It's fallen. The 11th and 23rd Regiments are going to finish the mop up, and then assist the Conversion Squads in saving as many souls as they can." Alba still hadn't looked up from his map. Lazano was curious about his commanding officer. The man was younger than most of his soldiers, certainly better educated, and yet he took to the tasks they were given with a dedication that had brought admiration from the men under his command. He had never asked them to do something he would not, nor did he baulk at getting his hands dirty.

"What's left?" Lazano asked after a few moments silence. The platoon had climbed back into their jeeps and halftracks, each driver giving him the thumbs up, and the backhoe had finished its work, the bucket was secure and they had no need to remain. Only the bloodied sand at the edge of the trench betrayed what had happened here and within a day or two the desert would wipe any trace of the site out.

"Looking like Algiers." A pause. "Yea, and some of the southern regions are still holding out but I suspect that they will end up like Morocco. High Command seems to have very little interest in vast expanse of open desert unless there is oil under it. Not that I think they're wrong. Plus, most of these "insurgents" down in the south can be chopped into smaller pieces by the airforce. About time the overpaid pricks did some work."

That brought a chuckle from Lazano and the jeep driver. The airforce had been mostly consigned to bombing and scouting missions during this invasion. The Algerians might have made fine horse soldiers once upon a time but they had been wholly unprepared for modern warfare. Not a single aircraft had made it off the ground as Spanish aircraft swept in during the early hours of the morning and smashed the only airfield Algeria possessed.

The Navy was likewise resigned to blockading Algiers. A short thirty minute Naval battle had been decided with the destruction of the entire Algerian Navy and not a Spanish sailor wounded. It was a stark replay of the Spanish - American war, with the roles reversed. It was good to see that someone with gold on their shoulders had learned from history.

The radio set in the back crackled and the driver, who also doubled as the platoon radioman, quickly reached back to turn the squelch down so that the words could actually be heard.

Alba picked up his own microphone and waited a few seconds before diving into a quick conversation with the headquarters radioman. Lazano half listened as he looked about the desert. To his south lay the low line of mountains that separated the lush costal region from the harsh desert beyond. This group of refugees, trying to flee south, had been caught in one of the larger open areas of sand that still managed to make it north of the mountains. When he had first arrived in Morocco twenty years before he had hated the flat featureless terrain. As time had passed he had come to enjoy the immensity, the solitude, and the lack of cover it provided an enemy in this age of advanced aircraft.

"Si, entiendo. Fuera." Alba stuck the mic back onto its metal hook and then tapped the driver on the shoulder. "North it is, we're heading for Algiers."

The driver shifted the vehicle into gear and the big engine grumbled as it began to roll through the sand. One had to be careful in the desert, parking in the wrong type of sand might mean never getting out, or, in some cases, never finding your vehicle again. The desert, not unlike the ocean, was an unforgiving environment where the simplest of mistakes could spell certain death, or at least a slow agonizing collapse into insanity.

They skirted the edge of Constantine, waved on their way by Military Policemen who had set up checkpoints at all roadways to and from the city. Smaller fires could distinguished from the larger one at the heart of the city now and Lazano noted that several portions of the city had been hard hit by air attacks. One pillar of smoke was curling around a minaret that survived the airstrike and he knew that the airforce had been targeting mosques. The Spanish had found it a convenient way to kill huge numbers of infidels without endangering ground troops. It had been a hard lesson learned when a platoon of the 2nd Mechanized Infantry had driven up to one such building on the outskirts of Oran and demanded those inside surrender. The platoon had been overrun by Muslim fanatics. The soldiers had been dragged from their vehicles and butchered, their testicles cut off and shoved into their mouths before they were blinded and left to die. Sine that moment High Command has dispensed with any sort of negotiation and simply bombed any large concentration of persons, sex and age not withstanding.

"What is the situation in Algiers?" Lazano had turned in his seat to speak with Alba who carefully folded his map before replying.

"The city is surrounded. The Algerians have built a series of considerable defensive lines around the landward side of the city and mined the beaches. I guess they learned their lesson at Oran." Algeria's second largest city had fallen to an amphibious landing in the early days of the campaign. No landing of that size had been attempted before and it had gone brilliantly, granted with some major snags. A number of Marines had died when their landing craft, to light for the heavy swells, had overturned in twenty feet of water, and dumped them and eighty pounds of kit into the surf. All had drowned. A number of amphibious tanks had likewise turned out to be less than a success and sank while trying to reach the beach killing their crews. Hard lessons learned.

"Going to be a hard slog then?" Lazano asked, though he suspected the answer already. The Grand Viceroy was quite fond of historic buildings and orders had been given to mitigate damage to any major landmarks if possible.

"Maybe. It sounds like Command has something else up their sleeve." Alba glanced skyward for a moment as a pair of fighter bombers skimmed by overhead, their wings waggling as they went. The soldiers in the trucks behind waved back.

"Gas?" Lazano guessed. He heard rumours of it being tested on villages in the southern part of the country but all real news had been strictly controlled. Even he shuddered slightly at the thought. To die coughing up blood, coughing so hard you broke your back, and then you hemorughaed to death through your ears, nose and mouth. It sounded horrifying. He had yet to see any sort of gas used but had read enough about the Great War to know it was no pretty way to die.

"I would think so. How else do we capture a city that large without destroying it, or killing a good number of our own soldiers in the battle." Alba looked back at the following trucks and the men who swayed with its every movement. "It's a new world my friend, fought with new weapons. We shall see."
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Hidden 6 yrs ago Post by Vilageidiotx
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Vilageidiotx Jacobin of All Trades

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Early September: Djibouti, Ethiopia
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Djibouti had the reputation of a Sun City, but to Leyla it looked like an endless warehouse district. There were no flashy signs, no glamorous people or modern showcase architecture. The dull adobe buildings hardly rose above ground level. Cracked cement roads ran through the city, criss-crossing with rough dirt paths, the main courses crowded with pedestrians, slowing the trucks that belched diesel fumes into the scorching air.

The heat was intense. Leyla followed Elias off the train, feeling meek as she exited into this alien place. Sweat beaded on her forehead before they'd crossed the street. They'd dressed for this, wearing the cotton robes girded with belts, holsters openly visible. In the distance, she could see the steel pinnacles of great battleships. Elias eyed the hulking towers suspiciously as they went into an open air coffee house. Somalis and Arabs sat on benches, teeth green by chewing khat, talking loudly among themselves. They saw Leyla and Elias, but they did not seem to register them.

She heard bits of conversation. The navy had moved from Mogadishu. They would hunt pirates. There was a war in Somalia. A war? Elias ordered coffee for the both of them, and they sat down on a pillowed bench.

She tried to listen, but her attention wandered as she took in the overwhelming amount of new things. For such an uninviting city, it was surprisingly diverse. There were Ethiopians and Somalis, but also Arabs, and blacks, and whites as well. They were mixed together, unaware of the new comers as far as she could tell.

Elias handed her coffee. "Ras Hassan has declared a jihad in the name of the Somali Muslims." He kept his voice low.

"Jihad?" she knew Ras Hassan as an important noble, and she knew that he worried the Shotel.

"It was a long time coming. But why has the Bahr Negus abandoned Mogadishu and come here? That leaves Adal uncontested."

"What do you think?"

Elias shrugged. "Probably treason."

"Should we investigate it since we are here?"

"No. We have a job to do."

She remembered, but she didn't understand its importance. Djibouti was the hub of a drug trade, one that had spread throughout the rough parts of Africa. To her it seemed irrelevant.

"Where next?" she asked, sipping the bitter brew.

"Now, there is a man we need to speak to. His place of business is somewhere you will not like." Elias pulled out a pack of cigarettes: Marvolo's, with an image of the pyramids on the front. He lit one, looking toward the door.

"I will not like? What kind of place is it?"

"You will see." he said, "I want you to learn that we cannot work in places that are comfortable to us."

"I know this." Leyla replied, "I am not a little girl. I am willing to take risks."

"Good" Elias grunted, cigarette clinched between his teeth. He pulled it out and held it over an ashtray. "You are here because one gun is better than two. Do not say anything unless someone is preparing to draw on us. Do not show your feelings."

"Am I of any use to you?" she asked, holding back feeling as much as she could. She felt like she was going to burst. Sadness, angry, fear, anxiety, exhaustion. She couldn't really tell anymore.

"Yes. I told you. One gun is better than two. Now come on. Watch what I do, listen to what I say. You are in school today."

They went into the sun-tortured streets. Even palm trees wilted in the heat. The streets were loud, the throaty rumble of trucks, people shouting at each other instead of talking. Leyla tailed Elias so closely she almost stepped on his boots more than once.

"I thought this place was dangerous." she said, watching a young girl heedlessly leading a mule past a beggar as if he were a rock.

"It is." Elias replied. They walked through an alley. "But not in the middle of the day. The freight companies pay guards. They work better than the police in Addis, if we are to be honest."

She thought of the bored looking officers in their shoddy police booths back home. Here, she'd seen armed men, but she hadn't thought of them as professionals.

"If they work better during the day, why don't they work at night? Wouldn't that bring safety?"

Elias smiled back at her. "They are part of who make it dangerous. The line between private policeman and gang member is academic. The freight companies have other interests. Moving narcotics, apparently. Working with pirates. Slavery."

"Slavery?"

They were on a main street again, as busy as before. The battleships loomed closer. The sun reflected like a laser from the rising tower of the nearest. Along the street was a mixture of rough shops and long warehouses where men loaded and unloaded trucks.

Somewhere, in the distance, she thought she heard a gunshot. Nobody else reacted.

"Don't worry, I won't let you be a slave." he said, grinning as they approached a door. The outline of an ibis appeared burned into the adobe wall, as if it were branded. "Remember what I told you." he said. He opened the door, and the smell of smoke overcame her. Some of it was tobacco, but she detected smells intermingled of which she was not familiar. They went inside.

They were in a small room, a tall man with a turban and a holstered gun looking down on them. The entrance into the next room was concealed by a curtain of beads.

"Who are you?" the armed man asked. His voice was like a big drum. String music came from the other side of the beads.

"Your master knows I am here." Elias replied.

"I don't know that. Your weapons?"

"My hip feels lonely without it." Elias patted his holster. They shared a look, Elias irreverent, the guard unwavering. Elias started to undo his belt. Leyla followed his lead.

"I will take you, but you will leave the weapons." he disarmed them, slinging their belts and holsters over his shoulder before leading them through the beads, into a dark room filled with smoke. They walked toward a door on the other side of the room. A man was playing an oud in the corner. Every surface to sit was covered in sheets and pillows. Men lounged lazily, not much different than in the coffee shop, nursing hookah nozzles. Near the oud player was a stage. An olive-skinned girl walked across it...

Leyla's heart jumped in her throat. The girl was completely naked accept for silver chain she wore around her hip. Leyla had never seen another person unclothed before, aside from perhaps little children, and the sight felt invasive. The girl, looking like she was in a trance, danced slowly. She laid down on her back, hiked her... buttocks in the air, and lit a cigarette on a nearby candle. As they passed into another room, the girl began to smoke the cigarette with her...

"You are the Shotel!" she heard a shrill male voice in front of her. Her head shot forward as if she'd been caught doing something she wasn't supposed. They'd entered through another beaded door, into a smaller room. At its center was a man who could have weighed half a ton. He had a bench to himself, looking like a massive lumpy pillow in his robes.

"Relax." Elias started, "The Shotel doesn't care about what you do here. That's the business of the local courts."

"I do not think about the local courts." the big man replied with a big crocodilian grin, "But if you do not care, why are you here? You are not one of my employees. This place is for Ibis Company workers to relax."

"...and give their money back to the company." Elias said, "I'm not here to spend money. I'm here for information."

"Is the girl a trade?" the big man looked hungrily around Elias at Leyla. "I didn't think your agency employed girls."

A trade? Leyla's heart skipped. Her skin went clammy. She felt vulnerable, seeing what this place was, and for a second, her mind entertained the thought that she might have been recruited for this all along. She wanted to run.

"No trade." Elias's smiled washed away for a second, and he looked dangerous. Dangerous in a way that made her feel safe again. "Abba, this is Agent Leyla. Leyla, this is Abba al'Hadad, boss of Ibis Company."

