To Slip the Surly Bonds of Earth

[The Batorys]

Prologue

October 16th, 1945, and April 21st, 1946, by the Gregorian Calender, bracketed the sixth month period that would forever change the nature of the relationship between two ancient empires... a relationship that had been essentially unchanged for over a thousand years previous. For almost a millennium and a half, the two empires had fought, each constantly a thorn in the side of the other... starting with nomadic groups affiliated with the Batory clan commonly raiding in Sevarisian lands... and things only got worse when Empress Sarkany Batory's march south was halted in 765 CE, Sevaris apparently serving as the southern limit of her conquests. There is some speculation that the Batorys for their part carried a grudge from even earlier, perhaps even from the First Empire... but that matters little, as eventually the feud created enmity that seemed to sustain itself, regardless of the original reasons, especially after the belief emerged in some parts of Sevarisian society that the apocalypse foretold in the Book of Revelation would be announced by Batory hordes streaming over the border. War was a familiar specter, despite the Batory Empire having little to show for attempts to gain territory from their southern neighbors after the reign of Sarkany the Dragoness. Despite the futility, the two could not seem to make any peace agreement last for long. There was always some minor incident to turn into justification. Thousands would then die, some land and perhaps a city or two would be exchanged, depending on who'd done better, and then an uneasy time of rebuilding and rearming would ensue before the whole process started again. Sometimes Sevaris would get more land, sometimes the Batorys would. Always the same.

The gravity of conflict is always apparent to those who die in it, but even given that this is the case, the Trans-Euxine War was different. It was everything quintessential to the dysfunctional relationship between the two powers; it began with a minor exchange of small arms fire in December 1924 as is reckoned on the Gregorian Calendar, ballooned outward until it was a total war encompassing the whole of both societies, and in the end, after countless lay dead, when the smoke cleared in early 1931, very little had changed in the balance of power and borders between the two states.

Yet it was different than all the others. The period of peace before the war had been unusually long. One would think this might be a good thing, but in fact, it only meant that military tactics had been nearly static during a period of unprecedented technological innovation. Weapons, improved only at a gradual pace in the centuries prior, had changed drastically since the last major war. Maneuvers that once had been successful now seemed impotent, and those that had once merely been risky now were suicidal. Military air arms changed the nature of the front, punishing dearly those who clung to old habits. Horrifying new weapons joined those already in use during the middle of the war. Millions died. Millions more were left physically maimed. And millions who'd escaped these fates would carry mental scars with them through their whole lives. Some of these, haunted forever by what they had seen, succumbed to their mental wounds, taking their own lives, unable to bear the horror they'd seen young men and women reduced to. As overly romanticized as heroics and glory of war always had been, even in past wars, such things were dead and buried within the first year or two of this new conflict.

The peace of 1931 was not a satisfying one, for anyone. Equal peaces never are, but that it came after the sacrifice of so many resources, and more importantly, so many lives, made those who survived all the more bitter. What had millions died for? Who even knew what the war had been about? It had quickly become apparent during the war that neither the Batory Empire nor the Empire of Sevaris was going to push through and topple the other, even if that had ever been an aim (for the Batory Empire, of course, it had not, but dreams of crushing the heathen power to the north often surfaced in Sevarisian politics). There were some transfers of territory, as mentioned, as Sevaris gained a spit of territory that had formerly been part of the Batory province of Dacia, and in return the Batorys secured a concession in the form of Sevaris releasing some territory along the border in the east, which would then be formed into nominally independent states, as a sort of buffer zone. Overall, the benefits to either side were paltry. No one could say with a straight face that the countless deaths had meant anything, that an appalling number of lives had not been wasted. There was a common recognition that those who had died... had died in vain. The next decade was one of discontent for both societies, and both Emperor Andronikos Dragas of Sevaris and Empress Lujza Batory likely deserve credit for holding their respective states together at a time when the populace of both could not have felt more adrift.

