TheEvanCat

Precipice Of War: The Reboot of a Reboot

Lake Arareco, Chihuahua
June 1955

“Are you ready? This is it.”

“Eh, as ready as I’ll ever be jefe.”

The poncho-clad man twisted the corner of his mustache and looked at the young boy in front of him. He held his lever-action rifle gingerly, looking around the hitch where they had parked their exhausted horses. Both of them were matted with dust and grime. Way up in the mountains near Lake Arareco, they had finally found the hideout of the man they were looking for. It had been a long journey over miles of rugged terrain, and both of them were exhausted. Yet the man in the poncho, who was known only as Javier, felt his heart soften as he gazed at the boy’s face. He knew what he had to do.

“Sit here, Eduardo, guard our flank,” Javier said after a moment of hesitation. He unslung his own bolt-action rifle from his torso and handed it out to the boy.

“But sir!” protested Eduardo, turning to plead with Javier. “I want to fight!”

Javier shook his head and reached underneath his poncho to pull a cigarillo from a stained shirt pocket. Eduardo immediately took out a book of matches and struck one, handing it to his boss. With Eduardo’s help, Javier puffed on the cigarillo until he could see the smoke rising. “Eduardo, this is something that I have to do. Maritza is in there, it’s my job to save her.”

The boy nodded, suddenly understanding. He wiped his face with a red handkerchief that hung around his neck. “What if this is it, jefe? What do I do if… you don’t make it?”

Javier stared off into the distance, gazing over the brilliant blue water and mountains surrounding the lake below. Despite the ruggedness, there was true beauty in these hills. “I’ll make it. I have to. Just stay here.”

He hesitated for a moment, puffing on his cigarillo while his hand reached down to touch the wood-handled grip of his revolver that lay nestled in the low-slung leather holster on his belt. Without another word, he turned to face the door of the hideout. It was a squat, clay-brick building built into the side of a hill, with an arched entrance bearing saloon double doors. Javier began his walk towards them, scowling at the entrance as he walked. With every step, the rattle of his gear and belt could be heard. He reached the double doors of the entrance and pushed them open, taking a deliberate step to the inside of the darkened building. He looked around, examining every corner of the structure.

Gold, treasure, and money lined the walls of the hideout. Priceless pieces of art, coins and doubloons, and anything else imaginable were stacked in lazy piles along the painted clay walls. Javier took a few steps forward, his hand continuing to clutch his revolver, until he noticed movement out of the shadows directly in front of him. He froze, staring down the figure that had just emerged from the shadows.

“El Negro,” he scowled, dramatically taking a draw off of his cigarillo. “I knew I had found your lair.”

El Negro laughed, a hearty chuckle that reverberated throughout the room. Yet it was not genuine, it reeked of evil. The villain was a Black man: tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in a ragged Union Army uniform jacket with a leather pistol belt and bandoliers that crisscrossed his body. He took a step towards Javier and stared the vaquero down.

“I was expecting you to find me eventually,” El Negro said, one eye glaring at Javier. The other was covered by a menacing eyepatch, a scar crossing his mean face. “But now I have drawn you straight into my trap! Who will find you here now when I kill you? The Federales? Don’t make me laugh.”

Javier stared down the villain, locking eyes with the bandit. His hand twitched towards his pistol, but El Negro shot his own hand to the revolver on his own hip. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he warned. His eye darted to the corner of the room and he quickly pulled a figure out of the shadows.

It was Maritza. The beautiful young maiden, still dressed in her vibrantly white adelita with barely a stain or coat of dust, had her wrists bound in front of her. El Negro grabbed her by the collar and dragged her in front of him, pulling his revolver and putting it to her head. Maritza wailed, flipping her black hair as she shouted: “Javier! Please help!”

Javier’s eyes narrowed as he looked for an opportunity. Time was ticking, and he had made his decision within seconds. El Negro’s head and shoulder protruded from behind Maritza: the vaquero yanked his own revolver from his holster in a lightning-fast motion and fired off a single bullet before El Nego could even react. A puff of smoke erupted from the barrel of his gun and El Negro yelped before falling to the ground. Maritza, screaming, ran forwards towards Javier where he quickly caught her in an embrace. In a deft motion, he cut withdrew a bowie knife from a leather sheath on his belt and quickly cut through the ropes binding her wrists together.

Javier gently pushed her aside, focused entirely on El Negro who lay on the ground. Blood trickled from the wound on his chest, while the villain pressed a handkerchief in a futile attempt to stop the bleeding. “It didn’t have to be this way,” he said, towering over the dying man. “You could have just surrendered in San Juanito.”

El Negro scowled again, staring back up at Javier. He spoke slowly, shakily: “You’ll never get it. I could have been rich. You’d do the same if you were me.”

“Nobody gets away, not in my town.”

El Negro coughed, pressing the handkerchief into his wound harder. His body jolted with a death spasm and he made a faint grunt. With the last of his strength he tried to reach out for Javier, eyes filled with pure hatred. But he stiffened out and his arm dropped to his side. El Negro’s eyes locked forward, unmoving. He was finally dead. Javier turned to Maritza, who had been watching in the corner. He nodded, and carefully placed his revolver back in its holster.

“Cut! Good work, everyone!”

The dramatic dim lighting suddenly changed as a series of lightbulbs turned on inside the cabin. The man on the floor grunted as he sat up, while the vaquero extended his hand to help him to his feet. “How’d you think that went, Jefferson?” Javier asked as the actor dusted himself off.

“Heh, a little corny, but I suppose it will fly,” Jefferson West answered. He removed his eyepatch and wiped the sweat away from his forehead. “This costume is hot, though.”

Javier Cortez turned around to the actress in the corner who was rubbing her sore wrists. “I think they tied it rather tight, luckily you didn’t nick me with that big knife of yours,” she said. Maritza was played by a reasonably mid-level actress in Mexican cinema by the name of Emily Carrillo. She had been in a rut playing damsels in distress for Western films for over a year now. Much like Jefferson West, she had been typecasted after her performances in many similar films. It was all starting to feel like a day job to them, just showing up to work and collecting their pay.

The director opened the double doors of the hideout and stepped through. Manuel Gutiérrez had a similarly unimpressive resumé of almost mass-produced Westerns, even if he acted like a cocky executive in the glitzy Mexico City studios. He wore dust-covered jeans and cowboy boots completed by jangling spurs, with aviator sunglasses perched atop his wild head of curly hair. “I liked it, that’s what the audience wants!” he exclaimed. “Drama!”

Javier and Jefferson both looked at each other: Jefferson rolled his eyes subtly. El Gran Atraco de San Juanito was just the same as Gutiérrez’s other works.

“You know, I think we can finish this today. We still got some daylight left,” the director said, checking his watch. “It’s just about the right time too. How about we get you guys a break for a few minutes and then we’ll have you ride off into the sunset, Javier. We can wrap up shooting and head back to Chihuahua.”

“Thank god,” Javier muttered. Despite his portrayal of a rugged frontiersman, the real Javier Cortez enjoyed air conditioning and good food as much as anyone else. “Can’t wait to get out of this heat.”

The actors walked to the outside to where José Menendez, Eduardo’s actor and a man barely into his twenties getting his feet wet in cinema, had been grilling corn on a campfire near where the camera crew had set up a tent for shade. He waved them over, offering the tinfoil-wrapped ears of corn to Javier, Emily, and Jefferson. All of them took a seat on whatever they could find, mostly tree stumps and a log that someone had dragged over earlier that day. In a pot, José mixed the sauce for and used a camping spoon to drop a dollop on everyone’s snack. “I guess Manuel wants to film us… riding off into the sunset again,” José sighed. “It’ll be a late night then. I figured I’d make something.”

“This shit’s tough, I get hungry,” Jefferson agreed. “All this walking around up these mountains, I feel like I’m back in the army.”

“Probably better hours,” Emily mused as she took a bite into the corn, careful to not let the sauce drip onto her white dress.

“Not really… we’re filming from dawn to dusk out here, even the military works a nine-to-five like everyone else.”

Javier chuckled. “I just can’t wait to get back to the hotel.”

“Why, so you can go trawl the bars and bring back a lady to your room?” Emily teased. She cocked her head sideways and raised her eyebrows at him with a smirk. “’I’m a big movie star, I’m a cowboy! I’ll show you how to ride,’” she mocked him in a fake-gruff voice.

“That’s not very ladylike,” Jefferson replied, half teasing her in return.

“Yep, but I gotta be for my paycheck! Maybe eventually I won’t have to be tied to the goddamn train tracks for the fifth time. ‘Help me, cowboy! Help me!’”