Leyla said nothing. Abba gave her a suspicious look, before turning his attention back to Elias. "I did not expect the girl, but you know I don't give information without a fee. You have dispensation?"

Elias's grin came back. "You've worked with my kind before. Yes. You will be paid."

"Then ask your question."

"Who is the Hakim? The good doctor? We know he is involved with smuggling into Adal, and perhaps even Swahililand. We've retrieved information that he is smuggling something of interested to warlords..."

"The Hakim." Abba shuttered. "I have never met the man, but I don't like his people."

"Dangerous?"

"No." Abba said, "Unsavory. He rents our services from time to time. I only worked with him once. He hires ugly people. Victims of mutilation I think."

"Who is he using now?"

Abba smiled. "Well, this is where I need to be payed, isn't it?"

Elias pulled out an envelope. Like he were a performing magician, he showed the envelope to the fat man, then slowly drew out its contents. There was a thick stack of tan bills tied together with twine. The fat man licked his lips as if he were being presented a particularly succulent cake. "I do like fresh notes!" he said as Elias put them in his balloon fingers.

"Will that do?"

"I could keep this money and have you thrown out."

Leyla looked to Elias for a reaction, but saw nothing. "You could." he started, "But why create trouble?"

"You would be no trouble at all." that crocodilian smile was back. It might have been ear to ear if it wasn't for the man's ham-like cheeks.

"I wouldn't be." Elias replied, "But if we were to disappear, the Shotel would be back. The loss of two agents is the loss of reputation. If our people are to do their jobs, we have to keep that reputation."

"And if this city falls?" Abba leaned forward, like a fat cat sitting up.

"To Ras Hassan? Do you think that occupation by some desert nomads will stop the Shotel?"

Abba held his pose, saying nothing, staring down at the two agents as if they were ants beneath his magnifying glass. Leyla saw his body guards standing all around, and knew she and Elias couldn't take them all. Could he see her thoughts?

Then Abba al'Hadad laughed, low and hearty, sounding like a train starting off from the station. "You are right. It costs me nothing to give this information to you. They are using the docks belonging to Tall Palms. The goods come in by truck and are loaded onto trawlers. They load at midnight, Wednesdays and Fridays."

"Tonight is Wednesday." Elias said.

"It is. Like I said, you are looking for mutilated men."

"Do you know, perhaps, what boats they will use? That would save us trouble."

"No." Abba waved his hand at the big guard. "Give them their weapons back. They are not a threat. My Shotel friends, it was pleasant meeting with you. May Allah guide you."

"Yes." Elias nodded, "Allah guide you too."

--

There was, off the main road near the port, a safe house. It was a studio apartment, sparsely furnished. They ate a flavorless meal of canned lentils. The light in the room shifted as the sun went down.

Leyla missed the propaganda office. The repetitive arguments between artists and agents. The smell of coffee. Scraps of paper and ink stains showing up in places they shouldn't be. The fact she could go home, see her father, relax knowing tomorrow wouldn't bring any challenges she hadn't known before.

"How is your first day in the field?" Elias asked.

"It's a lot to take in."

"You're taking it better than I expected. I thought you might cry, when we were out of public."

She said nothing. Her eyes were heavy, her head numb from all the unprocessed thoughts. But now he said it, she was feeling the urge to cry. She fought it by saying nothing.

Sunlight came orange through the window. Elias went to it and looked out. "I'm going to scout out the building. I've waited this long because the workers will be leaving for home now, and the streets will be hectic. I'll be less conspicuous. You should clean your gun."

"I did when we were on the train."

"And we've been in this dirty fucking town since then. You need to do something."

She nodded. He went for the doorknob.

"One more thing." she said.

He turned around, looking at her inquisitively.

"Why does it matter this Doctor sells drugs? There are no laws against it."

"That doesn't matter. We are not the police."

"By why are we trailing this doctor?"

Elias dropped his hand from the door and turned to face her. "What has come to our attention isn't that this unnamed doctor is selling drugs. It's that he keeps himself secret. Okay, that's interesting, it's what made him high profile enough for us to notice. But what's more interesting is who he sells to. The Swahili communists? Okay, perhaps they are selling across the border, making extra money selling into Ostafrika. But Adal? Ras Hassan? Do you see what I mean?"

"I am not political."

"Ras Hassan has one thing on his mind. We've all known it. He's a barracks man. Money? He lives like a warrior, not a King. That he would be involved in a drug trade. Well, as far as we know, he's only worked for one thing. It is this war he has started."

"You knew he was going to start it?"

"I'm surprised you didn't know. Even as a little girl in school."

"Then why didn't you stop him?"

Elias grinned. "Politics. I need to go. Keep yourself busy with that gun, Agent Leyla." He left her.

She had more questions. Alone in this room, she said them out loud. "Why send us?" she asked the naked walls. That sentence, like the top of an iceberg, hid a more complex thought. Why risk agents on such a bland lead? Was there some great security risk in a warlord taking up an unusual hobby? And even if it meant something, something they didn't see yet, what could it possibly matter?

Flies buzzed around the open cans sitting on the counter. The fading sunlight was now a dull red, an orange went blood orange. She pulled the magazine from her gun and began. The stale masculine scent of oil grew more and more as she worked. She was certain the smell would stay with her the rest of the night.

It was dark when Elias returned. "Are you ready?" he asked.

She'd put her gun back together by then, and he'd found her nearly napping. She sat up and nodded. They went out into the night.

The air was cool now, though it still held the scents of baked earth and gasoline. It was quiet enough she could hear the ocean, the tide playing its music not far from them. But there were still other sounds, city sounds. Somewhere she heard muffled gunfire. From many directions, there were lively voices, always coming from a different alley, or an open door. An old woman sat in the dust, wrapped in her shawl like a cigar. It was cold. Leyla pulled her robe close around her.

There were still people in the road. They gathered in front of the doors of shops, absorbed in their own conversations. The battleship spires glowed bright blue from the moonlit sea.

"Food." a beggar called out. He didn't look at anybody, only the ground. Leyla gave him a wide berth. "Food." she heard him behind her.

They stuck the side of the road, beneath the shadow of the chipped buildings. Some people looked at them. Most minded their own business. They rounded a corner and saw a small crowd in front of an open door. A man was holding another against the doorway, putting a knife to his neck. Elias didn't seem to notice, or care.

They heard gunfire toward the center of town. One shot. Elias didn't seem to notice, or care.

Elias stopped in front of a long warehouse, adobe, painted white, two straight palms growing in a patch of dirt out front, next to each other like guards. A thin dirt path lead around it, creating an urban canyon through which she could see the sea. He looked down the road, then turned down the path. Leyla scrambled to keep up.

A sound reverberated, the clap of wood against wood, echoing like a gunshot. Leyla stopped, her senses increasing, like a gazelle that'd just heard a lion. Elias continued.

There were other sounds. Scraping. Maybe voices. It was hard to hear over the murmur of the sea.

Elias climbed the chain link fence dividing the access road from the property of Tall Palms. He moved slow, but the fence still jingled ever so slightly, making Leyla wince. She went over after him. She was clumsier, but she weighed less, so she got over quietly enough.

"There it is." Elias whispered, pointing out toward the burbling sea. Big floodlights bathed the crystal blue water in artificial day. There were several ships in port, but among them was a smaller thing dwarfed by the freighters flanking it. A large beat up yacht. Elias, crouching, moved closer, between the sheds and tall stacks of crates.

Leyla tugged at his robe. Her eyes were wide. "Are there guards?" she whispered.

"Patrol every hour on the hour." he whispered back, pointing to his watch. It was fifteen after. She let go, and followed him. They ducked behind a shed. Elias pulled out binoculars. Leyla saw her partners back, and heard distant voices.

He looked at her and pointed at the binoculars. She gingerly took them, and leaned forward so she could see the ship. There were people surrounding it, working, lifting boxes. She brought the binoculars to her eyes.

At first, what she saw was a blur. Elias grabbed the binoculars with one hand and pushed her head into them with the other. It came into focus. Every move she made sent her vision whirring across the zoomed distortion, but she steadied and adapted herself, finding faces.

There was something wrong with the man she saw. He wore a keffiyeh covering his face, and an eyepatch covering one eye. The rest of his skin had a sickly pallor, perhaps swollen.

She heard a scuffle behind her. Elias shouted, but the wind left him. Her head shot around to see what was happening. Big hands grabbed her. She dropped the binoculars, and found herself hoisted like a sack over the shoulder of a tall man. His body odor assaulted her nose. From between his arms, she saw Elias being picked off the ground. His gun was taken from his holster.

"Where do we go?" the man in front asked.

"The boss says give them to Abba al'Hadad."

Leyla's holster was pressed into the big man's neck. As he walked, her hand slapped against his holster.

His holster.

Her mind began to work.

"Come on little girl. Abba al'Hadad will be happy to see your pretty face."

Elias was hanging limp. It was only her now. Her hand slapped her carrier's holster. She felt for the leather flap and pulled it back as cautiously as she could. Her fingers felt the cold wooden grip.

In one quick move, she pulled it out. She felt the big man's muscles tense as he reacted to her movement. She freed the gun and shot him through the belly. Hot blood splattered her feet, and she was dropped. Before she hit the ground, she fired two more shots, both hitting the man in front of her. She didn't see him go down before she hit the ground. It knocked the air out of her with a girlish "Huff." The big man hit the ground squirming. Blood pooled on the hot cement, beneath the cold moon.

She jumped to her feet. Elias was waking on the ground.

"We need to go!" she said, not worrying about sound. She looked around, expecting to see ugly-faced brutes, monsters beneath keffiyahs. She saw the boat behind them, its men still working, indifferent to the scuffle they surely heard.

"I got the name." Elias said. He looked dazed. His eyes widened when he saw the two bodies.

"We need to go!"

Elias nodded. They jumped the fence and went back to the safe house. Nobody bothered them.
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"Desperta Ferro!" - Part IV


1,300 kilometres to the South, as the Spanish fist tightened on Algiers and the blood around a ditch south of Constantine began to vanish beneath the sand, three men in biohazard suits walked toward the Village of Chenachene. Two of them carried sub-machine guns and their bulk betrayed them to be soldiers while the third man, walking with a slight stoop in the middle, was Doctor Santiago Ramón y Caja.

Caja was not well known outside of Spain, indeed, even inside of Spain he was a virtual nobody. His career had been a normal one. A Doctorate obtained in Madrid, some time spent as the night manager of the pharmacy at the Royal Madrid Hospital where he began dabbling in experiments around chemicals, particularly gas, to dull pain. This was when he had hit his stride, quite by accident.

The three drew closer to the small crumbling cluster of buildings that marked the edge of Chenachene. The sand around them burned with the unrelenting heat of the day and the little shade offered by the central oasis and village houses looking welcoming despite the nature of their visit. Caja could feel the excitement building in his chest. The recent aerial reconnaissance had reported no signs of life. That meant none in the past forty eight hours. It was enough time.

The first building they reached was nothing more than a hut. It was empty as one of the soldiers swept his flashlight around the small space. A burnt out fire, a few pitiful possessions wrapped in sleeping mats, a neatly swept dirt floor and a pair of monitor lizards hung from the rafters. He felt a surge of disappointment he had no expected. His mind had been building for him visions of huts choked with the dead and dying.

"Doctor." One of the soldiers interrupted his thought process as he was tapped on the shoulder, eyes following the rubber clad finger that pointed at a shell casing glinting in the sand a few yards away. That might explain it, the wind had been blowing Southward so anything North of the shell would have been, in theory, unaffected.

They progressed slowly further into the tangle of houses and Caja felt a wash of relief as he saw the first body sprawled in the sand. It was a man, not more than twenty, face down, his fingers and arms out in front of him as if he had been trying to drag himself across the ground. Caja moved forward excitedly until he was stopped by one of the soldiers who pushed him back. Caja sighed to himself as the soldier nudged the body with his boot. The man was quite dead.

"I don't think he will hurt me, he’s dead. May I examine him now?" Caja said with a trace of sarcasm to the soldier, regretting it almost immediately as the mans gaze hardened behind his face shield. The two soldiers had volunteered to escort him. "I am sorry my friend. I am just very excited to see the effect! You understand of course."