Somewhat less laudable, but also unsurprising, and perhaps, given the way the war had ended, inevitable, was the willingness of both rulers to engage in, or at least, allow another build up in military armaments in the latter half of the decade. While certainly the gradual rearmament disappointed those on both sides who held hopes that perhaps something had been learned from the horrific Trans-Euxine War, there was nothing unexpected about this new arms race. The peace of 1931 had put a stop to the fighting and shifted some borders around (a boon for cartographers), but the long-term conflict went unresolved. Neither the negotiations, nor the treaty that followed them, addressed any of the root causes for the two states' centuries-long enmity. Idealistic dreams were soon put out of mind, as with the peace treaty having done so little beyond calling a halt to that round of hyperborean-Sevarisian bloodletting, most political thinkers saw another war as inevitable, as did virtually all military thinkers. Sevaris remained a thorn in the Batory side, preventing their larger ambitions and choking off access to profitable waterways, while in Sevarisian politics, the view that the hyperboreans would play a part in the religious apocalypse continued to find voices.

The last war had seen the rapid advancement of numerous technologies, beyond the horrifying weapons of chemical origin. Tracked, armored vehicles had gone from being a novel idea, to an innovative way to break through the trench stalemate, and finally, to being a matter of course for all armies. By war's end, it was clear that traditional cavalry was on its way out. Conversely, aerocraft had advanced so far as to boggle the mind during the conflict. At war's beginning, while armed with guns and small munitions, such had still mainly been relegated to tasks of scouting and minor harassment of enemy ground forces, while engaging the enemy's own aerial scouts. Heavier bombers were slow, rickety, and easily shot down. Air warfare at the conclusion of the fighting, in contrast, was almost unrecognizable. The fighters that zoomed over the battlefields were fast, armed to the teeth, and often, as deadly to troops on the ground as they were to other aerocraft. Massive fleets of heavy bombers, now armed with defensive machine guns as well as their (much increased) explosive payloads, all but leveled entire cities, turning once-prosperous downtowns and peaceful neighborhoods into charnel houses. Both nations converted ships into floating runways to launch attacks on the other from unpredictable directions, and war raged even in seas far from the front line. The use of submarine warfare increased, as did its sophistication, making the high seas a more dangerous place than they had been since the age of sail. Back on land, primitive rockets, though ever growing in both size, range, and destructive power, joined earlier advances in artillery to add to the terror of the front lines.

None of these developments halted with the peace treaty. A brief pause in military expenditures in the few years following the war, for rebuilding cities and other infrastructure was all. Soon enough, it was clear that peace simply meant a time to reload guns. Both sides seemed determined to either break the stalemate that had ensured the inconclusive end to the last war, or at least prevent the enemy from doing so, and a dazzling array of technologies as yet unexplored in the Trans-Euxine War would surely make an appearance in the next one. Militaries quickly co-opted pioneering research across myriad scientific fields, hoping for any new edge against the eternal adversary. In utmost secrecy, the Sevarisians pursued research that, they hoped, would shatter any future stalemate. However, despite the concealment of their efforts, the capabilities of the Dragon's Claw ensured that word of such developments reached Sarkanotthon, and for one of the few times in their history, the Batorys felt true, existential fear, and such panic spurred efforts to catch up, as the consequences of being unable to meet the possible threat were too dire to allow.

Later events would, perhaps, redeem the decisions to travel down this particular road, at least somewhat. Some would argue that it made a second round of the Trans-Euxine War unpalatable to both sides, and they would be right, as the heretofore near-universal thinking that total war was an inevitability could no longer be entertained. Instead, the two powers would have to find other ways to compete. However, let no one forget that it was fear that set the stage for the era of astronomical triumph that followed.
-Ignac Zizka, Imperial Historian of the Batory Empire

[Sevaris]

Syrian desert, 16 October 1945

Stjepan Birchanin was still quite unsure why he and his other colleagues from the General Staff had been summoned to this remote bunker in the reaches of eastern Syria for an apparently “urgent” and “most secret” meeting. Looking around the concrete room, he could tell that he was not alone in his confusion. His fellow strategoi were equally perplexed as to why they had been summoned from the capitol on just thirty-six hours’ notice. Were the Hyperboreans about to start a second Fatherland War?