The group all shared a laugh as they kept digging into the corn that had been made. José checked his watch that he had stashed in his pocket: it wasn’t allowed on his costume, seeing as it was a timepiece made in 1950. “I think he wants to go right when the break ends. Not much of a break, huh?”

Almost as if on cue, perhaps deliberately, Gutiérrez stepped out from behind a prop of a broken-down wagon cart and clapped his hands together. “You guys all fed up?” he asked. Even if he did think he was a better director than he really was, at least he cared about his actors. “Let’s get this all wrapped up so we can head home.”

They had finished up their corn and tossed the tinfoil into a wastebin that had been brought out by one of the film crew. The corn itself was just tossed into the surrounding trees. The cast of the film got up from their improvised campsite and quickly got themselves back together. A cameraman had gotten back to his station on the film camera that he had been using to track the exterior shots and Gutiérrez rushed them back to their places. Another intern arrived with the clapperboard and waited until Javier and Emily had taken up spots beside the door to the hideout. He let the stick fall onto the wooden slate, producing its characteristic sound.

“El Gran Atraco de San Juanito, ending scene! Take one! Action!”

N.E.O. - New Earth Oracle

Meyrin, Franco-Swiss Border

Less than ten kilometers from Geneva lay an expansive campus of high-technology facilities. Born from the CERN site created in 1954 to study particle physics and nuclear science, the French had expanded their ownership of the program and created dozens of facilities dedicated to the study of NLCs brought back from the Overseas Territories. While CERN retained its traditional name, the Conseil européen pour la recerche nucléaire had become a misnomer. The program was now owned wholesale by the French instead of a European council, and its scope had expanded to become the principal body for the research and development of NLC compounds.

Most of the facility maintained an academic appearance aboveground, nestled between idyllic French and Swiss fields. Despite the conspiracy theories about Langium poisoning and other negative contamination around the site, it was common to see farmers tilling their fields in the summertime. Most of the action happened underground, where a complex labyrinth of laboratories, accelerators, and test chambers created a miniature city unto itself. Thousands of staff worked on hundreds of projects big and small to develop NLC compounds for engineering purposes. The mission of these scientists was purely civil in nature, the only caveat that the French had to concede to maintain the program: advances in energy generation, transportation, space and air research, healthcare, and dozens of other fields were produced almost daily. Military research of NLCs remained highly classified at test ranges and facilities far away from the picturesque mountains of CERN.

The tallest structure in the campus was the central office building located in the new wing of the facility. CERN separated itself into the campus for particle and nuclear physics and the NLC sites themselves, often creating an interservice rivalry between the scientists who worked on either project. This was not helped by the fact that the offices were separate and the NLC wing was seen as newer and better funded: more than one bar fight had broken out in Geneva when a nuclear engineer wanted to prove something to a Langium engineer. Atop this building was a glass-walled office belonging to Doctor Arthur L. Delacroix, the head of all Langium research at CERN and regarded as the primary living expert in France. He had taken this position almost ten years previously, and was a fixture in national and international discussions about the substance.

The scientist, his white hair long since balding, adjusted his glasses as he stared at the computer monitor in front of him. He had managed to open up his intranet’s electronic mail application and was looking at a quick note sent to him by the chief of NLC space applications. Doctor Delacroix much preferred paper and letters, but had reluctantly allowed the network terminal to be installed in his office mostly to satisfy the younger members of his staff. They had always been bringing up his missed emails and calendar invites, and he recognized that he just needed to adapt to the way of the future. He read the small words on the screen, even if his eyes didn’t adjust too well to the harshness of the blue light:

Dr. Delacroix,

Dr. Kawaguchi presented her work at the UN CSAT conference in Brazil. I attached her whitepaper to this email, but would like to talk to you about this in person. I will try to come by as soon as I can: the government and the UN are pushing for action on this.

V/R,

Émile Verne, PhD

That was it, sent just over an hour ago. Doctor Delacroix scowled at the message as he tried to click on the paper icon that hovered in the “attachments” bar of the email. He clicked it once, highlighting it blue. It wouldn’t open. He clicked it again with the other button, and a menu with a dozen options popped up and obscured the text of the message. The scientist sighed, figuring he could just get Doctor Verne to open it for him. He leaned back into his chair, before suddenly hearing a knock on the glass door. It was Doctor Verne, in a grey sweatshirt and jogging pants. He was much younger than Delacroix, but was still an expert in the application of NLC compounds to space science. The head researcher waved him in, pressing a button on his desk to unlock the door.

“Thanks, boss,” Verne said as he stepped into the office, making sure to close the door behind him. He noticed Doctor Delacroix looking at him. “Well I saw the news but I also had to do my run for the day, couldn’t put it off any longer even if someone just changed the laws of physics.”

“You and your running, Doctor Verne,” Delacroix said, shaking his head. “But you could have at least gotten dressed appropriately. Back in my day, we-“

Verne cut off the scientist, waving his hand dismissively. “Yeah, yeah, sir, you wore a suit and tie and walked uphill in the snow to class both ways. But sweatpants are comfortable, and I’m not presenting at the UN like Doctor Kawaguchi was.”

Doctor Verne approached the desk and noticed the email client still up on Doctor Delacroix’s screen. “Have you seen the whitepaper yet?” he asked with the slightest hint of a smirk.

“No, uh,” Delacroix stammered. “Well, I was hoping to go over it with you. It seems to be of a very high importance.”

Verne shook his head and leaned over to the mouse. “You click the left button twice, fast. That will download it.”

He did so, and the attachment quickly downloaded onto the computer and popped up on the screen. Beneath the letterhead of the Brazilian university where Doctor Kawaguchi worked was an abstract and pages upon pages of scientific data. Doctor Verne pointed to the abstract and tapped on the monitor: “I got a phone call from a colleague in Brazil working on an exchange program with their NLC work. Doctor Kawaguchi has seemed to isolate an exotic negative mass particle responsible for some of the gravitational disruptions we see in the anomalous zones. Particularly the one in Guyana. “

“We’ve known it’s been particle-based negative mass for some time,” said Delacroix, cocking his head. “You’re telling me they’ve managed to replicate this? We’ve been trying that for years!”

“Well, not really,” Verne said, running a hand through his full head of hair. Despite touches of grey at the fringes and the hint of wrinkles on his face, Verne was still ruggedly handsome well into his late forties. “They’ve identified the method of testing and replication… but it requires a lot of NLC. And they’ve also run the calculations on its applications. They say it’s possible to utilize it to expand and contract space to accelerate objects past the speed of light.”

Delacroix squinted at Verne, hardly believing what he was hearing. “Weren’t we working on this?” he asked, puzzled. “You brought up this concept a few months ago.”

“Yes… I mean, theoretically it was possible,” replied Verne, suddenly on the defensive. He put one hand on his hip and gesticulated with the other. “We have been working the calculations and… the damn Brazilians are just faster. But who knows, those kooks live and breathe Langium at this point.”

“Well this saves a lot of work, but they still don’t have anything.”

“No, and that’s where the UN comes in. They released their calculations for the volumetric and mass requirements of specific NLC compounds to replicate the particle generation seen in the gravity zones, but it is a lot. They don’t have enough in all of Brazil. The UN is talking to us, the Soviets, and the Americans about a triparty program to accelerate this research.”

Doctor Delacroix rubbed his chin, looking around the room. His eyes landed on the portrait of the French president that hung in every important government building, a humble bespectacled man by the name of François-Jean de Mer. He almost allowed himself to be lost in thought before an electronic chime rang out from his email client and a new message flashed on the screen from the senior leader mailbox at the Ministry of Higher Education, Research, and Innovation. “Click on that!” Verne almost exclaimed. “Two left clicks,” he added, poking at Delacroix once again.

ATTENTION: UN Resolution 699

Dr. Delacroix,

As per the briefing at the UN CSAT by Dr. Kawaguchi yesterday, the UN has reached out to our ambassador regarding participation in the proposed UN program to generate an international space vehicle propulsion system based on negative-mass propulsion. Upon discussion with President de Mer and the cabinet staff, a vote will be pushed to Parliament this evening for immediate proposal. We fully expect that Parliament will vote to participate, but we will need formal approval before shifting funds.

Dr. Verne and yourself will need to appear before the Ministry to brief members of staff and President de Mer on the implications of this discovery. We have chartered a flight to Geneva International Airport (Air France Flight 2431) to take you and necessary staff to Paris. It will arrive at 09:45 hours tomorrow morning and the CERN logistics and finance staff has been directed to immediately handle government travel reimbursement procedures. Dr. Verne is copied on this email.

Please call my office number to confirm receipt of this email – I know you don’t like sending replies.