"Of course." Came a terse reply as the soldier turned away to scan the village. More bodies were nearby, some clustered near another shell, others to the South as if they had been trying to run. One was a small child who had collapsed right next to the shell. Interesting. Maybe he had been the first to inhale the gas and died at once? There was no sign of her trying to crawl away.

Caja knelt to examine the first body. From behind the man appeared as though he had simply gone to sleep in the sand, not a mark could be seen on him, and other than the out stretched finger and arms, it was an almost natural pose. Caja could feel his pulse began to race. It had worked!

He carefully turned the body over to stare into the face of his first subject. The mans eyes were blood shot and wide open, staring up at nothing. His face was a mottled purple, his tongue half bitten through which had allowed blood to pool in the sand. Caja pried open the teeth to find the rest of the tongue horribly swollen and the throat itself almost completely closed off.

"It worked!" He jumped up with a shout of enthusiasm that turned to a shriek of terror as both soldier spun, weapons trained on him. For a brief moment he was certain they would shoot him, then they shook their heads and went back to scanning the village. He made a mental note to contain his enthusiasm. He took another minute to look the body over but all was as he had expected. The gas itself, he had called it Aliento de Dios, killed quite quickly. When inhaled it clung to the lung tissue, preventing it from processing oxygen.

Satisfied, he pulled a green flare from a leg pocket of his suit, aimed it skyward, and pulled the tab. There was brief hiss and then the rocket shot into the blue sky, arcing above him to drift in the sky for a moment before dropping back to earth somewhere beyond the sand dunes.

Immediately the sound of heavy engines reached him and three vehicles drew into view. One was a large ten tonne army truck, its bed crammed with more hazmat encased soldiers. Another was a command jeep with officers wearing the same garb while the third vehicle had two men in the back wearing nothing but white cotton pants, shirts, and a pair of sandals. Both were Algerians tied hand and foot, unable to move. They would be his canaries.

The vehicles stopped at the edge of the village in a cloud of sand and their occupants clambered out, the soldiers fanning out and moving through the village while the two Algerians were dragged by their arms toward Caja by a pair of soldiers. The terror in their eyes meant nothing to Caja. They were less than human, Muslims, the enemy of all Christendom. They were part of the reason he had been so enthusiastic about the project when he had been approached about it. A new Crusade. Gods work they had said. He had jumped at the chance.

"Take them into the village and tie them down. They will serve to warn us if the gas is still potent." Caja issued his orders quickly and concisely. With a few kicks, screams, and a punch or two, the men were dragged through the village centre, their eyes bulging at the dead who lay scattered about, and to the south end where heavy metal spikes were driven into the sand before they were secured to them. This would place them downwind of the original gas shells, the most lethal area of the village should any gas remain. Nobody would care if they died, but caja would certainly never live if one of the soldiers died.

The village was swept from one end to the other and the soldiers began to bring the dead back to Caja who had begun setting up a camera for photographs and a table on which he spread a number of notebooks. Other vehicles were arriving now and more soldiers spread out to create a perimeter around the village. Caja privately thought the precautions were a bit bizarre given how far they were from anywhere, but the military didn’t tell him how to make gas, so he didn’t tell them how to be soldiers.

As the dead were brought to him, about fifty-three in all, he began to photograph them and make notes. He started with the children and worked his way up to the bigger adults, carefully noting the soldiers reports on where a body had been found, in what position, and if the deceased appeared to have tried to crawl away.

An hour passed and he found he was sweating ferociously in his hazmat suit despite the tent that had now been erected over top of his work station. The soldiers had all sought the shade of buildings, or their vehicles, and we watching him from a distance. He looked at the Algerians who were trying to fight their bonds a short distance away. They were moaning in terror every time a body was carried past but Caja was quite certain they were not suffering any ill effects of the gas.

There was nothing for it. His research all said the gas only lasted twenty-four hours at the most in a dry climate like this, far less if it was rainy or damp. He shrugged, and pulled off his helmet much to the astonishment of several nearby officers who lunged toward him, stopping only when he waved them back.

The desert wind had never felt so good in his life and he took a moment to enjoy the feeling as it played across his skin. He half expected to feel his breath begin to shorten, his air ways to close, and eventually, death. But no such thing happened. This was good, it meant he had not been wrong about the life of the gas.

“I think it is quite safe to remove your own equipment gentlemen. You will recall I said it would last no more than twenty-four hours and it has been well over forty-eight now.” He said with exaggerated ease, as though he himself hadn’t been concerned moments ago about horrible death.

Following his lead, the others quickly stripped out of their hot suits and downed a considerable amount of water. One of the bound Algerians held out a pleading hand to a soldier who casually shot him in the chest rather than share a canteen with a heathen. The other man screamed and was likewise shot. No one even seemed to notice as they went about their task of arranging the dead for the photographs. Caja smiled to himself as he noticed that none of the soldier gave up their rubber gloves.

It was dark, his table illuminated with the head lights of the vehicles, when Caja was at last satisfied with their work. One male, one female, and one child had been packed into cooler like boxes and would be transported back to his lab in Morocco. There he would prepare more shells. They had to be done ever so carefully and slowly. The five shells that had been used to purify Chenachene had been almost a third of the finished product he had. The rest, he knew, were bound for Algiers and would be used once he made his report.

“I think that about does it, thank you gentlemen. You may destroy the village and we can be on our way.”

Shouted orders echoed his words and in a moment the two light tanks that had been sent along with them were racing each other through the shoddy brick town, smashing through buildings until nothing more than a few feet high remained. The remaining bodies were dumped down the well but the oasis itself, its gently burbling waters so silver beneath the rising moon, was left untouched. Even the great Spanish army might need water some day.

When the last of the vehicles had finally turned and climbed the long low dune, vanishing into the night, the cry a desert fox cut through the silence as it crept into the edge of town. It took only a few minutes to find food beneath the rubble of one of the houses, a monitor lizard, that it quickly dragged away. The desert would soon reclaim the town.

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Hidden 6 yrs ago Post by Byrd Man
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Tokyo


Metropolitan Police HQ
3:25 AM


Ito Moriko knocked on the door of the room with one knee and waited until there was no answer before she entered. Her arms were filled with stacks of files and paperwork for the special investigation squadroom. It being the mid-afternoon, the room was empty and all the detectives were out in the field ostensibly doing investigative work.

Moriko went around the room, placing the papers and files in their appropriate inboxes. All the information the detectives had requested earlier this morning was now available for them to read and interpret as they tried to solve the case. With her hands free, Moriko walked towards the chalkboard in the center of the room. Photos of the four murdered boys were taped to it. Underneath each photo was a short biography on the young men. Someone had scribbled the words "Guppy Gang?" in chalk off to the side.

The sight of the investigative work sent a pang of longing through Morkio's heart. She'd gone to university for criminology. It was an uphill battle for her to even be admitted into the course. Women very rarely were ever granted permission to study anything other than arts and teaching. But she had proven herself during the admission exams and graduated the top of her class. From there she went abroad and studied in Germany achieved a doctorate in psychology. And then returned home to find that the Metropolitan Police would never hire a woman police officer. The best she could hope for was to be a secretary.

But no more, she thought. Stepping away from the board, Moriko found Inspector Matsumoto's desk in the corner. She opened it and found copies of information about the case and victims. She quickly rolled the papers up and stuffed them down her skirt. The sounds of footsteps drew Moriko away from the desk just as Inspectors Matsumoto and Fujita came through the door. Ever the polite Japanese gentlemen, Matsumoto diverted his eyes and bowed in Moriko's presence. Fijita, however, stared straight ahead at her with a smirk.

"Good afternoon, Ito-chan," said Fujita. "How is the most beautiful secretary in the TMPD doing today?"

"Well," said Moriko, bowing slightly as her face flushed in embarrassment, her heart racing in fear. "I hope your investigation has progressed, Inspector...."

Fujita started to speak, but before he could Matsumoto cleared his throat.

"If there is nothing further, Ito-shan," said Matsumoto with a gentile smile. "You may go. I mean, unless you prefer Inspector Fujita's inane attempts at flirtation."

Moriko chuckled and quickly left the room. She could hear the two men bickering with each other as she left. She hurried down the corridor, the papers under her skirt rubbing against her thighs. When she was at the stairs she pulled them out and looked them over. The things she grabbed were primarily on the victims of the murders, the four boys who had been gunned down. The information from the detectives was thin, but that didn't matter. She had background on the victims and that was a start.

---

Siberia


Nagumo nearly vomited when he felt his shoulder popping back into its socket. Waves of pain radiated from the shoulder through the rest of his body. He screamed in pain, the scream muffled by the stick he had clamped between his jaws. Once the worse of the pain had passed, Nagumo spat the stick out and cursed before sighing and leaning back against the tree he was sitting under. The shoulder was still hurting and tender, but it felt ten times better than it had just seconds earlier.

By his own account, it had been three days since the plane crash and the escape from the Chinese. He had no idea where he exactly was, but he knew it wasn't Japanese territory. Not yet, anyway. He knew if he continued on his current course he'd find friendlies, but he had no idea how long that would take. And the gnawing in his stomach warned him that he had to find either food or Japanese soldiers soon rather than later. Finding water hadn't been a problem. This close to the Amur, creeks and springs that fed into the river were at places along his path. Food was his main concern. It was regulation for all pilots to take a day-ration of polished rice with them on any flight further than twenty miles from Urajiosutoku, but it was never enforced and nobody ever took it seriously. Now Nagumo wished he had.

He stood on unsure legs and continued his trek through the forest. The thick undergrowth and his weariness made for slow going. Nagumo swung his short sword with his right arm to cut a path through the vegetation, but hours of the repeated action was beginning to tire him. He was afraid to switch to his left arm for fear his shoulder might pop out of socket again if he pushed it too hard.

After what felt like hours he came to a clearing with a creek. He gave thanks and dropped to his knees by the water. It felt good on his dry and cracked lips. Nagumo drank quickly before stopping himself. Human impulse would be to drink as quickly as he could, but he knew that would result in him vomiting most of the water up not long after he left the clearing.

Nagumo began to raise his head up from the water when something solid pressed against the back of his neck. Words in Chinese made him freeze. He understood the word "Stop" regardless of the language. After a command in Chinese he didn't understand, the speaker switched to Russian.

"There is a gun against your neck. Do as I say: Stand and put your hands over your head and slowly turn around."

Nagumo slowly complied. He stood and put his hands behind his head before turning around. He expected to see some green Chinese private shakily holding a rifle in his hands. He surprised to actually see a big, middle-aged Russian man with a revolver in one hand, a curved sword in the other.

By the look on the Russians face, he was also surprised by Nagumo. His eyes went wide with surprise at the sight of the rising sun patch on Nagumo's left breast.

"Japanese?" asked the Russian.

"Yes," Nagumo said in his own tongue.

The Russian smiled before he struck out with the revolver. The butt of the weapon crashed on Nagumo's forehead and sent him sprawling to the ground. He started to move, but the big Russian stomped on his back and sent air rushing from his lungs.

"They're going to love you," the Russian said as he brought the butt of the gun down on the back of Nagumo's head.
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Hidden 6 yrs ago Post by Dinh AaronMk
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Dinh AaronMk my beloved (french coded)

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The enemy is at our gates. Our nation is blown asunder. The powers that be care not for us. The fight over our history, but we yet have the time to seize it. Arise, workers of the world! Bother not for the mediocrity of the present powers. Arise, people of China! Bargain not with the enemy of the people!

What use is there to ask nicely and to wash away our dreams and brighter futures in the mud of the capitalist and the imperialist? Do not ask, but demand! Rise forth, and demand too from the Party liberation and change the course of this world. You know that there is no chance elsewhere. You know there are no other options. The cornered tiger does not plead for life like a meek house cat. It lunges forth from its corner and becomes more dangerous than the hunter and his spear!