No, it couldn’t be. If that were true, Kapodistrias would be in a tizzy- he was the commander of the 1st Danubian Front that guarded the new border, and viewed any kind of out of the ordinary Batory activity as a prelude to war. The same went for Danglis, Georgios, and Babayan. They had all been veterans of the Caucasus meat-grinder, and were equally inclined to view the Northerners with great suspicion. They spent their days making faces at the Batory hordes across the demilitarized zone in Georgia, and would spot any sign of possible aggression. But they too were calm, if not a little bored. It appeared that Babayan was telling Danglis a story about his recent misadventures at an officer’s club in Nicaea- something about a cocktail waitress with “torpedoes strapped to her chest”?

And, of course, Ramzi had his nose buried deep in a newspaper, unaware of much else going on in the room. That was nothing new, of course. Ramzi was a brilliant strategist-he was, after all, one of the legion commanders that secured the breakthrough at Naissus in the winter of ’30, and fought tooth and nail on the banks of the Drina, but by the Trinity, could he be arrogant. The Egyptian never quite went along with the Staff’s prognostications of the next general war. He would flip through whatever briefing they receive, squint through his pince-nez, and proceed to wildly dismiss whatever suggestion it was that they would be fighting a major land war in the near future. “Lujza is not as suicidal or stupid as we think- why would she try again when we made her pay so dearly the last time around? The dragon has easier prey than us.” More likely than not, he would do the same today.

If he did, he would also probably get Prevenda on side. Prevenda, although a Sevarisian with no love lost for the Empress or her figurative children, had seen more than enough of his share of killing in the last war, and frequently threw cold water on the hotheads’ obsessions. Doing so sometimes involved a lack of tact. Birchanin recalled a meeting some years ago where Prevenda had insisted he in the midst of a pack of “mad dogs.” Granted, he had been justified- any serious discussion of reclaiming Dobrogea had to be rooted in the strangest of delusions- but the Serb still had to think it was a bit much. At the same time, Prevenda had also lost carniolatwo of his sons in the war. Everyone knew that the pain still followed him more than fifteen years after the guns fell silent; he still wore a black armband in remembrance of his family’s loss. One could understand his opposition.

The Sevarisian gestured over to Birchanin. I wonder what he wants.

“I hadn’t expected to see you so soon, Victor,” the Serb said.

“I hadn’t either, Stjepan,” the Sevarisian shrugged. “And that’s why I’m a little worried. Why drag all of us out to the middle of the desert on such short notice and without bothering to tell us why? Something seems out of the ordinary.”

Birchanin nodded in agreement. “I understand that. But you also have to admit that this is incredibly typical of Bourbaki. Remember how he reacted in ’43 after the Carniola ‘incident’?”

Antonis Bourbaki was an exceptionally competent strategist, logistics expert, and had a good sense of managing internal politics. But, unfortunately for a Chief of General Staff, he lacked a sense of perspective and was all too ready to cry “war” when there was none.

That became clear two years ago when a hapless Carniolan sheep farmer was trying to herd his charges together and inadvertently crossed the ill-defined Batory frontier in the hills. Unfortunately for the farmer, he was soon caught by the Hyperborean authorities, and was briefly detained for questioning. Compounding things, a local border guard commander took it upon himself to send a small party across to try to “rescue” the hapless man from ‘illegal detention’. One thing led to another, and before long, word came down to Constantinople of a firefight on the Carniolan border.

Bourbaki spoke of general mobilization and authorizing air support, lest we be “caught with our pants down like we were in ’24.” In this case, the Staff overruled him- but only after a communiqué came from the Emperor advising that he was speaking to Lujza about the matter. In the end, the only casualties were a border guard who broke a leg, a sheep that got stuck in a fence, and the Carniolan border guard commander, who was summarily dismissed for “gross incompetence”. But what the incident had confirmed was that Bourbaki was inclined to spot a case for war even when there was none, and that the zealots who desired to reignite open conflict may have an unwitting pawn in their hands.