Thanks,

Roxana Masson, Minister of Higher Education, Research, and Innovation

Verne and Delacroix both looked at each other, stunned. “I didn’t expect de Mer to be on top of this… it usually takes weeks to formulate any sort of cooperation with the US or USSR,” Delacroix said.

“My assistant was telling me that there’s been a lot of chatter on RRPIS,” Verne mentioned, referring to the internet protocol that French military and government organizations were now using to transmit classified information. RRPIS and its unclassified counterpart, RRPINC, functioned much like the CERN intranet that Doctor Delacroix had been struggling with. “The Air and Space Force is already pushing their development people into this. It’s big, sir.”

“Then it looks like we may need to get ready too. It’s going to be a long night,” Delacroix agreed. “Would you mind sending someone for coffee and something from the café downstairs? I’ll ring my wife and tell her I will be late tonight.”

Verne nodded and looked at his watch. “I’m going to take a shower and I’ll be right back here once I get my team together. Luckily we caught this before the end of the day… I wouldn’t want to be recalling people back to the office.”

Verne headed for the door, bidding Delacroix a temporary farewell. He headed for the stairs, rushing downstairs to his own office: senior leadership occupied the top floor, while the Space Science Department ironically occupied one of the lower levels in the tower. Delacroix, meanwhile, stood from his chair and walked to the glass windows that looked out over the campus below. The lights of Geneva were beginning to turn on in the approaching dusk. It was only four in the afternoon, and he always hated how short the winter days had become. The doctor stuck his hands into his pocket and turned his gaze up to the sky where he could faintly see a jet flying from the airport.

They were on the cusp of the greatest scientific advancement in human history.

RAM RANCH - VALENTINE'S DAY COWBOY RODEO

Hey, it's me in the black Ford Raptor truck out there. Can you open the gate to the ranch?

N.E.O. - New Earth Oracle

Zone Rouge 23, French Algeria

A boot tapped on the metal floor to the rhythm of a ponderous drumbeat. Heavy, distorted guitar filled the air with raw and ugly notes. A singer, voice saturated with aggression and angst, sneered lyrics describing a heroin trip and suicide in no uncertain terms. The music played from a boombox that had been strapped to the top of a nearby weapons rack with a fraying green ratchet strap. For hours on end, the soldiers in the cramped cab of their patrol vehicle listened to CDs brought with them on their deployment. Along with bantering about anything and everything, it was their only entertainment as the machine crawled through kilometers of dark, grey landscape.

Sixteen men in two vehicles made up the patrol. Each of the trucks, the term an understatement enough, was a massive twelve-wheeled armored vehicle. The massive cruisers trod gently over the terrain with gigantic, wheels regulated by a complicated pneumatic tire inflation system nested within the armored hull. The sleek, angular craft were outfitted for overland expeditions: inside their armored and angular frame were spaces for a cockpit, living quarters, compartments holding electronics and communications gear, sensors, an airlock, storage space, an airlock, and even a cramped toilet like a cross-country bus. They were covered in prominent antennas that swayed in the wind and bumpy terrain and cameras providing an almost completely surround-view of the windowless shell.

Their frames were painted in a mottled grey-green scheme, a modification of standard camouflage to better fit the tones of an anomalous zone. On each of their sides, beside their hull numbers, a large and bright French flag had been prominently painted. One of the cruisers bore a large crane like a wrecker vehicle’s, stowed securely along the side. A remote-controlled turret duly swiveled atop it, a large ammunition box bolted to the side to ensure that the crew would rarely need to dismount for reloading. It carried with it a trailer that resembled a cab-less dump truck, a gigantic bin to store whatever could fit. The other was further festooned with more antennas, a radar covered in a cylindrical shell, and meteorology gear on a shelf that extended towards the sloped front to give more surface area to the already-crowded roof. This one carried a flatbed trailer, like a long-haul lowboy.

Ahead of the patrol drove a much smaller craft. It appeared to be an armored remote-controlled vehicle, like a chunkier version of a Martian space rover. Equipped with a plethora of probes, manipulator arms, cameras, and scientific equipment, it had rolled carefully up to what appeared to be a series of cylindrical containers peeking out just above the ashen-grey surface of the zone. Inside the armored cruiser, a man sat in a padded chair and observed a bewildering array of CRT screens in front of him. His focus was on the central one, showing the grainy camera of the drone’s manipulator arm. He pressed forward gently on two joysticks, one to move the arm forward and another to angle a fork-like scraping device to touch the ground. Beside him, a TV labeled “GROUND PENETRATING RADAR” suddenly shifted its picture.

Its complicated readout looked like the ebbing and flowing tides of a grey ocean. But as the operator nudged the drone forward, its display suddenly shifted to reveal four distinct sharp arrowhead-shapes at different points on the screen. A screen embedded into the wall above it, labeled “LANGIUM GASEOUS RESIDUE DETECTOR” displayed corresponding spikes above the background measurements. The operator began to lightly claw at the ground with his forked arm, slowly uncovering the glowing cylinders beneath. He had done this a thousand times and already had an idea of what he was finding before he could even get the spectrometer on another arm onto target. “Mon adjutant,” he called over the intercom, “We got some of those batteries.”

From across the cockpit of the cruiser a tall man, wearing green camouflaged pants and a sweater bearing epaulettes bearing a gold bar bisected by a thin red line, came to look over the shoulder of the drone operator. The flickering light of the screens flashed across his oversized glasses as he reached out and tapped the camera monitor. “Yep, those are batteries. Run the laser and we will call our partner to pick it up.”

The drone operator, a caporal, responded affirmatively and brought a second arm out with yet another control panel. This clunky setup was necessary for the vast array of equipment that these drones possessed. Once it was in position, the operator pressed a button to switch the monitor to the other arm’s camera, where a set of crosshairs was superimposed over the footage. He deftly maneuvered the laser to aim at the battery and begin its scan. Outside, the drone gave off a low hum as its pulsed laser quickly ionized a microscopic portion of the battery and an optical sensor analyzed its generated ions. After a few seconds of scanning, a flashing result appeared in the bottom of the screen: “NLC COMPOUND 141.”

This information had already been transmitted to the other crawler, but the adjutant gave a courtesy radio call to the other vehicle commander anyways. In a delicate maneuver, the command vehicle reversed slowly, its driver careful to keep the wheels straight on its carved-out path lest he jackknifed the trailer and they had to wait a few days for tow support. The crane vehicle drove forward and stopped beside where the drone had designated the NLC batteries with an infrared laser. The crane on the cruiser began to extend and swivel to where the batteries were located, now dug safely out of the ground by the drone’s claw. Everything about this was slow and deliberate. It took the crews almost an hour of painstaking maneuvers to control the massive vehicle and equipment’s movements. But they had finished: all four of the batteries were dropped into the trailer atop a treasure trove of other artifacts.

“Good catch, continue patrol,” the adjutant called out over the radio.

The vehicles started their crawl again. Massive engines rolled the tires across sharp rocks and treacherous changes in elevation. Even a small ditch or bump could risk a rollover of the cruisers. The speaker inside was turned back up again, and the music continued to play. It was an atmospheric favorite of the soldiers, a complementary soundtrack to the dismal weather and alienated terrain that they saw day in and day out on their seven-day patrols. It was also a unique cultural quirk to the men who crewed the machines. Since The Visitation of 1961 and the subsequent exploitation of NLCs artifacts, France had given the uniquely dangerous mission to its traditionally most expendable forces: the Foreign Legion.

The Legion was rapidly deployed with the bare minimum of equipment and understanding to scout the anomalous zones that were rapidly appearing in French colonial possessions. Many of them died, often horrifically, as they were exposed to the horribly scarred environment and mutated creatures before protective gear had time to develop. It was these sacrifices that led the Legion to stand up its own training and research organizations: the tactics and technology that were now commonly used across the globe to operate more-or-less safely in the anomalous zones had been developed by Legionnaires and initially taught at Legion troop courses. Even their cruisers had been developed by the Panhard Company based on exacting specifications produced by Legion reports and intelligence.

The caporal exited his chair, which was locked into the ground to reduce rollover injuries, and leaned up against his control panel. The man’s uniform nametag read “Zalewski.” He had been a refugee from Communist Eastern Europe, his family smuggling him to the West when he was only a small child in the 1970s. Many of the men in his unit had similar stories. They were criminals, refugees, people in hiding from spouses or the bank, or even Francophiles who wanted a chance to serve in what they saw as the world’s greatest country. Charles Zalewski had nowhere else to go after he could never hold more than a job as a waiter in a small town in Alsace. His lack of ID documents hampered his ability to even go to university.