We can break the chains and shatter the swords of the old world and alight anew with our energetic hearts. Set out, let the sun rise red over the eastern horizon!
Pamplet #12
Wen Chun Ming
1933


Russia

Yerofeysky


Light had barely broke the horizon as the village's streets filled. The panic of the previous night calmed but broiled still on a low tentative simmer. Could it happen again? And when? Men with flash lights and lanterns went about inspecting the damages. No one had been injured in last night's assault. The Russians counted their blessings as they swept up the broken glass and flecks of wood. But after that episode, few had gone back to bed. The Chinese themselves were particularly tense. The episode had woken them all through the night. They all being new – save for many of the officers – felt particularly alert now that they were for sure at war. This wasn't simply a walk in the woods, this was the campaign.

Yu Huan could still feel his body hum and shiver from last night. He felt hyper-alert, awake. Outside the footsteps on gravel and sandy gravel sounded as if next to his ears. Every shift in the house as it groaned and sighed in the cool Siberian night felt like the foot steps of a dozen men through it. He believed he could even feel the scurrying of mice.

All through that night they stood watch to wait and see if they would be fired on again. But as the cold hours dwindled not a report came from the trees. But the restlessness did not cease. Even as patrols changed and he went off to bed he lay awake, staring up at the ceiling from a makeshift cot close to the floor. Sleeping in the commandeered abandoned farm house they called a barracks a soldier sat at the window smoking a cigarette. The orange star of its burning ember growing bright as the sun as he rose it to his lips and took a draw. He struggled to go to sleep, first battling with the still racing adrenaline, demanding his alertness and snapping open his eyes at every move someone took. Then the lingering fear, he would close his eyes and drift off to the nightmarish sound of a rifle shot and the whipping crack of a bullet passing by his ears.

But by morning as the village began to mill about on tip-toes, afraid of stepping on broken glass and summoning another assault Huan's real day could begin. He felt exhausted and wasted by a long night of waiting and half asleep. He had visions, day dreams as he lay half awake of a Cossack breaking through the door with a knife clenched between jagged uneven teeth. His ragged uniform caked with mud and blood. It never came, but the stillness of the night kept the tension. Morning call, the sharp piercing whistles of the officers came almost as a relief, but he felt no more rested from it.

Rising with the rest of his cadre Huan joined in with his squad and took up his rifle again and trudged out into the cool dim morning air. A faint mist enveloped the village and there was a soft dewy glisten in the grass. A clear sky overhead glowed with a still misty blue and orange light. Heavy from sleep, Huan could not help but throw a weary eye towards the edge of the village and its surrounding hills, waiting for the flash of a rifle.

None came, and they came to their appointed field. An orchard more or less, where in the long shadows of the apple trees they began gathering. Their commanding officer soon came, a tall athletic man with a trim face and all the proper cuts and dress. Huan knew him to have a cold, distant air in his gray brown eyes. But this morning he seemed to lack that. Though he pretended to act stoic and indifferent, Huan noticed just the smallest hint of the same nervousness that he felt as the commander passed.

“I don't think I need to remind you all.” the officer said as he walked into the middle of the clearing. He rested a hand on the hilt of his sword and gripped it tightly as he paced, “I think it goes without saying. Likewise, I think we all deserve to know the circumstances of what happened.

“At 22:00 hours, at the western edge of the village an unknown number of hostiles opened fire into the village. No one was injured, which has lead us to conclude that the attack was threatening, or provocative.” by 'us' Huan knew he meant the commanding corp of officers at the center of the unit, “Shang shi Ju Gan, you were front and center. What happened from your perspective?”

Evidently Huan could tell, this would be an open debriefing. The air was quiet, the unusual situation becoming real. Speaking loud Ju Gan spoke in a clear voice, “My men and I were on patrol, headed south along the west-side foot path, about ten, fifteen meters from the creek at the cross house we came under fire from an unseen force. Taking cover, several shots of retaliatory fire were exchanged. Enemy fire stopped, and not knowing where they were we held back. When zhōngwèi
Hui Shang arrived to back us up with squads in tow, we made a pursuit into the woods. Though, given how dark it was we did not stray far. We only found casings.”

“How far would you say you penetrated?”

“Perhaps five meters, six. We didn't want to lose the lights of the village or fall into a trap. Hui Shang gave us the order to withdraw and wait until morning.”

The commander nodded with a bow. This was Gan's call to relax. “The situation has changed for us. From this point I want to double the guards full time. These security patrols will be extended into the day and I'll be issuing the new schedules later this morning. What would be most important is investigating who attacked us last night and will be organizing a full reconnaissance effort to find evidence of who, and where they went. Responsibility of such will go to Hui Shang, who I've authorized to make and selections.

“I have also received a cable early last night, and this may be related to the incident up here. But on the survey route north one of the patrols were attacked. No one survived. Clearly the enemy is on to us, and I advise we all stay on our toes. The worst is yet to come.”

The officer took a brief pause as he looked out at the troops. “If no one has anything else left to say. Then we're through here.” he said. No one else spoke. “You're dismissed.”

The orchard was filled with the sound of movement as soldiers rose or leaned off of the apple trees. Boots crunched through the long grass. But Yu Huan remained, his head resting against the rough bark of the lichen-covered apple tree as he half dozed in the wet dewy grass. He heard something next to him and looked over to see Lei. He squatted on the other side of the tree, his rifle resting across his lap. Adjusting the bandoleer he wore he looked over at asked, “How are you feeling?”

He showed a genuine concern in his dark eyes. But the rest of his face was without expression. His wide broad pan face caught in a soft frown. “I don't know, Zuang Lei.” Huang said, “I didn't sleep much.”

“I understand.” Lei said.

“I kept thinking someone was going to come in and kill me. Finish whatever job they tried to start.”

Lei nodded. “Is this going to get much better?” asked Huang.

“I suppose so. You got to sleep eventually.” Lei looked back the way everyone was going, “Time to eat first.”

China

Zhongnanhai


Hou stood by the window. Looking outside as he poured a glass of water he peered through the lattice windows of the second floor. Walking across the paved courtyard outside visitors moved along, looking up at the darkened windows from where Hou stood hidden as they toured the small off shooting of the Forbidden City. Inside as outside a musty head permeated the air and every breath of air brought into his nose a smell of the dry, dusty ancient. At least looking outside at summer time Beijing Hou felt fortunate that he had ceiling fans.

Positioned above the long central table in the middle of Politburo's conference room a sequence of fans hung from the ceiling. Pushing down on the air they kept a fair deal of circulation going to keep the room feeling comfortable. With the high ceilings and curtains drawn partially over the windows the comfort was advanced further. It was hardly a cold mountain breeze, but they were not sweating. “I think we're ready, comrade.” a voice said behind Hou and he nodded.

“Should we start with reading last meeting's minutes?” Hou asked as he moved towards the table with a glass of water.

Halfhearted, the ministers at the table rose their hands and voted in to begin with a reading of the minutes from the last meeting. Motioning to a middle-aged secretary in the corner of the room Hou bid she begin reading the notes from the last convening of the Politburo.

The motion took only a minute. After the reading Hou asked from his seat, “Are there any materials we need to discuss from last week? Any developments?”

The tacit silence from the ministers confirmed as much and Hou nodded, “So moving on to the material at hand.” he sighed as he opened up a file and produced the docket for that week's session, “Our first subject is a proposal by the Qíngbào Jú who asks for permission to begin foreign operations. Comrade Dong Jiao-Long, would you mind sharing with us the details?”

A hunched over figure sat at the far side of the table, a cigarette between two long clawed fingers. With the light streaming through the crack between the curtains of the window his pale gray hair glowed with a soft light. He tapped out the cigarette on a nearby ash tray and rose, brushing his hand down his black uniform he began speaking, “Simply put, following the discovery of the Philipine based freighter sailing out of Vietnamese waters by our agents, it has been decided by myself and the deputy committee in the Qíngbào Jú that a far more robust network of foreign informants and agents is required to better inform the nation as to the activities of regional actors. While the freighter serves as evidence to us as to the involvement of the Philippines in Vietnam it does not make any assured confirmations. To the deputy committee and myself an expansion of our knowledge in foreign activities is necessary to validate our beliefs as to what is going on in Vietnam and the Philippines so we can be sure what is happening.

“To this end, we have decided that we are permitted to establish a foreign directorate in order to organize and manage foreign agents and contacts with more accuracy and efficiency. The primary objectives of the new foreign directorate will be for the cultivation of moles and informants abroad, through direct and indirect networking through proxy bodies. Through the course of which we hope to gain insights into foreign operations, regional or even global.

“Our immediate goals in the establishment of this directorate amount to two main missions: Firstly, to infiltrate the government of the Philippines so as to capture details on state memos and planning and to discover the source of the arms shipments to Vietnam, whether as sourced directly from the Philippines itself or by some foreign body. Secondly, in continued suspicion of the Waikou that we mature our observation from simply feeble attempts to observe Japanese movement at the border, or the accumulation of common knowledge rumors and hear-say into a verifiable body of information that effects Japanese national policy and military goals.

“We in the Bureau believe that the Japanese are the closest primary actor in Vietnam.

“That's all, comrade.” Jiao-Long said with a reptilian smile, and bowing.

“Correct me if I'm wrong, but I was under the assumption we already had foreign contacts?” Zhu Mang asked from across the table, “Would it be too imprudent to simply expand from there as opposed to starting from scratch.”

“Those contacts are in a different class.” Jiao-Long admitted, sitting back down, “We can hardly classify them as a formal intelligence asset. On average, they are an informal material that mostly keeps a finger on the underclass and the common citizenry of Taiwan and Japan. We can rarely glean anything from them that focuses on what the Japanese government is currently doing. But we can follow what is happening on the ground and how public opinion is moving. In so far these are only particular concerns per the Canton and Manchurian Directorates, as well as to a much more limited extent the Western Directorate. These missions are normal per regular regional operations.”

“Yes, but these operations can not be expanded?” Mang asked, “They can't directly recruit people higher up?”

“They do not have the resources.” Jiang-Long replied with a cold snap of his tongue, “The operations I am suggesting would require more intensive procedures. Most often, the directorates dealing directly with the citizenry of a neighbor are doing so as either refugees or with protected smuggling operations. These do not require any sort of masking or proxy, most often they are dealt with directly with agents whose openness depends on their attitudes. As such, they also prove a low-risk. The information is hardly high-value, and if a source disappears its not damaging to anyone but the source itself. A separate department focused to acting purely outside China would allow a concentration of resources and talent to achieve higher value objectives.”

“They Philippines, didn't they just have an election several months backed?” a minister asked. Clean shaven neck and a wiry mustache. His hair was cut short. With pudgy fingers he lifted his glasses further up his squat nose to frame his beady eyes, “I seem to recall that.”

“They did, Tsai Tang. Priscilla Aglipay-Rizal's party lost power.” Hue Yu said, speaking up as he lowered a glass of water from his lips, “Their new president, what's his name. Well I hear he's friendly to China.”

“Then it might be an option to meet him.” Tang said with a smile, “Comrade Jiao-Ling, you were saying your men might need some sort of proxy, or a cover in your Foreign Directorate?”

“I did.” the Qíngbào Jú said.

“Would this work need to be illegitimate, or legitimate?” Tang again asked.

“Either or.”

“Perhaps we can settle the Bureau's infiltration in the Philippines here and now then. I was going to bring it up here today anyways but now is as good a time as either. I propose we extend foreign relations to the Philippines and the institution of an embassy there, likewise they here. As we did with Ethiopia. The world is wide and we will need friends of some kind. And who knows, perhaps with a receptive president we can build something.”

“The Philippines is hardly a finished revolution though. I am as on edge about the principle surrounding extending relations with the Ethiopians on that. As I am about the Philippines.” Zhu Mang argued, “They're still acting on the market. It will be one bad decision from their government before the country goes bad to the dogs! We should really consider treating our relationships as a sign of approval, to build a bulwark against the bourgeoisie, not to approve supporting them or reactionary aristocrats.”

“I believe your concerns were trounced when we spoke about Ethiopia.” Tang reminded him, “Never the less, whether it is all true I would argue we set precedent and we may as well continue with it. If at the least, the Philippines like Ethiopia are a non-imperial power and may be the diplomatic groundwork for a non-imperial alliance. Or more hopefully, our guiding presence in the country will serve as a beacon to guide the people to emancipation and self rule.”

“Well spoken.” the young Hue Yu complimented.