Prevenda sighed. “Oh yes, I remember that. ‘Twas good for a laugh at the time- but what happens when there’s another incident like that? Especially now that we will soon have in our hands a weapon more terrifying than you can imagine.”

Birchanin blinked. “What do you mean?”

The old veteran chuckled. “Well, there’s only one ongoing project that’s so secret it had to be moved into the furthest reaches of Syria. And that’s where we are now- put two and two together, Stjepan, and what do you get?”

“Project Megiddo.” No- it can’t be. They last told us that a test device was still years away and that progress was slower than anticipated. Why would they have lied? “But that can’t be right- I thought we were told not to expect anything before ’47 at the earliest, more likely ’48.”

“Well, you are correct. That *is* what you were told,” Prevenda said. “That’s what I was told too, and I am certain that that’s what they told the Emperor. But Ninth Bureau has a way of obscuring the truth when they find it convenient- or at least, that is what I am told.”

“Who told you that?”

“Don’t worry about that- we’ll just say a friend,” the Sevarisian smiled. The old man had his ways of learning things; one did not rise to the ranks of the General Staff without them. “But I understand that Ninth Bureau has been beaming with excitement for several weeks- they believe that this device will work as promised. And I suppose they must be fairly confident- why summon the Staff otherwise?”

Birchanin agreed, thinking it a fair point. He was not sure how he felt about this turn of events. When Ninth Bureau had proposed the project back in ’41, he signed off on it for the same reason that many of his comrades had. If successful, Project Megiddo promised its wielders unlimited power, power enough to break the “bloody stalemates of modern war”. Would not any general want to have that power? Every man in the room remembered the slaughter of the last war: the blood-soaked Thracian hills and Caucasian slopes, the cratered Dalmatian mud, and the charnel house on Taurida. If there was a weapon that could spare the Sevarisians the horrors of the last war and bring them quick victory over the Hyperboreans, Birchanin believed that they had to have it. It didn’t matter that it was grounded in a concept more belonging to science fiction than reality. If it could be done, it had to be.

And, looking at Bourbaki’s face as he entered, he was certain that the Chief agreed. Escorted by a white-coated scientist and several aides, he beamed as he walked into the room, saluted by his fellow officers. He even had a pleased, even chipper tone in his voice as he called in the traditional greeting:

“Christ is in our midst!”

“He is and ever shall be,” the officers responded, their own tone lifted by the chief’s.


“Gentlemen. It is good that we are here today- for we are about to watch the world change before our very eyes. Dr. Petrides will give you the details- but suffice it to say, Project Megiddo is a success. We have now acquired a destructive power that the Hyperboreans do not understand, and could not replicate for a decade even if they started trying today. The balance of power has dramatically shifted in our favor- and perhaps we shall never have to worry about another attack across the Danube. Dr. Petrides?”

The short, stocky Anatolian spoke as his aides distributed protective goggles to the officers. “For the past seven years, my colleagues and I have researched the production of a bomb based on a nuclear chain reaction- at the time, we had no idea what we would be able to achieve. When design work began some years later, we calculated that a full-size device deliverable by aircraft should be able to destroy an entire urban city. In military terms, sirs, that essentially means that one bomb would be able to do what a 1,000 plane raid would do now- I am pleased to say that this is what we’ve built. Strategos Bourbaki is right when he says that this bomb will change the world forever,” the physicist said before chuckling. “I would even dare say that it will bring more change than he might think.”

Bourbaki looked quizzically at the scientist. Petrides was indispensable, but had yet to learn that in a military setting, one really could not question one’s superiors- no matter how innocently one did so. “And what more do you expect, Professor?”