“I’m ready to go home…” he mused absent-mindedly as he reached for a steel cigarette case in his cargo pocket. In front of a sign explicitly prohibiting smoking in the vehicle, he lit a match and inhaled deeply. The crew had long since disabled the smoke detectors and the cruiser’s air filtration system was sufficient enough to get most of the smoke out.

“Home?” deadpanned another member of the crew. Jacques Dumont, a Légionnaire who had fled Quebec after his resistance cell had been decimated by American airmobile troops, turned back to see Zalewski smoking by his control station. “Base is not home.”

He cocked his head and thought about it for a second: “Well, on second thought, maybe it is to you, commie. Shitty rations, a creaky bed, and plenty of rats to chase out. Must be just like Mother Russia or wherever you came from.”

Zalewski chuckled and tossed a crumpled-up piece of paper at him. “At least I can speak French the way they taught us, not like your fucking speech impediment. Your mother must have drank a lot with you in her.”

“The only thing I’m excited for right now is coming off shift. I am exhausted,” said the third soldier. Another caporal, this one German. He had changed his name to Patrick von Möller, and often convinced people that he was another Alsatian much like where Zalewski had initially settled in France. Von Möller never quite talked about where he had come from, only vague references to street gangs in West Berlin. The rest of the unit had hypothesized about it, and joked with him about running from a crime lord, but von Möller would just shake his head and redirect the conversation. He checked his watch, a surprisingly expensive Swiss timepiece that bore years of wear and tear. Probably stolen. “Thirty more minutes. Then I can sleep.”

“Just don’t jerk off too loud, and don’t finish everywhere,” sternly instructed the adjutant as he returned through the hatch leading towards the bathroom in the back of the cruiser. Adjutant Gerard Lemas was the only Frenchman aboard, and had come to the Legion from a conventional unit like most senior NCOs and officers. He was the highest-ranking non-commissioned officer in the platoon, and the current patrol commander on this week’s foray into the anomalous zone. Despite his slender frame and big glasses, he exuded an air of strict paternity. Plenty of people had mistaken him for a logistician or a computer programmer before he flashed them his green beret with a harsh stare. He would dress them down appropriately if they mistook him twice.

“You share that bunk with Hollande, and he has to sleep in your pool of degenerate children.”

“Yes, mon adjutant,” was the only thing that von Möller could muster. He looked back at his dashboard and instruments, knocked out of the conversation.

The low hum of the cruiser’s engine and the grunge music were the only sounds for a few moments, until Dumont started chuckling. Like a contagion, Zalewski and von Möller joined him. Lemas cracked a faint but noticeable smile, and went back to his station. Largely surrounded by radios and a computer with a pixelated satellite map of the zone, he studied their route. Their path had taken them out and back in a cloverleaf-pattern to maximize their chances of finding NLC artifacts. It had been a good haul, but that only meant more time preparing paperwork and offloading the material when they returned to base. He had already gotten a head start on the forms, each artifact required at least a dozen or so forms in a series of three-ring binders stacked lazily across the small amount of desk space that he had. Some of them were thicker than others, depending on the perceived hazard of the material.

The song changed again, the CD repeating back to the first track in its playlist. It had been like this for three days now. Someone had to tell Dumont, the resident DJ, to bring more disks next time. Von Möller had been banned from the boombox after slipping a “best hits of polka” disk into the collection for one patrol. That lasted about three minutes before Lemas had taken the CD and made them sit in silence for a few days: he then taped it to a green “Ivan” target on the rifle range for their next qualification and ensured that it was forever destroyed. The cruiser patrol continued, Zalewski returning to his drone station to prepare it for the next operator. Before they knew it, their shift was over.

Four of their colleagues appeared through the door, bleary-eyed and freshly woken. Their leader, a slightly subordinate NCO, went to Lemas’s desk to receive the shift change brief. The others milled around in the passageway until the leaders were done, long since numbed to the routine ordeal. At their adjutant’s beckoning, the Legionnaires turned over their positions to their counterparts.

“Anything cool happen?” Zalewski’s counterpart asked as he took the seat and quickly reviewed the screens.

“We found like, some batteries and stuff. Might have run over a creature, not sure what that bump a while ago was.”

“Ah,” his replacement replied disinterestedly. They were all ready to be done with their patrol. Zalewski rubbed his eyes and stubbed out his cigarette on the ashtray next to his console while his replacement bid him a farewell: “Well, I’ll see you soon. Take care.”

“You too.”

N.E.O. - New Earth Oracle

France

Name: The French Republic (La République française)

Government: The French government is referred to as the “Fifth Republic” and was established in 1958. France splits political authority between the President who is head of state and the Prime Minister who is head of government. The President is charged with national-level decision making while the Prime Minister runs the operations of government and its ministries.

A bicameral Parliament consisting of the National Assembly and the Senate pass legislative agendas. There are over a dozen political parties in France, with as few as one Parliamentary seat or as many as several hundred. They often fall into coalitions depending on election results, with the typical configuration being split between the “Presidential Centre”, “Parliamentary Right”, and “Parliamentary Left.” As of 1991, the Presidential Centre maintains a majority of 55% of seats.

Territory: France maintains official control over its European and overseas territories, the largest of which are French Guyana and French Polynesia. Algeria and Djibouti still remain officially under the control of French colonial government, and Adélie Land in Antarctica is administered as part of the French Southern and Antarctic Lands. Unofficial or semi-official control exists in former French colonies that were granted independence in 1960, such as Mali and the Congo, although these regions are no longer represented as part of the proper French government.

French borders and overseas territories (dark blue) alongside semi-controlled/influenced Francophone colonies (light blue) and OTAN members (teal green):

History: France has a long history dating back to the barbarian tribes of Europe known to the Romans as Gaul.

Pre-Visitation: Wartime damage to France was severe, as the end of the war led to the dismantling of Vichy France and its Nazi-run institutions. The French Resistance quickly reconstituted itself into a functional government known as the Fourth Republic, aided by immense American support in the form of the Marshall Plan. Despite this, French troubles quickly turned internal during the 1950s. Decolonization became the conflict of the decade as brutal wars in Algeria and Vietnam sent yet another generation of French troops into battle. Slowly but surely, the French lost their grips on colonial possessions in Asia and Africa. The Suez Crisis ended France’s involvement in the Middle East. A coup attempt in Algiers in 1958 shook the Fourth Republic to pieces, but Charles de Gaulle regained power and enacted reforms that established the Fifth Republic.

The Visitation: Already wracked by internal struggle, the world seemed to come to an end in the fateful year of 1961. Alien life visited Earth, however shortly, and changed everything. Stunned citizens across the world watched the strange beings come and stay for a short while, then leave as quickly as they arrived. Scientists tried and failed to contact them. Yet while their visit shook institutions like the Catholic Church, the aliens would leave far more worldly and permanent marks on the world. Materials left behind, perhaps spare parts or trash from the visitors, tumbled down to Earth. Mainland France was spared the damage and chaos that much of the world experienced, but this was not the same for its African colonies. Anomalous zones and New-Langium Compounds began developing across the deserts of Algeria and other regions, forming strange and terrifying phenomenon. The world did not end, but France’s internal struggles did: its troubles with decolonization were suddenly overshadowed by the visitors’ leftovers.

Recent History: France remained alone on the European continent after the visitation, but the paradigm was shifting in their favor. As the value of NLCs became known the world at large, the old guard of French politicians recognized their opportunity for advancement. Plans to grant Algeria’s independence were thrown to the wayside as French military forces seized and secured anomalous zones. Weak governments in Mali and Congo were powerless to stop French “treaties” demanding military and scientific bases in their land. The French Foreign Legion’s latest campaign was to spearhead the probe into anomalous zones to discover their secrets. Many of these men experienced firsthand the horror of the zones, but the survivors would go on to develop the advanced technology and tactics that are now common for zone operations. French scientists spent years studying and developing NLCs into useful technologies, the windfall of which was almost reminiscent of the original Langium discoveries.

A severe break with the old world came in the 1980s, as the United States began to encroach upon its neighbors in a desperate struggle for survival. Canada became a victim of American imperialism, forcing the French into a shadow war in Quebec. Refugees were airlifted out of Montreal by French Air Force planes as forces from an American-backed coup in Ottawa descended upon the loyalists fighting there. This was the final straw for the French, who recognized that the United States was no longer an ally. NATO itself split into two blocs, and a vote of the European nations charged France with its leadership. Reluctantly forced into the world stage, France now had to come to terms with its new role in the world. In 1984, in a gesture designed to symbolically break with the United States, France directed NATO to speak in the previously secondary language of French for all further operations and utilize its Francophone acronym “OTAN.”