“I agree.” Lou Shan Yuang spoke up, having found the time that week to attend.

Zhu Mang banged his hands on the table in frustration as he was slowly outmaneuvered on the subject. “So while out of place in the discussion I suppose at the least we have consensus on extending formal relations to the Philippines. But what about the Foreign Directorate?”

“From what has been said of it, I would suggest that we may expand it further.” Hue Yue jumped in, “Expanding it from the Philippines as a part of the new diplomatic mission into Ethiopia as a part of the existing diplomatic mission. There would surely be ground there. As comrade Tang said, to be a beacon for the self emancipation of its people.”

“There is ample opportunity.” Tsai Tang lit in with a smile, “In particular Swahililand.” he gave a knowing nod to Jiang-Long. For a while now Chinese assets had been sold or loaned to the Swahilis to materially strengthen them.

“We've considered this in the Bureau,” Jiang-Long said, “This will come later.”

“I want to ask as a change of subject, to Hue Yue: how is the survey I asked for.”

“I've had the department organize the survey, the matters aboard the ships are being settled and methodology is being prepared. There is nothing concrete yet. But we'll soon be on our way to measuring Chinese fishery fields. May I ask why we're doing this?” Yue asked.

“I had a personal hunch and been in contact with my brother. He's been writing back about how he has had to sail out beyond the Philippines. I'm concerned this puts our boats in danger of conflict with the Japanese. I would like in the future to organize some way we can stabilize our activity so we're not going so far.”

“That's smart, I heard piracy is an issue too in the south.” Lou Shan Yuang said simply.

“Moving further along on the docket... Shan Yuang, Ming Xing was prepared to organize extending rail service into Russia. Knowing the immediate moment is not optimal, is there anyway we can organize something in the future?”

“Rice and roads then...” Commander Shan Yuang said dryly.
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Hidden 6 yrs ago Post by Vilageidiotx
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-----------------------------------
Early September, Beijing
-----------------------------------

Yaqob woke up in a start, some sixth sense ringing in his sleep-addled brain like an alarm bell. He was cold, his skin goose pimpled, the sheets twisted around his naked figure.

Something banged against his bookshelf. He looked up. Shun, the maid, was standing there. She was looking, not at him, but in his general direction, like a shy child avoiding eye contact. She...

He pulled the sheet around himself. Several impressions muddled together. Offense. Shame. A twisting contrast of discomfort and humor on how this seemed like a situation more for Sahle than him.

"I am sorry." she bowed, blushing, looking away.

"It's fine." he said. She went back to dusting. He watched her for a second, her thick cotton dress falling around her hips. He hadn't... well, what what Sahle do in this situation? Thinking about made him more uncomfortable. Too uncomfortable.

"I need to get dressed." he said matter of factly. Was he losing his voice?

"Oh yes." she turned, looked him in the eyes,and bowed. "I am sorry. Sorry."

"It's fine." he said.

"You are a nice man." She said. An awkward silence hung between them. She bowed again, and retreated.

He untwisted from the sheets and sat there for a second. It wasn't cold anymore. He stood up, unfurling from the bed. The room was a messier than he wanted. There were books on the shelf, on his drawers, on his desk. Several sheafs of paper, some written on, lay scattered on multiple surfaces. He grabbed a stack, pretending to find a place for them, reading what he had written. Half-reading. He couldn't help but be distracted.

When he was ready and dressed, he went outside, knowing he would find Akale there.

Akale was there, drinking his coffee, standing bemused in front of a Chinese official. Yaqob thought the official younger than himself. Almost a child, dressed in a crisp new mandarin suit. He stood up straight, but his eyes were distant, uncertain.

"I am Mao Yong, the neighborhood pioneer." he introduced himself with a bow. Akale returned the bow, a friendly smirk on his face. It looked funny, the two tall Ethiopians, Akale in his embroidered robes and Yaqob in his mandarin suit, being addressed by a young man half their height.

The pioneer paused for a moment, not looking sure of himself, but he regained his composure. "I will observe this neighborhood, make sure the laws are upheld. You know the laws? They are posted in the party hall." he pointed down the hill, through the trees, at a building hidden well out of sight. "There will be no gambling, or usurious loans, or opening shops without permission of the party. Do not solicit prostitutes, or be party to arranged marriages..."

"We will be down to review the law when we have time." Akale said politely.

Yong smiled and loosened up all at once. "Yes, very good." he bowed, "I bid you a good day, sirs."

"You are doing good work." Yaqob replied. The boy beamed, and scuttled off the porch and toward the front gate. Akale stepped closer to the Prince.

"That is the beginning of a career, isn't it?"

"Is it?" Yaqob asked sincerely.

"Well, there must be a reason for it, besides his mother told him to do it. Who knows, perhaps he will be Chairman of the Communist Party someday."

"Chairman Mao."

"Yes." Akale said, chuckling. "Well, it does sound silly. But the names of these people usually sound silly. Chairman Hou does rhyme, doesn't it?"

Yaqob hadn't thought either sounded silly.

"Would you have breakfast with me?" Akale asked.

Yaqob smiled and sat down. It was a cool day, a breeze singing through the trees. The porch smelled of coffee, weakly mingled with the sweet smell of the garden.

"Is there news from home?" Yaqob asked.

"The war hasn't started yet. There's been some fighting, some deaths, but no battles. Hamere Noh Dagna has abandoned Mogadishu, but pretends it is because he has to protect Djibouti from pirates. Everybody knows that he doesn't like your brother."

"But nothing has been decided yet?"

An Ethiopian servant brought a tray of eggs and rice. Both men ate from it.

"Nothing has been decided." Akale confirmed. "But the thing is young. The Chinese haven't asked me about it yet. To them it's just a foreign thing, a crisis maybe. Of course, a war is only a crisis until enough people have got around to dying. Then it becomes a war."

Deng Zhong-shan arrived, walking onto the porch like a familiar neighbor. Yaqob hadn't expected him, but he wasn't surprised. The Chinese congressman was showing up a lot lately.

"Your majesty." he bowed, "I did not expect you out of bed so early."

"I don't believe it's that early, congressman." Yaqob said. He did not blink, or show any feeling.

"Well, it is a good morning to sleep in. Now, I hate to be a burden, but where is the toilet?"

"A servant will help you." Akale said.

"No, I can find it myself, if you would be so kind."

Akale gave him directions. Zhong-shan bowed and went inside.

Yaqob turned to Akale. "I did not know the congressman was coming." he said blandly.

Akale nodded. "Well, he and his friends are very interested in Ethiopia. He's interested in mining, maybe opening a few operations."

"How would that work? A communist peoples owning property in a state such as ours?"

Akale shrugged. "I don't know much about Marxist economic theory."

"Have you read the book I loaned you?"

"I haven't had time. I don't know that Marxist economic theory is important to what I do. If it is, the Chinese government will help me with he work."

"I feel like it is important, so that you don't mislead these people."

Akale started to speak, but the reappearance of a smiling Deng Zhong-shan took their attention. "Mind if..." he motioned to a seat. Yaqob, out of instinct, gave him a slight nod, and watched the squat older man lower himself methodically into his chair.

"I forwarded your papers to Addis Ababa." Akale said, looking over at the old man. "I am hoping to get a reply, though under the circumstances..."

"May I be the first of my countrymen to offer my sympathies. War is a bitter thing, but a civil war is especially bitter." Zhong-shan said, putting sorrow in his voice, though Yaqob took it as a meaningless nicety. It wasn't even a true nicety. Hou had personally sent a much more heart-felt sympathy letter to Yaqob. Zhong-shan was merely the first of his people to offer his sympathies in person.

"We are both a people suffering the plight of war." Akale said.

Yaqob lost interest. He watched the birds flitting in the trees. Akale and Zhong-Shan became a background noise, a hum to the tune of the bird's wings. The sun was at its apex when the Chinese congressman said farewell. Yaqob made polite gestures but said nothing.

"I will see you at the People's Hall tonight." Zhong-shan said in between bows. Yaqob smiled warmly, but he didn't know what that meant. The People's Hall? He waited until the Congressman was gone before asking Akale.

"We have been invited to a friendly dinner, and meeting of Zhong-shan's colleagues."

"In a public hall?"

"Well, this is a communist country, public halls are in the spirit of things." Akale sat down and looked down at his work. "I believe this is more formal. A meeting of like-minded colleagues."

"Oh." Yaqob replied carelessly. He went inside, the grey rooms almost cave-dark before Yaqob's eyes adjusted to the lack of sun. A meeting of men like Zhong-shan did not interest him. He wanted to see the fire of the Chinese Communist movement. The orators of the people, the street-wise prophets in an age of cement and modernity. To hear old men speak of trains instead of revolution seemed...

When he entered his room, he saw the maid Shun laying on his bed. She was naked, a sight that stole Yaqob's thoughts. Fear and lust commingled in his heart. She was all there, pale skin, hair covering her nipples, her eyes soft and glistening like drops of cool water. He didn't know what to say. He said nothing.

"Come into bed with me." she requested. She didn't sound lusty, or like any girls his brother was known to keep around him. She sounded much the same as she always did. Her voice quavered. She sounded more like she was apologizing.

"I shouldn't..." Yaqob let out. He felt like he was on auto-pilot.

She pulled herself up. Her hair fell back. Nipples like drops of chocolate. "I have been wanting you for a long time. Please. I will make you feel good."

He couldn't lie to himself. He wanted it. All of him wanted it. His restraint was melting. But there were promises he'd made to himself, ideas of the person he needed to be.

She spread her legs. He'd seen this once before. He'd restrained himself then, perhaps because the reminder of why he should do so was there with him. But he was so far away. This was a new world. It could be his world.

He undressed and joined her. In the moment, to the surprise of his ego, he did not collapse and cease to be. When they were done, the Yaqob that rose out of bed was still him. He had not become his brother.

--

"You are an amiable man." Zhong-shan, all smiles, complimented Yaqob. They rode in the congressman's car, down the lit streets of Beijing, the sun setting over the city-scape. Zhong-Shan continued. "I expected a Prince to be a difficult friend to make. The untruth in my assumptions makes me happy."

"Thank you, congressman." Yaqob said unblinkingly. In truth, the compliment strummed a wrong note in his heart.

"You will find the Financial wing of the Communist party sensible, I think." Zhong-shan said, facing Akale. "All members of the party have their place. The moving rhetoric of the old guard, and the revolutionary wing, is a great thing to take in. But it does little for your purposes. Your war will not stir up great feelings on the left, but its meaning is a nuanced thing to us Financialists. There is a reason I take you to this meeting."

"We are honored to participate." Akale said.

Yaqob turned the meaning over. Or at least he tried to. Great feelings on the left? If Zhong-shan wasn't left, what was he? He could not make the words for a coherent idea. His mind was muddy. What was the meaning of anything that had happened that day? It was so much easier in books, with the author there to guide you through it. But reality is different. Reality, in the perspective of the human creature, in the moment, is a avant garde thing. Yaqob felt like he was putting together a puzzle through a kaleidoscope. He'd experienced the truest physical pleasure of his life that day with Shun. But there was a part of him, that last scrap of toddler consciousness perhaps, the simplest part, that told him watching the birds had been the sweetest pleasure of the day. It was simple. Honest to God simple. No doubts, no fears. Just his senses and the world. He wanted that feeling to himself, isolated from all the others. But that wasn't an option.

They arrived at the Hall of the People's Fervor for the Revolution. It wasn't a large building. In a sense, it looked like a slick pagoda designed by some American modernist. It had a grey, forbidding tone too it. Street lights lit the plaza in front. In the center was a statue. Promethean workers carried a young scholar on their shoulders, the scholar serene and powerful. Yaqob knew the identity of the young scholar by instinct. It was Wen Chu Ming. The Emperors and warlords of the past had built personality cults for themselves. There was certainly a nascent personality cult for Hou in Beijing, but it was an understated thing. The personality of Wen appeared to Yaqob like a communist Jesus, a martyr of revolution. Perhaps that was wise. Hou would age, and weaken, and expose his human weaknesses. The young death of Wen made him something immortal.

There was no pomp to the occasion. They were dropped off in the plaza. The sun was nearly gone out of the west, leaving a last pink glow. The air was cool and smelled of wet stone.