“We are about to demonstrate a fission bomb- we could, with some work, conceivably produce a fusion bomb that would be even more power. And with current research, we could also leverage that into other applications. Imagine placing a nuclear unit on a ship as a primary power source- or building large scale nuclear power plants that could generate tremendous amounts of power compared to coal and oil plants. But, of course, you did not come here to hear a scientist wax about the future- are you ready, sir?”

“Yes- you may proceed. Goggles on, gentlemen- the light is supposed to be quite bright.”

Petrides picked up a radio and called the team down range to set the test in motion. Receiving a positive response, he told one of his aides to start the clock:

“Forty-five seconds.”

As the officers filed towards the window to look down range at the test site, Birchanin wondered if any of them really understood the consequences of what they were about to do. Once the device detonated, there was no going back. Even if took them decades, the Hyperboreans were sure to build their own device.

“Twenty seconds.”

And once they built their own device, what would stop any other power from doing so? Persia? The Caliphate? Of course they’d want to build their own. Before long, every nation on the planet would have one.

“Ten seconds.”

A soldier defended his home no matter the cost. But what if defending one’s home meant endangering the planet?


“Five.”



What if it meant that there was no world at all afterwards?

“Three.”

What if that meant that only ashes remained of great cities?”

“Two.”

What if it meant poisoning the land for decades?


“One.”

What if it meant signing the death warrants of everyone you ever loved?


“Zero.”

And with that, the bunker filled with a flash of brilliant light. A fireball burst into view over the horizon, sucking up sand into a mushroom-shaped cloud. Dust billowed forth from the blast zone in every possible direction as the cloud loomed larger and larger over the landscape. We did it. Good Christ, we actually did it.

Birchanin’s feeling of celebration faded as he processed what had just happened. He could not find his own words to convey his disquiet, invoking instead a Church hymn. As a younger man, he had never quite understood why exactly the Church made one of the Sundays before Great Lent the “Sunday of the Last Judgment”. But now one of the hymns sung on that day rang truer than ever:

All things shall tremble
And the river of fire shall flow before Your judgment seat;
The books shall be opened and the hidden things disclosed!
Then deliver me from the unquenchable fire...

God delivered those from the fires of Hell. But could -or would He deliver them from unquenchable fires of man’s own making?

----

Blachernae Palace, Constantinople, 21 April 1946

“Do I have my tie on straight?” The Emperor and Autocrat of the Sevarisians and Romans may have been one of the most powerful men in the world and could order millions of men to march with just one word, but such power did not allow him to master the art of correctly placing his bow tie. Admittedly, the Emperor had never felt comfortable in the full dress uniform. He had always preferred the combat uniform- it made him feel much more human. I feel like a goddamn stuffed suit in this...

The Empress chuckled as she adjusted it slightly, “Nico, what would you do without me around to make sure you looked all present and correct?”

“Sometimes I’d lose my own head if it wasn’t for you, Anastasia,” he smiled, kissing her quickly on the cheek. Their marriage may have been arranged by the palace, but unlike many of that type, it was actually a happy union. Over the years, the Emperor had come to see his wife not just as the occupant of a public role, but rather as a true companion and friend. “And today I simply can’t afford to do that- what would the scandal sheets think if the Emperor came to the Paschal ball looking disheveled?”

He had a point. On Pascha- the veritable Feast of Feasts of the universal Church- all of Constantinople’s leading families would be present at the ball at Blachernae. It simply would not do for the Emperor and his family to appear anything other than at their best. Even during the first years of the war, the various scions of the house were recalled from the front lines so that they could be in attendance with their father. At the time, the then Crown Prince Andronikos didn’t understand why he had to be present- his proper place was with his men in the trenches of southern Moesia. But since coming to the throne, he understood. The great families of the old empire- Komnenos, Phokas, Argyros, Lekapenos and many others- circled the young Serbian dynasty like vultures. If the Dragas clan were to survive, they had to present a united front at all times.

“Oh yeah, those rags,” the Empress chuckled. “Who cares what a few bored editors in Damascus or Caesarea think? Nobody we know reads those anyway, at least not seriously.”