French influence is now undeniable as the country once again takes up its mantle in the world. For the first time since its colonial ambitions in the 18th century, the French would be a major player on the world stage. Langium and NLC-based technology fueled a boom in French and European economies, with robotics, computing, and space travel now active projects in French industrial and scientific communities. It has taken a seat at the UN Security Council and operates in the air, space, and sea with advanced technologies across the world. With the tireless work of its government institutions, France seems poised to lead the march to discover more about the aliens, visitation, and Langium itself.

Pressing Issues: From its position of strength, France is primed to research the anomalous zones and NLCs across the world. However, bad actors seek to utilize NLCs for their own goals. Terrorist groups from colonial possessions overseas, criminal syndicates, and even cultists seek to smuggle and proliferate NLC artifacts on a daily basis. Additionally, France’s status as a global power brings it into routine conflict with the US and Soviet Union both overtly and covertly. Only time will tell if the French can effectively manage their newfound responsibilities in a changed world.

Budget: Officially released French budgetary statistics as of Fiscal Year 1990.

OTAN

Name: North Atlantic Treaty Organization (Organisation du Traité de l'Atlantique Nord)

Government: OTAN is an intergovernmental military alliance consisting of European member states. OTAN is governed by the terms of the North Atlantic Treaty of 1949, which lays out multiple standards of military interoperability, cooperation, conflict resolution, and mutual aid. Key to the alliance is the NAT's clause of mutual defense, known as Article 5. OTAN leadership is represented by the the Conseil de l'Atlantique Nord at a political level, headed by the civilian Secrétaire Général de l'OTAN. OTAN forces are commanded on a military strategic level by the Comité Militaire de l'OTAN which is lead by the Président du CMO, the premier military advisor to the Secrétaire Général. OTAN forces are then commanded and controlled by a variety of lower level headquarters and task forces.

Territory: OTAN consists of the following member states: Belgium, Denmark, France, Greece, Iceland, Italy, Luxembourg, the Netherlands, Norway, Portugal, Spain, Turkey, West Germany, and the United Kingdom. The QPG in Quebec is a military government administered by OTAN, with plans to integrate the country of Quebec upon stabilization of nation-building there. Its headquarters is located in Brussels, Belgium.

History: NATO began in 1949 after the Second World War as a collective defense agreement between the countries of Western Europe now facing a Soviet threat from the east.

Pre-Visitation: NATO was formally established on April 4th, 1949 as a collection of twelve countries signing the North Atlantic Treaty guaranteeing formal defense against a potential Soviet invasion. The expansion of NATO's command took place during and directly following the Korean War once it became obvious that Communist nations actively sought to fight against the West. This was formalized with the adoption of the Warsaw Pact in Eastern Europe in 1955. NATO did not engage in any major combat operations, instead training and preparing for a Third World War with the Soviets. Several other countries such as Greece, Turkey, and West Germany joined the alliance during the 1950s.

By 1958, however, France sought to undermine the alliance by its full withdrawal and began the process of leaving the alliance. Charles de Gaulle, seeking to reestablish the French state's power after years of troubles brought on by decolonization, declared that they were to support themselves as a third party. Plans were made for all non-French NATO soldiers and materiel to leave the country, causing NATO headquarters and offices to relocate to Belgium. The process for withdrawal from NATO was never completed, however, with the events of 1961.

The Visitation: Along with most military forces, NATO was scrambled to full readiness when it became apparent that extraterrestrial life had suddenly arrived on Earth. Combat air patrols were scrambled and NATO forces received orders from the command to begin loading nuclear weapons in anticipation of an invasion. NATO's first war was not going to be with the Soviets, but with alien invaders. For the first and only time, NATO and Warsaw Pact planes flew joint missions in an attempt to interdict the alien ships, but none were successful. Russian and Western forces shared targeting data as nuclear weapons were targeted against the visitors. But as quickly as they arrived, the aliens left before NATO could escalate. Their leftovers, NLC artifacts, became the next issue as NATO reeled from the encounter with the rest of the world.

Recent History: NATO became an afterthought for the countries of Western Europe as The Visitation's upheavals replaced global war with a series of national free-for-alls. NATO was never officially dissolved, but NATO command was relegated to a skeleton crew with no real importance. Multinational drills and exercises, once a staple of NATO operations, ceased almost entirely to exist. Standardization of equipment slowed to a standstill as countries saw themselves in their own fights with Langium and NLC collection. Operations in contaminated "red zones" were undertaken by the national military forces of NATO member states alone, rather than alongside coalitions.

The United States, hit particularly hard with the brunt of NLC contamination, had become a massive thorn in the side of other NATO states during the 1970s. Its government turned more authoritarian and isolationist, creating feuds with its former allies as the situation there continued to deteriorate. In 1981, the unthinkable happened, as the US invaded its Canadian neighbor in the pursuit of more resources. NATO was a shell of its former self, unable to prevent infighting between two countries who were part of the same alliance. The decision was made unilaterally by France to send military equipment to oppose American forces in Canada, airlifting Quebecois citizens out of the country as NATO floundered in providing a solution. While large-scale war never broke out, combat was reported between NATO member countries in the Canadian theater during this operation.

The consequences of the Canadian conflict were severe. NATO cut out the United States and its new proxy Canada from their command structures. A vote was held without the United States to censure them and remove them from the alliance, which passed in 1983. Rudderless without the United States' massive military contributions, NATO struggled to keep above water again until Europe convened to vote on a leader. France, in a unique position of strength, was voted to lead the alliance. In an ironic turn, France switched from leaving the alliance to assuming command of Western Europe's military forces. The switch was completed in 1984, with NATO finally changing its name in official documentation to its Francophone translation: OTAN. Curiously, a joint command in the United States and Canada still refers to themselves as "NATO" despite not being considered the legitimate heir to the alliance.

In light of the conflict in Canada, OTAN was once again taken seriously by the French and other member states. A process of reintegration and reorganization was undertaken, with the French government providing the new bulk of funding and military forces for the alliance. While much of this could be seen as the French utilizing OTAN as a tool for their own foreign policy goals, the alliance was strengthened immensely over the latter half of the 1980s. French soldiers began training and working with other Western Europeans, with a different focus. OTAN's old backer, the United States, became its new primary adversary.

Pressing Issues: OTAN's first true combat mission is in defense of the Quebec Provisional Government following the collapse of the Canadian government. Weakened by the events of The Visitation, OTAN is operating in a highly complex, cutthroat world with little experience in large-scale deployments. The question of global war supercharged by NLC-based weaponry is once again on the command's mind as it prepares to return to Canadian soil for another round of conflict.

Quebec

Name: Quebec Provisional Government (Gouvernement Provisoire du Québec)

Government: With the deteriorating security situation in Canada and the deployment of OTAN forces to maintain control, the QPG has not been formally established in any capacity. It does, however, maintain a charter of governance for when the nation is stabilized. Quebec is planned to be governed by a parliamentary system similar to its provincial government (albeit with national decision-making power) before the collapse of Canadian sovereignty in the 1980s.

Leaders in the movement, exiled to France or other Francophone states, vary in political leanings. Time will tell if these individuals, local parties, and exiled government elements will form factions within the sovereignty movement or if they will coalesce into formal Quebecois political parties. The integration of militias and armed resistance fighters into QPG political and military organizations will require significant reintegration and moderation to return to civil society upon the establishment of a Quebecois state.

Territory: Quebec claims its former provincial territory in Canada, which represents the limit of advance for French and OTAN peacekeeping forces.

Quebecois borders (light blue) co-located with the OTAN area of operation (dark blue hashes):

Characters

Government & Politics

> Executive Branch & Cabinet

- Antoine Renault: Minister of Economy and Finance, or Bercy. Blind and old, he still shows cunning skills to manage the complicated macroeconomics of France.
- François-Jean de Mer: President of France.
- Frank Chirac: Minister of Ecology. His struggle to balance environmental concerns with NLC contamination reaches the tipping point during the SS Faure disaster.
- Jacques Perrier: Minister of the Overseas, the French ministry for overseas territories. Politically ambitious, he seeks a stake in the production and transport of Langium materials.
- Laurent Fortin: Minister of Defense. Secretly directing the application of NLCs to military research and development and a big proponent of French military dominance.
- Richard de Normandie: Prime Minister of France. A hard worker loyal to President de Mer and his political party, keeping the ministers in line and in lockstep to run the government.
- Roxana Masson: Minister of Higher Education, Research, and Innovation. She, along with Doctor Delacroix, manage a new era of NLC research.
- Simone Mooradian: Minister of Foreign Affairs. Instrumental to organizing worldwide cooperation via the UN with Brazil.