The Hall of the People's Fervor for the Revolution was a building without an explicitly clear purpose. It was best described as simply... public. It was all stone, but the patterns on the stone mimicked the paneling in wooden temples. Inside smelled sweet, like flowers, but Yaqob couldn't identify where the scent came from. The floor was hard grey stone.

The two Africans stood out, and the small numbers of lingering men and women did double takes, or watched them go by. Zhong-shan smiled and greeted like it was him that fascinated them. Their footsteps, and the whispering voices, echoed throughout the cavernous entryway.

From that entryway, smaller ways split off. Little rooms branched from those like grapes off a vine. But there was one larger room, one which everything seemed to orbit. It was a kind of court room. They went inside. Yaqob could imagine a cozy opera being held here. The red flag dominated.

In the middle of the room was a long table piled with food. Zhong-shan offered to bring his guests a plate. Akale accepted. Yaqob declined. People moved mildly around the room, a sort of polite ant colony. The noise of conversation echoed off the walls and made it sound like they were in a train station. Strangely, Yaqob found the sound soothing.

They coalesced into their seats. Zhong-shan brought dumplings for Akale, and an orange for Yaqob. The Chinese congressman stood in front of them like a showman, smiling broad, greeting all comers and introducing them to the Prince and the Ambassador. It was tedious. Yaqob could barely stand it, and made no effort to memorize people. The language barrier made it worse. Yaqob was learning Chinese quickly, but he hadn't mastered the language. Now he was bombarded with a flurry of different accents and voices. Some phrases rose above the others like solid turds in a sewage pond.

"I welcome the people of Africa."

"These are the men?"

"I hope your country knows peace again."

It was all simple. All pointless. Niceties for their own sake. Yaqob powered through. He thought of the birds.

The meeting was called to order. Zhong-shan reluctantly got back to his seat. A man in the center row stood up and addressed the room. The acoustics were excellent. His voice boomed.

"We are here to discuss the modernization of the armament carried by our reserves. This question is coming before congress. We represent the most knowledgeable in our field..."

The hall echoed. Yaqob stared across at the old men on the other side. He felt a feeling like bland despair. There was no great depth to the feeling. He was like a man, born on a featureless prairie, coming to terms that all he would ever know was that prairie. This was exactly where he belonged at the moment, but the fact he belonged there rattled his nerves. If heaven was the birds, that simple uninterrupted pleasure, then hell was this feeling, being here in this room, looking across at the old men on the other side and wondering if they had souls.

He had to do something.

When?

What was he supposed to do?

This. But...

"This is where I come in." Zhong-shan said proudly in an aside to Akale and Yaqob. Several speakers had cycled through their speeches by now. Zhong-shan stood up.

"The question of rearmament is inevitable, and the question that it will be paid for is irrelevant. What we should think about is how to weaken the blow. With the great machinery of the people eating into the resources of the country, the most likely way to reimburse our great society is for the outdated armaments to be given a final use! Our new friend in Africa is engaged in war. The Ethiopian state fights with weapons left over from the Great War. They have a need for our old arms, and would repay us. I move we debate and come to an agreement on this. Are there objections to this course of action?"

Yaqob listened, not because of any oratorical power of Zhong-shan's, but because the war in his home country disturbed him, and by disturbing him it interested him.

"There is an obvious objection." A man across the room stood up, and was quickly recognized by the floor so he could continue. "It is a matter of optics. How will it appear if we support a monarch to crush his enemies? You might call this mutual aid, or a bargain deal. And if we only considered the financial consequences, perhaps it would be a bargain deal. But the people will look on us poorly for this, and the left will use it like a spear to pierce our reputations."

"Is reputation the only thing that matters to you?" Zhong-shan replied, his voice confident and accusing as he pointed at his opponent. "What kind of political creature is this? Is this ambition? It cannot be public service!"

Akale licked his lips. Yaqob was surprised to see the Ambassador invested in the argument. What were a few old guns? Those words, What kind of political creature is this?, rung in his mind like a eulogy.

They did not reach the decision before the end of the meeting.

It let out, not with a bang, but with a whimper. Whatever Zhong-shan expected had not come to pass. He ordered his driver to bring the Ethiopians back to the embassy while he stayed behind.

Perhaps it was the night, the ghostly glow of street lights showing a quiet city like the skeletal corpse of the bustling urban day. Perhaps it was all that had happened, all that had confused him. Whatever it was, Yaqob felt a deep melancholy. He was like child away from his home. When he thought about it, he realized that was exactly what he was, and the melancholy sunk deeper.

"He's talking about rearming us completely." Akale said. His eyes were wide and concentrated as if he were reading an especially exciting book. "It would be. That would be the greatest diplomatic victory. We should pursue it."

Yaqob said nothing.

"Hou. Would Hou accept it? He met you. He likes you I think..." Akale was rambling.

Yaqob didn't pay attention. It was one ear and out the other. He laid his head back, closed his eyes, and embraced the end of the day like it was his savior.
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Hidden 6 yrs ago 6 yrs ago Post by TheEvanCat
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Hrazdan, Armenia

Jon’s go-to bar was stood up a few blocks away from the school’s student apartments, at the bottom floor of a five-story building with a newspaper printing office right above it. In a row of several bars capped off by a corner store, the Hollywood Hayeren stood out with its obnoxious red, white, and blue neon lighting and an American flag hanging in the window next to an Armenian one. In English, American beer brands like Budweiser and Miller were proudly advertised: “The only place in town for imported American beers!” exclaimed the chalk sign on the sidewalk outside. Inside was dimly lit in red, a speaker playing jazz recordings, and Americana plastered on the walls. A surfboard, a stolen spade-shaped California State Route 110 road sign, and framed photographs of Los Angeles landmarks like the Hollywood sign and the skyline all covered the worn wooden panels. The bar was steel, fashioned almost like a diner’s, with round swiveling stools bolted next to it. Cigarette smoke wafted across the ceiling. The bartender, Mike Sinanian, polished off a glass as Jon came through the door.

“And make sure you close leave that open a little bit, yeah?” asked Mike. Jon stopped to kick the doorstop in, allowing some of the smoke to funnel its way out of the door. “I’m not trying to choke to death in my own bar tonight.”

Jon removed his suitcoat and hung it up on the coatrack next to the door. He loosened his tie, removed it, and threw it haphazardly onto the same rack. Unbuttoning his collar and pushing his sleeves up, he sat down at the counter. Mike slid him a coaster and an ashtray as Jon took a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. “You got any of those American ones from your guy back home? You know, the ones with the Mexican sounding name and the cowboys?” Jon asked. “Always wondered what those were like.”

“Marlboros?” replied Mike. He chuckled a bit. “Haven’t been able to get any. I’m already struggling to talk to my guy in LA enough as is. Ordered a bit more of my stock just in case. The only reason I get business is curiosity. People wonder what the Amerikahayer live like. You know, LA is pretty busy nowadays. Things are back to normal, I suppose, after the war but it’s getting bigger and better there and he’s forgetting about little old me.”

Without asking, Mike filled a glass of Budweiser from his tap and placed it on top. Like a routine, Jon placed twenty dram in a neat stack in front of him. The beer, light and refreshing, hit his lips and he drank it down like the water it basically was. Jon checked his watch. “We’ve been getting busy at work trying to rush orders for the Amrots landships ever since Parliament started debating the president’s new war plans. There are a few Reserve battalions we are ready to equip with the damn things. I’ve heard they’re not trying to pull the inactive men, though. Thank God.”

“Everyone’s in the Reserve,” Mike reminded him. And he was right: all Armenian men were, on a macro level, organized into five distinct readiness classes of personnel. Status A troops were the volunteer, elite, frontline units given the best training and equipment: they worked the front with new equipment like automatic assault rifles. Status B troops were the rank-and-file members of the Army or Border Service, often conscripts, and were by far the most common sight to see. Jon and Mike belonged to the Status G reservists, serving their mandatory National Service term as a civilian with annual trainings and the occasional set of orders through the mailbox. Status D men were organized loosely into local Fedayeen militias, armed often only with bolt action rifles and an armband to indicate their status as a combatant. The rest belonged to Status F: special forces, irregular combatants, and secret programs that were well out of most of the country’s sight. Mike smiled and chuckled: “That’s a disruption. Shit, what would you do if I got called up and had to shutter the bar for a while?” he asked.

“Well if the Hollywood closed down I’d just take my business elsewhere. Tsaghkadzor pays well for a summer work exposure job.”

“I’m sure it does. Government contracts are very lucrative nowadays,” Mike agreed. He rested his arms down onto the table and adjusted the large, black-rimmed glasses he wore. “You’d think the state would just take control of everything at this point.”

“But then where would the money go?” joked Jon. He took another sip of his beer: “I’m already paying enough in taxes. They take so much of my money already. They tax shit and make it more expensive. My boss is already grumbling about the new fuel tax increase, since it’s getting more expensive to run the tanks through the proving ground. But at least this new guy doesn’t want to like, pay to resettle the Russians… Can you imagine? They’ve already crowded themselves into shitty parts of town. Where was Vadratian going to put them? Camps or some shit? Let ‘em live in their crappy apartments and shoot each other, they’re not shooting me or setting my corner store on fire, so I’ll live with that.”

“But hey, at least rent would be cheaper,” admitted Mike. “That is, if you want to move into the ghettoes. Gyumri used to be way more expensive until the Russians moved in. Which I suppose is a blessing if you just stay out of the east.”

“Last I heard through the rumor mill from one of the tank crews was that the police just found a deserter who stole a ton of guns and gave them to the Mafiya. Another one tried to make a run for Georgia and was arrested by the Border Service.”

“Jesus Christ,” Mike exclaimed. “That’s some Wild West shit if I’ve ever heard it,” he said, even if Jon only vaguely caught his reference to the film genre.

“A bunch of Russians on meth with submachineguns,” commented the student with a knowing nod. “Can you imagine? Shooting a guy four times and he’s still coming at you?”

He finished off his beer, downing it until only a light ring of foam was left at the bottom of the glass. He pushed the coaster and glass to the other side of the bar, which Mike took to the tap. He pulled back on the lever with an ornately advertised red Budweiser logo: only a touch of liquid dribbled its way out of the head. The bartender kicked the keg down below the bar like it would help, but was unsuccessful. He shrugged and turned to his patron: “Want to come to the cellar and help me get another keg up here? It’s a pain in the ass doing it myself.”

Jon agreed, sliding off the stool to follow the bartender around the bar and through a metal door that sat inconspicuously in the corner. Above it, a yellow metal sign featured a white circle with a falling bomb and “shelter” in big capital letters. Most buildings in the country, especially newer ones, were mandated to have a bomb shelter of a certain capacity: one family’s size for your own home, enough for your tenants in an apartment building, or a sizeable one enough for your patrons in an establishment. Ostensibly, they were supposed to be stocked and ready to use at all times, but most people were using them for storage in the absence of a credible threat. Mike had been keeping the spare spirits in his shelter so that he could free up the actual storage room for more seating. The pair descended the creaking wooden stairs, lit dimly by a single lightbulb, and entered through another door. Metal shelves of bottles, boxes, and kegs lined the shelter along with other acquired junk that the bartender owned. Mike and Jon found a keg of the beer and hoisted it up, climbing the stairs again.

The hoses connected and the tap working as intended, Mike poured the first glass of mostly foam out into the sink before offering Jon another beer. He poured himself another glass, claiming that he was thirsty as well, and toasted it with the student. They sipped on the cold brew together, listening to the jazz, as the door creaked open again. A young woman, probably no older than her early twenties, stepped through the door. The first thing Jon noticed was her hair, obviously dyed a light blonde, clashing with her olive brown skin. On her face, a crooked sloped nose betrayed her Persian ethnicity. A Muslim woman drinking in a bar? But Jon was familiar enough with the Persian culture to know that many of them, particularly city-folk, were not avid Muslims. Tehran had wild underground parties, speakeasies where the liquor flowed, and even red light districts tucked away in various alleys and backstreets. A woman with, of all things, dyed hair was definitely not from the countryside. She sat down at one of the seats on the far end of the bar while Mike and Jon exchanged looks.