“You are right, but the people who read those can be influenced by the people we know into doing dumb things- like riot, perhaps. One little rumor can find its way into the worst places and bite us where we least want it,” the Emperor said as he adjusted the service ribbons on his jacket. “We’d not want that- so yes, even these irritating scandal sheets matter. Unfortunately, but what’s one to do...”

Around then, the door to the imperial suite opened. Irakli, the Emperor’s faithful valet, appeared at the entrance and solemnly bowed his head as protocol commanded. “Christ is Risen, Sire.”

“Indeed He is Risen, Irakli- is there something wrong? I hadn’t called for you.”

“Strategos Birchanin wishes to see you, Sire. He claims it is urgent- I tried to turn him back for the evening, but he insisted.”

The Emperor furrowed his brow, pondering why the Strategos would have come now. The Serb wasn’t one for social calls; if he was willing to show up at the palace now, there had to be something amiss.

“Have him sit in the parlor near my office- tell him I’ll be with him in a moment.” As the Georgian went away to seat the visiting officer, the Emperor shook his head and sighed.

“Niko...” his wife cooed as she pulled him close, “what’s wrong? Irakli didn’t say that Birchanin had anybody with him, so it can’t be that serious. No one from the War Directorate, even....”

“That’s what bothers me. If it’s just him, then my guess is that it could be one of two things. The first is that he’s unexpectedly resigning due to a scandal and wanted to surrender his commission- but that’s not likely, he’s a good man. The second is what bothers me.”

“What’s the second?”

“It’s a bit painful to talk about, and I fear if I do say it, then, well,” he shrugged, “I fear it may happen. So in that case, do me a favor and make sure I have a small flask of rakia at my seat.”

The Empress’s eyes went wide. “Are you serious? Nico, you need to tell me what this is...”

“I will, Tasia, I will. But if it’s what I think it is, it’s going to be hard to believe,” he said as he left.

---

Birchanin paced around the parlor, wondering how exactly the Emperor was going to receive the news. He hoped that it would be far better than he’d taken it. Then again, probably easy to avoid vomiting into your office trash can. One could forgive the Strategos for his illness; it was not every day that one learned that basic assumptions about reality were completely incorrect. We never should have approved Megiddo. *I* shouldn’t have believed the lies Fifth Bureau told us- why did I let myself think that it really would be a decade until they got the bomb?

The door opened. But no valet announcing it? No, just the Emperor’s voice.

“Christ is Risen, Stjepan.”

“Indeed He is Risen, Sire...” he said, saluting his commander in chief before moving to embrace and kiss on the cheeks as the Sevarisians were wont to do. On Pascha, even the Emperor felt that protocol should go out the window as they observed the feast.

Andronikos invited his old comrade to sit. “Please, no need for Sire here- what are formalities among old friends?” He invited him to sit. “How are Marija and the children?”

“Marija’s doing well, she’s been busy with setting up the new apartment. Ivanka’s due to enter university in the fall, and Vojislav tells me he’s greatly enjoying school. His instructors tell me that he’s one of the best students they’ve had- I’m hopeful that that’ll put him in a good position for the War Academy when the time comes.”

The Emperor smiled, “With you as a father, I’d expect nothing less.” His face then shifted towards an expression of concern. “Stipe, I may not be a psychologist, but you look pretty pale for a happy man. Why do I have a feeling you’re bringing me less than good news?”

“You, ah,” the Strategos gulped, quieting his voice, “could say that.”

The Emperor buzzed for a valet to bring over drinks: two glasses of tuica, as was the custom for those enjoying a private audience.

“Then again, do you ever bring me good news,” the Emperor chuckled, “it seems that the General Staff has a way of finding the most depressing interpretation of anything that happens. Luzja so much as buys a new tank and we’re suddenly 20 years behind, the Persians make overtures to the Mughals about trade, and we’re apparently on the verge of another series of Persian Wars...”