Industry and Economy

> Chantiers de l’Atlantique

- Paul Bernard: Chief engineer for the design of the SS Camille Alphonse Faure. An industry veteran and a strict manager.
- Pierre Laurent: Langium engineer on the SS Faure project. An old petrochemical engineer who retrained himself to get into the business of Langium-based energy.
- Mohammad Zardani: Lebanese-born electrical engineer on the SS Faure project. Young and inexperienced, he becomes central to an investigation after the catastrophic accident onboard.

Military

> Brigade des Sapeurs-Pompiers de Paris (Paris Fire Brigade)

- Alex Lejeune: Officer of the BSPP emergency response unit, a first responder to the SS Faure disaster.

> 2e REI, Légion Étrangère (2nd Foreign Infantry Regiment)

- Charles Zalewski: ZR-23 patrol drone operator. Hailing from Eastern Europe, he escaped to the West as a teenager and, being unable to hold down a job, joined the Legion.
- Jacques Dumont: ZR-23 patrol master driver. A former Quebecois resistance fighter who fled after the Canadians capitulated to an American invasion.
- Patrick von Möller: ZR-23 patrol systems operator. Not much is known about his childhood, besides mentions of trouble with West Berlin street gangs.
- Gerard Lemas: ZR-23 patrol NCOIC. Natively French, he is a stern no-nonsense adjutant and a veteran of many deployments to the Zone.

> 3e REI, Légion Étrangère (3rd Foreign Infantry Regiment)

- Leon d'Avout: ZR-10 patrol NCOIC. Another French NCO, accustomed to the violent and brutal realities of the mutated South American jungle.

> Organisation du Traité de l'Atlantique Nord (North Atlantic Treaty Organization)

- Arthur Kohl: West German attaché to the OTAN Canada operations staff.
-Clara Fillion: Staff officer in OTAN headquarters. Operations officer heavily involved with the OTAN task force deployment to Canada.
- Guy Depree: Senior OTAN staff OIC for Canada.

Science & Academia

> CERN (European Organization for Nuclear Research)

- Arthur Delacroix: Head of Langium research. The utmost subject matter expert of French Langium research, with an important chair position in CERN and an advisory role to the top levels of French government.
- Émile Verne: Chief of Langium space science applications. An up-and-coming veteran of the French space program, focused on the application of Langium physics for power generation and propulsion.

Technology and Equipment

Consumer Electronics

> PDAs: PDAs and palm-pilots remain popular sources of personal data management. Able to interface with computers both at home and work, PDAs are common amongst the general population. This explosion in popularity has led to advancements in internet-based personal communication including electronic mail and SMS messaging. PDA technology featuring navigation aides and maintenance assistance are even featured in personal automobiles.

> Robotic Pets: Robotic pets have become popular amongst French urbanites as technology allows for increasingly lifelike behavior. They began as replacements for service dogs, with robotic animals able to provide more robust aid to the blind or sick. Over time, they have been adopted as mess-free and talkative alternatives to traditional pets.

> Smart Homes: A frequent amenity available to French homeowners or renters is the adoption of smart home technology in an "Internet of Things." Smart homes are able to link every facet of life together through a miniature central mainframe per apartment or house. Air conditioning, telephone and internet communication, scheduling, personal data maintenance, and even appliances are able to be linked to a primitive artificial intelligence that automates daily life. Often assigned personas by their owners, these AIs are able to take telephone messages, make coffee, and wake up their homeowners in case of emergency.

Ground Vehicles

> Hovercars: A top secret, experimental program of record within the French Armée de Terre to produce an armored vehicle capable of hovering over mines and explosive hazards on the ground. While NLC compounds can produce lift in specific vehicles, French engineers have been unable to develop sufficiently agile control of antigravity technology. The hovercar project has stalled and is in danger of cancellation, pending outside assistance in its engineering challenges.

> Red Zone Cruisers: Massive, twelve-wheeled armored all-terrain vehicles that function as mobile bases for French forces in permissive Red Zones. Inside, crews of eight are able to live and patrol limited only by the food they can bring with them in a cruiser's storage compartment. They exist in several variants designed to accomplish any mission in NLC-contaminated zones. They are heavily armed and armored against extraterrestrial threats, weather, and disturbances. These vehicles are easily three-to-four times as large as contemporary MRAP-type vehicles like the South African Casspir.

> Red Zone Unmanned Ground Vehicles: Derived from rovers sent to explore extraterrestrial planets such as Mars, the French forces in Red Zones frequently utilize robotic vehicles to exploit and analyze NLC artifacts. Capable of being equipped with any permutation of sensor and manipulator, the UGVs are piloted remotely. There are often one or two in a Red Zone patrol driven out of a cruiser's drone terminal.

Personal Equipment

> CED Suits: Officially designated the Combinaison pour Environnement Dangereux, or Hazardous Environment Suit, the CED suit was developed for Legionnaires operating dismounted in the Red Zones. The design has matured since its initial introduction in the 1970s to become a sleek exoskeleton and survival suit for a variety of tasks. They are mostly seen equipped by military units or civilian rescue personnel operating in contaminated areas, and provide protection against the elements. Armor plating is able to protect personnel against mutant creatures and physical attacks inside a Red Zone.

> FÉLIN System: The FÉLIN program is the formal grouping of all French future soldier technologies. Various technologies involving the integration of data with the infantryman exist in various forms, from heads-up-displays to soldier-worn sensors. The most iconic implementation of the FÉLIN system enables a CED suited soldier to combine data from across the battlefield and utilize his PAPOP rifle to outmatch any foe in range.

> PAPOP Rifle: The PAPOP rifle is a radical new fusion of small arms and direct-fire explosive projection. Inspired by the American OICW program, the PAPOP rifle combines a standard OTAN rifle caliber with a 25mm smart grenade launcher that directly links to FÉLIN infantry computers. This allows the operator to effectively engage targets in the open and behind cover. It is considered the most cutting-edge infantry weapon in the French inventory and is typically only issued to CED suit-equipped elites.

Space Infrastructure

> GALILEO GPS: GALILEO is the OTAN global positioning system. Developed initially for military use, GALILEO powers everything from blue force vehicle tracking to personal FÉLIN soldier sensors. GALILEO has been further developed and refined to provide unclassified but less precise data to consumer markets, which frequently are used in all modes of transportation from the personal to the industrial scale.

> SÉMAPHORE COMSAT: SÉMAPHORE is the codename for the French government's orbital network of satellite communications and satellite internet. While its name is derived from the French invention of the optical telegram, SÉMAPHORE allows for French and OTAN communication in a near-instant fashion across the entire globe.

> Space Stations: France operates space stations of varying size in both military and civilian capacities. While the true number and nature of the stations, nicknamed Les Quais, remains classified, it is estimated that France maintains a number in the teens with sizes varying from small research habitats of less than a dozen crew to a handful of massive stations with upwards of 100 personnel aboard. These represent the pinnacle of French aerospace engineering and are her foothold in space.

Precipice Of War: The Reboot of a Reboot

Mexico City, Distrito Federal
June 1955

The Palacio Nacional was a flurry of activity the next morning, with no fewer than four motorcades lined up in front of the grand complex of lavish buildings. A traffic policeman hurriedly waved his hands and blew his whistle to stop civilian traffic on José María Pino Suárez Street as a dozen black staff cars crowded the sidewalk edge. Most of them bore flags and placards of Mexican government ministries, except for a curious set of vehicles in the back waving small flags depicting the rising sun of Japan. From those vehicles, two men emerged: Ambassador Saburo Ito, with a dark suit and a serious look upon his face, took the lead over a man in a tan double-breasted military uniform topped with yellow shoulderboards adorned by shining silver stars. Both of them shaded their faces from the public with brimmed hats; a fedora and a round service cap.

The Japanese officials disappeared into the Palacio Nacional along with the other parties, before two stern Mexican troopers carrying rifles closed a set of wooden doors behind them. The group passed through a sally-port to emerge in a cobblestone-floored courtyard boxed in by arched windows. A solitary fountain trickled peacefully in the center. To the president, who was waiting in the center flanked by his aides and guards, the courtyard had always reminded him of Rome and classical Italy. Herrera stood beside Álvarez: the two men could almost be mistaken for brothers, with their tall, skinny frames and light skin. While Álvarez remained clean shaven and impeccably groomed to the latest fashion, Herrera allowed himself a mustache and longer hair that bordered on unruly. A movie star next to a politician from a history book.