“Welcome, miss… Have you been here before?” Mike asked gently as he went over to her side. He stayed standing straight with his arms crossed, careful not to get too close. She looked at him curiously.

“Eh, no,” she said in her soft, girlish Tehrani accent, pausing between words as she searched for the right one. “But I have just moved in the next block over. Can I get one of whatever is cheap?”

The bartender quickly passed her a beer, accepting her cash. She grabbed the glass gingerly with both hands and sipped it from the foam: she looked slightly offended by the taste. Jon observed this and smirked a little into his drink, turning his head to try and hide it. The woman shook her head and asked in disbelief: “How can you drink this? Is this American?”

“Well, yes… but it’s an acquired taste,” Jon answered, looking over her perplexed face. In his best Persian, he tried to ask her about what she usually drank: “Dar Iran, chetor mahmuli shoma mi nushid?

The woman’s eyes shot from her drink to Jon as she smiled broadly. “Farsi sohbat mi koni? Che ali!” she answered rapidly. “Hijkes tu Armanistan zibaan-am nadonan!

Jon shook his head and smiled at Mike, who just crossed his arms. “I don’t know that much,” Jon admitted. “See, I just study it at university. Hrazdan Industrial University. Esm-e shoma chi eh?” he added, asking her name. The girl laughed at his accent.

Farah Kalantari!” she answered excitedly, leaning in closer to Jon. “I am also here at that school for this next term. See, I am one of the first women to study management in Persia. Armenia has a… a… a good reputation for factories! Very efficient, very modern. Like Europe!”

“We learned a lot from the Europeans who came here. We have lots of Armenians in those countries who brought their skills home after the war,” Jon explained, running his hands through his hair. “I’m glad that my school is very famous. It even draws fine women now, plenty like you. My name is Jon, by the way. Korkarian.”

The night went on in the bar as the two students introduced themselves and talked. Drinks were filled and emptied, Mike filling the glasses from his tap until he was ready to close them out. The youths remained the only people in the bar until the lights started to turn off and the record was removed from its needle. Curtains were closed, windows were locked, and Mike had to let them loose on the streets of Hrazdan as the clock struck ten. He thanked them for their business and let them know he was excited to see them whenever they came back. Jon and Farah decided to walk home together to her apartment, crossing the main street by the entrance to the bar’s alley and continuing down a row of identical concrete apartment buildings. Illuminated by the yellow streetlamps, Farah led Jon to the entrance of her building. “I can go home from here,” she said with a smile. In a hopeful tone, she asked: “You said you come there all the time, yes?”

The student put his hands in his pocket: “Of course. I love Mike, he’s my friend. The bar is a good place in town. I’ll see you there sometime soon, right?”

“Of course! Have a good night, Jon.” Farah bounded off to unlock the creaky wooden door of her building and slip inside. Jon turned away, casting one last glance at the address of her building and heading off down the street, alcohol buzzing through his veins and making his feet feel almost like they had weights in them. Luckily, he wasn’t too drunk: he could manage. His apartment was in the complete opposite direction, a few blocks down past the Hollywood. He didn’t mind the walk, the streets of Hrazdan were peaceful after dark. The industrial town operated almost like a factory itself: aside from the obvious like firemen or policemen, nobody was out after nightfall. They all needed their sleep for their job. Jon didn’t even see a stray animal on his way back to the student apartments. He climbed the stairs up to his floor and opened the door quietly so as to not disturb his roommate. They both had work in the morning as well: Jon went right to sleep.

Sochi, Kuban Unorganized Territories

Their seaplane wobbled its wings as it hit a patch of turbulence. Its ungainly body, shaped more like a hull than anything else, shook slightly. The strong propellers cut through the air. It flew in the darkness of night, skimming the water and dipping up to head through a valley once it reached the shore. A red light illuminated the cabin, in which a crew chief looked out through a window. He scanned the dark forests below, looking for his target. The plane passed over what looked to be a large swatch of farmland just on the outskirts of the city, right behind a mountain range. He turned his head to the two figures sitting in the cabin, burdened by green parachute packs and rucksacks. He raised his arms in a “get up” motion, ordering them to clip into a steel wire hanging above the seats. Wordlessly, the yellow static lines were clipped in and the jumpers stood up with their equipment. The crew chief opened up the door, letting the wind whistle through the cabin. He looked out one last time and shouted: “Go!”

Natalia Dadeshvili was the first out the door, snapping straight into a streamlined jump posture as the wind took her and she trailed out behind the aircraft. Her stomach shot straight into her throat and she was terrified before every jump, but the adrenaline kept her fear of heights at bay. In her head, the only thing she could do was count to five. At five seconds, she felt the violent shock of a successful parachute deployment and her free-fall came to an end. The woman looked up at the round nylon canvas now sprawled out against the dark blue sky and checked on her partner: Anton Kapanian. He was falling just behind her, but at a stable speed. Relieved, she checked on the plane as it began to bank away. The pilot waggled his wings at the jumpers before tearing off back to the coast. Natalia pulled on her risers to steer into the center of a field, trying to avoid landing in the nearby vineyards or orchards. Spotting a convenient landing place, she tucked her feet together and prepared for impact.

The ground met her at substantial speed. She impacted with the balls of her feet and fell immediately onto her side. Feet, calves, thigh, hip, and back. Her hands were tucked into her face to protect it and she dropped like a sack of potatoes. Relieved, she waited a few more seconds as the parachute floated down gently behind her. Anton landed a few meters away as Natalia unclipped her harness and reached for her gear. A huge rucksack contained supplies for three days of operation: she struggled to get it on her back and reached for the padded weapon case that contained her carbine. She ripped off her leather jump helmet and goggles, tossed them into the weapon case, and went for her parachute. Anton jogged up to come meet her. “Everything alright?” he asked quietly. “Nothing hurt, broken?”

“I’m fine,” Natalia replied, dragging the parachute across the dry ground of the farmer’s field back to its bag. “Where are we going to toss these?”

“I saw a creek down there,” Anton said as he pointed south. The pair gathered up their equipment and dragged it down a hundred meters or so to the small running creek that meandered its way through the valley. Natalia stepped down the embankment and quickly tossed her parachute bag and weapons case into the bottom of it. She picked a few rocks to bundle up in her parachute canvas and threw that in as well. There would be no signs that they had entered the country: Natalia and Anton were field agents in the Armenian National Security Service, tasked with gathering intelligence on pirate operations in Sochi after a civilian merchant ship was boarded and captured. A reconnaissance plane, sent out the day before to look for landing zones and pirate bases, identified the MV Breadwinner of Rize in dock undergoing repairs by the Sochi bandits. They were going to check the area out for a few days: the Navy had notified the NSS that they were planning a rescue operation and had begun to mobilize forces in the only Armenian foreign base at Poti, Georgia.

Natalia sat down on the bank of the creek, leaning up against the metal frame of her rucksack. She wiped the sweat on her hands off on the blotchy camouflaged smock she wore, before fixing the twin braids of hair that rested over the front of her shoulders. Anton dragged his equipment into the creek and slung his sniper rifle across his chest, before laying down with his map and a pen. He took the direction of two mountain peaks with his compass and used the intersecting lines to determine their location, before plotting a route to a hilltop that would be their observation post. “Ready?” he asked, putting his hands in his pockets. As much as he wanted a smoke, the smell would linger and he didn’t want to leave trash like a butt by the water for the farmers to find in the morning. The other spy struggled her way up, clambering onto her feet with the weight of the ruck on her back. The path ahead of them was a rough hike up the forested side of a mountain. They got going without further conversation.

It took them another few hours before they had everything set up. Natalia and Anton were posted on a forested hilltop ten kilometers away from the north of the city: the pirates appeared to live on a base there, ruling over the rest of the city. The Unorganized Territories were a feudal mix of warlords and strongmen, the politics of which were lost on the two NSS agents. Natalia herself was born to a Georgian family in Javakhk, the most northern province of Armenia. She saw what happened just across the border, where her cousins and grandparents were living under the rule of a self-defense militia that carved out their turf from a few small towns. The pirates who ran attacks on shipping routes were most likely sailors pressed into crews by a warlord operating as the governor of the region: he collected tax from the farmers and craftsmen, funded public projects, and restored some semblance of frontier justice against criminals. Others in the former Russian state organized their own nations in miniature from ideology: provinces ruled by communist governments were just as common as libertarian communes or Orthodox theocracies.

Natalia stepped out from underneath her shelter-half, strung up against a tree in the woodline and covered with vegetation to camouflage it. Her pant legs were rolled up to her knees as she walked barefoot in the grass. The spy wore a green woolen sweater in the chilly, dew-drenched Russian late-summer morning. Her sweat-drenched jacket was drying out on a tree branch nearby. In one hand, she slung her rifle across her shoulder: in the other, she carried a pair of binoculars. Anton knelt in the damp grass beside a bush at the top of the hill, scanning through his rifle’s scope down at the city below. Russian towns in the north Caucasus looked almost like any other Ukrainian or European city at the end of the 19th century. Classical architecture, scarred and faded by years of poor care, still remained beside cobblestone streets. The sun peeked its way over the eastern hills, casting its shadows on the figures who began their morning routines. At the northern harbor, Natalia noticed boats starting to go out with the tide.

“There,” Anton said, “look around two-hundred and fifteen degrees on your compass.”

Natalia swiveled to that direction, turning her gaze to a mechanic yard where trucks had just dropped off a shift of workers. Figures with guns walked around on perimeter patrols while others clad in jumpsuits carried toolboxes and bulky equipment towards the dark hull of the Breadwinner. Even at their distance, the bright lights of welding torches could be seen popping on and off across the deck. “It looks like they’re repairing it in drydock,” Anton assessed, adjusting the focus on his sniper scope with a concentrated look about his face. A ship like an Independence-Class could easily act as a mothership. Pirates mostly operated near the shore on small, low-ranged boats. A clever engineer, of which the former wartime Tsarist education system produced many, could outfit the ship with fuel tanks and boat racks to maintain and refuel pirate skiffs. Natalia took turns looking down the binoculars and drawing what she saw in a brown-leather bound notebook.

“Well obviously the ship is their prize. Remember the stories of old pirates?” Natalia asked. “The Americans fought the Barbary pirates because they kept stealing their ships and… sailors.”

“Huh?” Anton asked, lowering his rifle and turning his head to her.

“The Barbary pirates used to be these Ottomans in the 19th century who would capture American merchant ships and crews,” Natalia explained, still drawing the harbor layout with annotated buildings and positions. “They said they were prize vessels, used to grow the Ottoman navy. The crews would become slaves made to work on the vessels or ransomed off to get more money for the Sultan. It really hurts a nation’s pride when pirates steal their shit. Especially new ones… America was barely just past twenty years from writing their constitution. We’re only four decades removed from the Great War.”

“Are you think the Merchant Mariners here are being held hostage as crews for the ship?”

“Look at it, they’re fixing it. Obviously they’re going to use it. If I were a warlord I’d ransom it and the crew as is if I just wanted the money. I’d suspect they’re going to force the crew to man it, too. Wouldn’t you?”

Anton nodded, peering back through his magnified scope. “And if the crew is going to man it, they’re going to be coming and going… supervising repairs. Showing the pirates around. And we can see where they’re coming from.”

The day continued, townspeople moving about the city. Farmers went out to their fields, herders released their cattle, and the fishermen went to sea. Life here was like life anywhere else: a far cry from the disastrous, apocalyptic Russia of famine and death that made Natalia think that Russian-Armenians were perhaps exaggerating their situation. Then she remembered her own Georgia, reading a letter from her aunt about the militias burning down the home of a suspected homosexual only to discover the accuser was simply lying to cover up her own affair. Goosebumps rolled across her skin: she shook the chills away. Her home was in Armenia where the rule of law applied. By noon, another pirate truck had arrived at the drydock: Anton and Natalia focused steadily on it as the back cover was thrown open and a half-dozen sailors, still in their dark blue peacoats and white duty pants, were forced off by more armed men. They walked single-file up the gangway to come aboard their ship, disappearing into the superstructure. “That’s them,” Anton muttered.