The Mexicans shook hands with the Japanese. Ambassador Ito went through the line of seniority, introducing himself first to Admiral Aguilar before moving on to the next man. The Japanese general came next, with a rigid personality befitting the notorious Imperial Japanese Army’s strict seriousness. The short and stocky naval officer shook the pair’s hands and nodded at the Japanese general officer, surveying the shin guntō sword affixed to the man’s hip. Aguilar was famed in nautical circles for his interest in blades as a hobby. He had made his own officer’s uniform sword at a self-made forge in his hacienda near the navy base at Veracruz, a fact that he bragged about to every foreign officer he met. In return, the Japanese general gave only a slight nod to acknowledge the presence of a fellow warrior.

“Welcome, Mr. Ito,” greeted the next man in the line with a firm handshake. Minister Gabriel Torres was yet another retired general in service with the Mexican government, a longstanding tradition since the Revolution of the 1910s. He was not one for small talk, and quickly passed the Japanese ambassador onto the president standing next to him. He did the same for the general, before clasping his hands in front of his waist and waiting for Álvarez to finish the introductions.

“Thank you for meeting me with such short notice,” Ambassador Ito said to Álvarez in accented Spanish. His words were measured and deliberate, much like his actions.

“This is nothing, Mr. Ito. I appreciate your outreach to us,” coolly replied the president with a smile. “The fact that you trusted me with such a sensitive request means our nations’ friendship is unshakable.”

“I agree. We have to remain close now that there are uncertain times ahead. Allies are few and far between. I feel we are the precipice of war, or at least something close to it,” the Japanese ambassador said, a hint of sagely wisdom creeping into his voice. President Álvarez didn’t know if he was misinterpreting a Japanese saying or not, but the message came across clearly nonetheless.

“Well then, let us continue.”

The party finished their introductions, with the Japanese ambassador walking alongside the Mexican president as they went into the government palace. The military officials trailed behinds, their aides now catching up to them carrying satchels of documents. Torres nodded to Álvarez and slipped past the group, catching up to a Colonel in his more drab service uniform as opposed to the more ceremonial dress of Aguilar: a black leather briefcase was handcuffed to his hand, containing nothing but a notebook with the combination of the lock to what had become known as the “war room.” Behind a steel door in a reinforced concrete room built just recently, the room had been constructed at the behest of the War Ministry in anticipation of a future global conflict.

The door opened to reveal a humble vestibule with only two sets of wooden chairs lining either wall of the passageway. The Mexican and Japanese delegation crowded uncomfortably inside as Torres escorted the Colonel to unlock a second hefty metal door with another combination lock. With a metallic click, the door opened much like a ship’s hatch, squeaking as it revealed the main section of the war room. A world map appeared dramatically at the other end of the room with placards and strings depicting the great powers’ military forces arrayed as closely as Mexican intelligence could analyze. Two other blow-up maps were on similarly sized boards angled to the left and right of the world map, one depicting the US-Mexico border in its entirety, and the other one revealing the detailed locations of ships and military units scattered across the Caribbean.

Álvarez invited the delegation to sit at one end of the table where another map had been laid out. Two officers emerged from the staff sections at either wing of the war room with briefing aids and files marked “ULTRA SECRETO.” One laid out copies to each of the Japanese and Mexican officials while the other, a Major who looked like he had just risen to the rank, prepared some icons and symbols to pin on the map of the Caribbean to their side.

“We received a telegram from your Army Minister, Masami Hojo, last night,” Herrera said. Torres and Álvarez nodded in agreement. “We understand what the Japanese government wishes. Luckily, there needs to be no preparation of planning and only discussions of how we’ll execute.”

Herrera deferred to Torres, who took charge of the conversation in his authoritative tone. He had given many such briefings before, to soldiers and diplomats and politicians alike. His voice was sternly confident, a sure commander who followed a simple rule to always at least appear to know what he was doing. “If you open the secret documents in front of you, this is our war plan for a fight against the British in the Caribbean. It was developed many years ago and has been continuously refined as you yourselves have gone to war. Don’t think we didn’t suspect this day would happen.”

The War Minister shot a grin to Ambassador Ito, who merely nodded with a serious look on his face. President Álvarez cocked an eyebrow at the exchange, silently musing about the strictly businesslike nature of the Japanese men with their dark suits and round glasses. It was good to have these warriors on their side, at least, even if they didn’t know how to throw a party or crack a joke.

“On a large scale,” continued Torres, “our first step would be to identify and track down British forces capable of transport or rapid attack against our own fleet.”

He pointed to the Major manning the map of the Caribbean, who withdrew a pointer stick and began tapping red ship icons in the ocean. “The British don’t have a lot here, currently,” interrupted Aguilar. “They’ve withdrawn a lot of their ships, ironically to fight you.”

“This, we know,” stated the Japanese general plainly. All of the Mexicans turned to look at him, surprised after he shattered their assumption that he would not speak unless spoken to by a superior. “We came to you to keep them divided from us.”

Aguilar paused a second, allowing for the War Minister to take back over. “Correct. Our plan will simultaneously consist of patrolling and blockading strategic targets in an order of precedence while we prepare our land invasions. British garrisons in the Caribbean are run down, underfunded, and regiments have been withdrawn to handle their crises at home and in the Pacific. We are the perfect opportunity to launch an attack against critical components of their imperial pride and resource export.”

Torres called the Major to begin his movement of Mexican military symbols from bases across the south of Mexico the British colony in Belize. “Most of these targets will be symbolic to British prestige at home,” explained Torres. “Belizeans are a bunch of banana and sugar farmers, with some rich pinche Británicos going on holiday there.”

The Admiral continued, offering his military perspective. “We have drilled the staff exercises to accomplish an attack on these Caribbean possessions in two weeks. A month if they put up stiff resistance, which is unlikely considering the British drawdowns. But our goal is the Belize City garrison alongside its government house. With that taken, the country will be ours. We don’t have to worry about a militant population, and in fact it is highly likely the local Belizeans will take our side on the matter.”

“That is a bold assumption to make,” challenged the Japanese general again, leading forward to the table.

“You are used to your vicious wars with enemy empires,” Aguilar countered, the point of his argument having instantly materialized in his head. His knowledge of history matched his fascination with swordmaking. “Years of war with Russia where your presence has been as an invader, and a foreign one at that. So foreign, in fact, that nobody could have ever thought an Oriental power could challenge a European in years prior. You are the yellow Japanese against white Russians! Of course there will be partisans to sabotage you behind enemy lines. We are liberators to Belize.”

The Japanese general scowled at Admiral Aguilar, who suddenly realized how continental he had sounded with his comments. Immediately, the Mexican added: “We commend your country for its fight. You are an inspiration to us who seek glory outside of the European continent. But you must understand how our wars are not the same.”

Placated for now, the Japanese man offered a grunt of acknowledgement and leaned back into his chair. Ambassador Ito watched the scene and offered his input. “What kind of pressure will this put onto the British? I wish to develop a full report to the Army Ministry on how they can expect your contributions will change this war.”

“A naval task force, at least. Most likely initially drawn from colonial fleets like South Africa or other possessions, since they would want to send a response but our theater would be less important than yours,” Torres replied in an officially commanding manner, rapidly quenching the heated discussion between the two military men that threatened to become a counterproductive match of bickering debate. “Royal Marines from the British Isles proper would also need to be deployed to retake these possessions, as the British do not have amphibious capabilities even from their most fortified base in Bermuda.”

The Japanese ambassador nodded. Torres flipped through the next few pages of the file. “There is a sequential plan after that consisting of an amphibious attack on the Cayman Islands. Again, another holiday destination for the British. There is a local police station there that will surrender or be quickly dispatched by the marinas. We have two more targets on the list after Belize that should prove more difficult, but serve to expand the theater to draw in more British to our Caribbean killzone.”

The Major at the wall pushed two separate task force icons from Mexico to islands in the sea. The largest one went to Jamaica, while another cruised south until it assembled by a island labeled in small print as Trinidad and Tobago.

“Our campaign on the British West Indies concludes with attacks on Jamaica and Trinidad. These are identified as the two largest remaining garrisons of British troops and are important for different reasons. Jamaica is the ‘crown jewel’ of British Caribbean assets, while Trinidad and Tobago is inherently important to the oil exports from the area.”

Both Ito and the Japanese general perked up at the mention of petroleum, a key topic of discussion In Japanese military circles. The basis of their imperial conquests could be boiled down to the search to acquire oil, rubber, and other industrial materials. The Japanese, long reliant on imports much like the British themselves, were in a unique position to understand how disrupting even a small part of the sensitive oil import system could yield important operational results. Trinidadian oil, even if it made up a small percentage of British imports, could make the difference between a fleet or army movement that a skilled Japanese leader could deftly exploit.