The spies waited for hours, at least one of them with eyes on the ship the whole time. The sun began to set again, people started to return home. Natalia first noticed the Armenian sailors leave the ship and get back into the truck. She alerted Anton and, together, they watched the pirates’ vehicle turn back on. Bright lights illuminated the street ahead of it, painting the buildings a white color as it rumbled out of the yard. Anton and Natalia watched it turn out, heading down away from the center of town. Natalia compared it to her notes and the map of Sochi provided as part of the intelligence kit. The truck drove out to the north of town, stopping just shy of the exit sign where fields took over from residential houses. It turned again, heading down a small street until it reached what appeared to be a complex of short, green buildings. Natalia took a look at the buildings and traced the road on her map to the same location: the Mamayka Primary School.

Natalia scribbled a mark on her map and jot down the notes in her book while Anton confirmed that the sailors were being herded into the school’s old gymnasium on the east side. “Well there we have it. Our sailors are in the school,” Anton reported. “I suppose that was a good first day.”

“Yeah,” Natalia answered, closing her book. The sun now was dipping down over the glittering sea, reflecting off of the water. The day was over, nothing else was going to happen that required the both of them she asked if Anton wanted the first watch and went back to her shelter-half. Her ration for the night was a box containing, amongst other things, a simple tin of salted pork. She scarfed down the too-greasy meat, washing it down with warm water from her canteen. Dry, stale biscuits complemented the food, followed by a bag of nuts and raisins and a chocolate bar. The only thing remaining was a gleefully-advertised pack of cigarettes that she put aside for Anton. With a yawn, she looked back at the hilltop. Another few days of reconnaissance. Then exfiltration. Then a ride home. It was all so simple.

Yerevan, Armenia

“So, the issue of Foreign Policy Number Nineteen has formally been introduced by the office of President Hasmik Assanian. This will require a majority of two-thirds to enact in accordance with Article Seven of the Constitution.”

Prime Minister Antabian spoke from the carved wooden lectern at the front of the Armenian National Assembly’s main hall. It featured a bold coat of arms, eloquently carved into the podium and surrounded by ornate bordering with arevakhach wheels at the base of each side. A massive flag hung behind the Prime Minister. A microphone carried the old man’s voice throughout the hall, where one hundred and one leather-bound seats were arranged in a semicircle in front of him. Alphabetically, the parties were arranged from his left to right with each position inside the parties determined by seniority. Marble columns on each side of the hall supported a curved roof from which an ornate chandelier hung. Carvings of Armenian folk stories had been cut into each section of the hall. Gold from the West tastefully lined the walls and ceiling: it was a hall of power modeled after the finest European tastes. Many years of work and more money than anyone was comfortable admitting had gone into its construction. It also served as President Serovian’s defiant symbol of resistance to the Turks.

President Assanian and his advisors sat in their specially designated section at the rear. While dignitaries were free to join, the National Assembly had the parliamentary delegates sit in the front while their business was assigned to them. They had spent hours debating over the finer points of the Georgia Plan, about troop numbers and revenue. About what parts of the border troops were called in from. Timelines, allied forces in the country, logistics, and anything else that even Assanian and Moysisian hadn’t thought of were talked about my old men in suits for the better part of that day. Vice-President Idratian had nudged Assanian awake a few times during some of the longer-winded speeches by Revolutionary Party veterans about their vehement opposition to a “great breach of the Fedayeen’s philosophy.” A few minor changes had been agreed on by members of the Liberal Democratic Party, mostly involving the timeline for troop rotations: deployments of troops in country after the setup of initial government had been shortened from twelve to nine months. It was a compromise: a faction of rather dovish Independence Party wanted six months.

A short recess was called so that the party leaders could gather votes from their members. Each one would tally their yes or no on a piece of paper turned into the party leader, which would then be announced at the request of Prime Minister Antabian. Assanian and Idratian talked amongst themselves during the half-hour break. The Prime Minister patrolled the hallways, monitoring for discussion: the final voting was done in silence, and any conversation would render the speaker and the listener’s vote as invalid abstains. The time for discussion and debate had passed. Each party leader duly received the paper and did the math on their own, writing down the final yes-no vote before waiting out the remainder of the recess period. It was an eerie quietness that Assanian so rarely heard in the halls of democratic action. The Prime Minister finished his walk and hobbled his way up the stairs to the podium, where he called to order the assembly: “The voting period has finished and we shall now hear the results. We start with the Communist Party.”

The leader of the Communist Party loudly cleared his throat and stood. The bearded man’s neatly-combed hair was flecked with grey. His bright red tie and pocketsquare clashed against the muted black of his double-breasted suit. “It is the stated position of the Communist Party to never involve itself in political actions that do not benefit the workers and proletariat of this country. An action in a foreign land exploits the labor of not only our conscripted soldiers but the workers of the industry that support them. It also leads to, what we fear, will become the exploitation of native Georgians by your administration if it grows in power and authority. This sets a dangerous precedent. Both of our votes are no: there are no agreements.”

“Thank you,” said Antabian, marking down the number on his own notepad. The speaker for the Communist Party sat back in his seat, looking at his partner. Their vote didn’t count for much besides their voice, but that was all they needed. “Now we look to the Enforcement Party for their results.”

The Enforcement Party’s younger, huskier leader stood from his seat. He looked down to the sheet of paper in his hand. “The spread of refugees into this country,” he began, “has created security and crime issues unforeseen by our original Fedayeen predecessors. Internally, we are becoming divided. There are attacks on policemen in Gyumri, street crime in Sevan, and ambushes on border troops to the north. After the Artsakh, we have become complacent with our position in the region and have had to rely on Persia to secure our eastern and southern flanks. While we strongly caution the decision to remove troops from the border to carry out this plan, we believe that it is necessary to show that we as Armenians can project power from beyond our own borders. We share a strong historical, cultural, and religious bond with our brothers to the north in the Georgian mountains. We must rid them of the bandits and criminals that plague their society while providing an answer for the ills that plague our own. All of our votes are in the affirmative: ten to zero.”

Assanian turned to Moysisian and gave him a knowing look. Antabian had been correct in his assumption that the Enforcement Party would vote on this, despite the cuts to reservist activations. The President mentally chalked up the victory before the next block of voters came to stand and present their closing vote. The notorious Independence Party took the stand, their leader visibly anxious. It appears that he, too, had done the math on this bill when it was being introduced and debated upon over the last few sessions of parliament. “The Independence Party recognizes the threat that emerging changes in the Armenian demographics present. We concur with Enforcement Party members in saying that Russian communities are often sources of crime in our own cities. During the administration of President Vadratian, we sought to minimize the impact that this would have on our own sovereignty.”

He looked back at his party, his eyes darting to the strongmen in a way that told Assanian they were defectors. “Our party, here, for this policy proposal, has voted twenty to fifteen in favor of ‘yes.’”

A wave of murmurs crossed the parliament, prompting the Prime Minister to order them to quiet down. The politicians being represented sat in their seats uncomfortably. The leader of the Independence Party had once been a proud man, a leader in traditional values by the name of Armen Tsaghzian. Now, he looked like a shadow of his former self: he looked hungover, like he hadn’t slept the last few nights. Stubble shaded his chin and his shirt and pants appeared rumpled, like he only threw a new jacket and tie on to appear well-kept after a rough night. Assanian, not usually partisan by nature, felt a sort of humor watching him stumble through a statement so obviously trying to downplay his party breaking loyalty and voting on a Liberal Democratic proposal. A thin smile broke through his lips as Tsaghzian continued to save face: “Traditionally, we believe that internal threats should remain internal and there is a clear distinction between foreign and domestic policy. The new decade has turned and we are facing a variety of unconventional threats. This requires… an unconventional response. As such, the Independence Party will support this initiative.”

Prime Minister Antabian and Assanian exchanged looks from across the hall, albeit just briefly. He looked down emotionlessly at his sheet and scratched in the new numbers. Thirty to seventeen. The old man thanked Tsaghzian for his remarks and moved to the next speaker: the Armenian Liberal Democratic Party. This man, Philip Babovian, was once Antabian’s second in command when the ALDP was on the minority end. The right-hand-man of Assanian and Antabian’s party, Babovian nodded knowingly at his old boss. “I believe everyone wants to get out of here early, I think?” he asked rhetorically, eliciting low, forced chuckles from the politicians in attendance. “We stand by President Assanian’s foreign relations policy. In the legislative party’s opinion, we think that it represents a mix of internal and external policy to deal with societal change. Obviously, as time marches on, our society will experience new chapters. While before we avoided extermination, now we must prosper. But we must prosper as a land that others in the shadow of the Ottoman Empire can turn to. Noah landed his ark at Mount Ararat as the world flooded. He landed right here, in the Fatherland.”

Assanian nodded along, Idratian crossing his arms and listening intently beside him. “Just as it was then, the world now is on the brink of catastrophe and the precipice of war. Our war with the Ottomans has continued to be deterred to this day. Going to Georgia, using our treasure and power to stabilize our northern neighbors, is our next stepping stone. We take risk with the troop deployments. We take risk on our military and economy. We take risk on our political affiliations. But we believe that this is worth it to establish a positive environment in the Caucasus. It is better for us. We cannot live surrounded by enemies: the Artsakh War proved that enough. But instead of relying on the Shah’s deus ex machina, we are taking matters into our own hands in a way that supports the continued development of a liberal democracy at home and across our borders. We vote thirty-nine in favor, with four dissents from the party opinion.”

Thirty-nine was one off from Antabian’s supposed expectation of forty, but it passed the threshold nonetheless. Idratian patted his president on the back and muttered a light congratulations as Babovian took his seat. Before they had more time to react, the leader of the Revolutionary Party shot up to give his speech: “The Councilmen wrote very little into the Constitution about this sort of action,” said the spokesman in a low-rumbling gruffness that betrayed his deep frustrations. “And as such we cannot stand with it. We recognize that, despite our vote of eleven to ‘no’, the decision still stands. But we will take our platform to speak our continued defense of conforming to values outlined in the Constitution. We fought a revolution, a war against foreign oppression, to create our own Fatherland. And now, we risk becoming the oppressors of someone else. Another Ottoman Empire. This is not what the Fedayeen wanted. This is not what the Armenian Separatist Front wanted. This is what we continue to be the vanguard of. The policy represents a dangerously slope to go down on: I hope that, when this vote appears in the history books, we all realize with hindsight the consequences of our decisions.”

Prime Minister Antabian tallied up the votes. He scribbled in some numbers with his pencil and wiped the lead away before leaning into the microphone: “As it stands, the voting from our National Assembly’s parties has closed. In total, Foreign Policy Number Nineteen, known informally here as the ‘Georgia Plan’, passes the two-thirds threshold: sixty-nine to thirty-two. It is narrow, but it passes. You are dismissed.”

The National Assembly rose simultaneously, the individual parliamentarians turning to each other to give congratulatory handshakes or shake their heads. Assanian and his cabinet congratulated each other and offered words of encouragement as Antabian came off the podium with his folder of documents from the hearing. The masses of politicians streamed out of the wooden double doors at the end of the walkway, flanked by policemen in dress uniform, while Assanian smiled at the Prime Minister and shook his hand. “We won!” he announced in a rare burst of excitement. “How quickly can we get this published and sent out in a statement?”

The Prime Minister looked down at the document. “It’s all marked up, so we’ll have to retype it. By tomorrow the official release should be out. But it is law. The Georgia Plan is slated to begin on schedule, like we thought.” He smiled as well, watching the last of the stragglers leave the hall. Some mingled outside, others went to the balcony watching over Republic Square to smoke cigarettes. Others just left straight to go to their homes. The President, hands in his pockets, stood by the Prime Minister. Armenia, for the first time since antiquity, was going beyond self-defense. The mountains to the north held the next chapter for his country’s story. Assanian watched as Antabian delivered his folder to the staff courier, who departed hastily along with a policeman escorting him. That order, already written by Moysisian’s NSS, was to be distributed to the Ministry of War. The chains began turning on the largest mobilization of men in the region since the Artsakh War almost a decade ago. And for Assanian, it was his first victory in parliament.

“Well I don’t know about you gents,” he said, straightening out his purple tie, “but I’ll be back home celebrating. I hope that you’ll join me as well if you don’t have anything else to do tonight.”
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