“Again, these are lightly defended compared to their value as targets. Kingston in Jamaica maintains the largest British garrison outside of Bermuda, but we have a numerical advantage with our amphibious infantry and naval assets. Trinidad and Tobago has most of their targeting focused on oil refineries and the industrial areas there.”

The next steps of the briefing consisted of a reconsolidation of Mexican forces to secure their gains. They would prepare for a British counterattack towards the islands, with a Royal Navy task force being drawn from diverse colonies. The Major demonstrated on the board as the British forces assembled and steamed towards the Caribbean, where they were quickly entrapped by Mexican naval forces in a series of hit-and-run attacks. British amphibious forces that survived would be outmatched by the defensive positions on the islands. To the Mexicans, it was a simple problem of geography that could be solved quickly and violently. It took cues from the Japanese strategy of island-hopping, a point that was not lost on the Japanese attaché in the meeting.

“The strategy is sound then,” Ito stated, closing his notebook after taking down several pertinent notes in Japanese. The Mexican war plans were never allowed to leave the room, so he was transcribing as much general information as he could: in the background, another officer had been standing silently behind the Japanese men with his hands clasped in front of his waist. A fluent speaker of Japanese, his job was solely to monitor the ambassador as he took down classified notes. Ito, a veteran of foreign service, recognized the unwritten rules in place here, and respectfully kept his notebook free of specifics outside of what was considered acceptable by diplomatic etiquette. “Our concern comes to politics, then.”

President Álvarez leaned forward to the table and locked eyes with Ambassador Ito. “Don’t worry about that, my friend,” he said. “I’ll work with Congress. We have our avenues to do this, and the warhawks are more than happy for an opportunity to show off.”

Álvarez was, as Ito suspected, talking about the Americans. A fight with the British, a quick and easy demonstration of Mexican capabilities, was worth more than every parade and exercise from the past decade combined. The British and Americans had similar doctrines, forces, and structure. A quick conflict in the Caribbean would certainly light some fires underneath American military planners and change the calculus.

Ambassador Ito leaned back into his chair and made a humming noise. The Japanese were on relatively good terms with the Americans, so the Mexicans would just be looking for trouble on their own. That was their problem. “Then I trust you can make the necessary diplomatic arrangements,” the Japanese diplomat said simply.

“I will let you know when we start our campaign, if the newspapers don’t tell you already,” Álvarez replied with a nod. With an elegant motion, practiced in countless meetings during his time in politics, the president waved his hand and stood from his seat at the table. “Well, I think we have a plan going forward. Let’s retire to work our own ends.”

The Japanese delegation and the Mexican military men all rose behind him, nodding and gathering their documents. Aides rushed to secure them in satchels and briefcases before standing obediently beside their superior officers. The Mexican staff officers in the war room began to erase their notes and remove their icons from the map boards, sanitizing the briefing so that they could resume their daily operations later. Álvarez and his officials escorted the Japanese from the room, passing through the security partition again before heading up from the basement of the palace. In the courtyard where they had met just a short time before, they engaged with the niceties of diplomatic conduct and bid their farewells.

After the Japanese and Mexicans shook hands, the Ambassador and his attaché were escorted to the waiting motorcade on José María Pino Suárez Street. The gates of the Palacio Nacional closed shut behind them, and soldiers in ceremonial dress took their places flanking the wrought-iron metalwork. With little fanfare, the Japanese boarded their black diplomatic cars and drove away, leaving the seat of Mexican power to assess their own situation at the embassy. As the Japanese returned to their embassy, situated alongside the plain and unadorned Glorieta de la Palma roundabout just fifteen minutes from the palace, the Mexicans returned to work to make the necessary preparations.

Star Wars - Jedi Exile

I can try and get in a post now that I'm off for the weekend and holiday. What's a good plan to get folks working and meeting up in this bar?

Star Wars - Jedi Exile

@The Wyrmi be rollin into yo bar

Star Wars - Jedi Exile

A team of four was looking for something, probing sensors at the trash piles that crept up along the sides of the dilapidated tenement’s walls. Another set had gone inside to investigate further, but the ones on the outside were close to reaching their prize: a hidden repulsorlift station, once a part of a section mass transit system that connected to a series of trains and people-movers underground. It was now a quick and easy way to get to Terry’s territory in the underground. He had planned on escaping through the station, but the clones in his way were proving quite the issue. Hidden a block away under his veil, Terry pondered the options.

The clones drew closer to the lift station, when Terry noticed the shape of a hitherto unremarkable abandoned speeder. Colored bright yellow and bearing the markings of the Lower Coruscant City maintenance department, it carried a large flatbed where rusted crates had obviously been pilfered and left to sit among the elements. It lay, abandoned and unused for many years, in a similar pile of debris and detritus. It also gave Terry an idea.

The clones were directly in front of the station now, but could also be seen from where the speeder was parked. It was a straight line from the parking spot to them: Terry confirmed this as he crouched in the shadows and slowly walked to the vehicle, careful to avoid wrappers or paper or anything else that could make a crunch or a snap to give away his position. He knew he only had one shot at this. Terry reached the door of the yellow speeder and peered inside to the cockpit, its windows having long since been broken by hooligans. The control panel dimly glowed, indicating at least some functionality. With an eye on the clones, Terry found himself a plasteel block that lay shattered on the ground and weighed it in his hand. It would do.

With a swift sleight of hand, he punched the start-up button in the cockpit. The speeder suddenly roared to life, groaning and straining as its ageing parts spun back to life. The clones leapt towards the source of the noise, yelling and raising their weapons. At the same time, Terry tossed the brick inside towards the pedal and it found purchase. The speeder whined as it accelerated to full power, the crates rattling and falling off the back as their rotted straps broke under the sudden force. It happened in seconds: the clones began firing, expertly aiming their shots for the speeder’s cabin. Unfortunately for them, there was no driver to kill in the cockpit.

Three clones knelt almost shoulder to shoulder, firing their blasters before they realized what was happening. One yelped at the others to take cover, but the speeder was too fast. All three of them impacted on the hood of the cockpit, with one being viciously impaled by the pointed tip of a repulsor pod. Another rolled under the speeder, his armor singed and burned as he was caught by the hot antigravity wash of the speeder’s propulsion system. The third was flipped across the top, a ragdoll in the air as he cartwheeled down the alley. Terry followed the speeder at a brisk walk and waited for the clone to hit the ground with a thud. His helmet’s facepiece had been broken and cracked, with a trickle of blood coming out towards his cheek.

The clone reached for a weapon but found none: his blaster was several meters away. Terry didn’t wait for him to develop a secondary plan before he delivered a blaster shot duly to the back of the clone’s head. A fourth clone sprinted into the alley, having dropped his sensor package to unholster a pistol on his hip. Terry shot him too, in the chest and the face, watching the clone drop to the ground. The other two were obviously out of commission and the speeder had crashed into the wall and was now on fire. Terry moved quickly to the station before any backup could be called. Before he descended down the stairs, he withdrew a grenade from his pocket. It was set to proximity explosive mode, and he tossed it into one of the many piles of trash next to the entrance. A surprise for the tracking party.

The dirty lift still worked, maintained by the various people who came in and out of the undercity. One of them with a particular sense of humor had replaced the elevator music speaker with a consistent loop of cantina jazz. Terry found himself tapping his foot to the beat as he dropped into the depths of the undercity. A rare moment of respite allowed him to think: The Repub- no, it’s the Empire now. Shit. They’ve all gone crazy.

Through the grime-smeared window he could see he was finally ending the journey. This lift dropped him straight into the cantina district underneath the Temple. An irony he much appreciated when he came here to relax in anonymity. He had a safehouse here too, one that he had taken after he shot a dealer in a territory dispute over whose gang owned a notoriously profitable deathstick dealing corner. Terry had fished the man’s apartment keys right off the charred body after two of his colleagues had done a speeder drive-by of a café where he liked to hang out. Whatever, he continued to think: They’re still trying to kill me, so I’ll still try to kill them.

The alley he landed in was long since blacked-out and nobody had bothered to fix the lights. What Terry noticed first was the familiar smell of the underworld: an industrial, stale smell that reminded him of a starship. That, combined with the artificial lights hung on scaffolding below the “real” city above, made him feel like he was back on a Techno Union freighter again. It was oddly comforting. Terry made for a blue-and-red-lighted bar that he knew to be one of the hubs for his informants and connections. While he had heard the announcements above, he still needed someone to get him the bigger picture.

Edit: I guess @The Wyrm @Sep @Odin too...