Even in his depressed state, Birchanin had to laugh. The General Staff made paranoiacs look positively reasonable at times.

“I wish that were the case today, but, unfortunately, no,” he said, as he withdrew a paper from a portfolio and handed it to the Emperor. “Earlier today, our sources confirmed that the Batory Empire has...successfully tested a nuclear device in Atyrau Province,” Birchanin solemnly explained, struggling to acknowledge reality. Preliminary reports suggest that the device has an explosive potential similar to what we demonstrated in Syria in October of last year; I would also expect that, given estimates of their heavy water facilities, they probably will be able to produce one device every ninety days. That’s a timeframe about akin to ours.”


The Emperor’s face turned ashen as he read Fifth Bureau’s summary. Their worst fears had been realized: not even six months had passed, and their eternal enemies had already acquired nuclear capacity. How could we have been so wrong?

“What...no....how is this possibly true? Didn’t Fifth Bureau swear up and down that there was no possible way they could get their hands on a device like this for at least ten years?”

“That was the assessment we heard as well. Fifth Bureau maintained that the Hyperboreans did not have the basic research needed to produce a working device, and that their heavy water plants were nowhere near as advanced as our own. And in defense of Fifth Bureau- not that I care for them- they were probably acting in good faith.”


“So you’re telling me that they deliberately misreported?”

“No, not deliberately. Most likely they fell victim to a Dragon’s Claw trick. It was likely that they were allowed to find what appeared to be evidence of an incomplete program, while the real program itself was hidden far beyond their reach.”

“So essentially- Fifth Bureau is an easily-confused search dog that can be set on the wrong trail,” he said, taking a large gulp from his glass. “And not only that- but they’re not aware enough to realize when they’ve been duped? Are you shitting me, Stipe?”

Birchanin shook his head, “No, Niko, I’m not. I agree with you.”

The Emperor nodded and let out a smile. “Of course you do. You’re a good man- one of the few in that pack of donkeys. But you know what I think about this- you know what I think?”

“Uh-”

“I think this is fucking nonsense, that’s what,” he spat, tearing the briefing in half. “I give Fifth Bureau millions of nomisma a year to warn me about crap like this before it happens; and what do they do? Not only do they tell me that they were lying for years, but they also tell me that they can’t fucking outsmart a bunch of bloodsucking vampires? Seriously? What the fuck am I doing here, Stipe? Do you all really think that I just take shit like this?”

“Sir, please,” Birchanin interjected,


“No, no- I don’t. I just don’t. Oh, sure, you all might think that I’m just another fool from Blachernae who doesn’t know anything about how the world works- why would I? I’m just, what would Doukas over at Fifth Bureau say- ‘a Serbian pig farmer’, he said, imitating the overly-polished Constantinopolitan accent. I get how it is, Stipe, you do too. We’re here because we’re trying to serve the country and make sure it all doesn’t go to hell- and we get mocked because we don’t tolerate other people’s shit. That’s why you’re not Chief- because Bourbaki doesn’t like people who don’t kiss ass.”

“I’m not sure I follow...”

“Don’t you get it,” the Emperor exclaimed, standing up The whole point is that I- and you, for that matter, are surrounded by goddamn jackals who want nothing more than to see us fail. And that’s why they pressed so hard for Megiddo- they just want a toy that’ll let them turn the vampires into salt. Do you know why I even approved it?”

Birchanin knew the story, but wasn’t about to stop him. Andronikos rarely became angry, but when he did, there was no way to get him to calm down. His rage had to run its course.

“You know why, Stipe. You were on the Thracian front like I was; you know what it was like. I remember one particular day during the Big Push of September ’25- you remember that?,” he sighed, taking another gulp from his glass,

“I do,” Birchanin solmenly nodded. “I lost a lot of good men that day.”

“I did too. We were in the first wave that went over the top- I had about 1200 men in my unit. I remember it like it was yesterday- the artillery over our heads, their machine guns at our front, ours our back- it was like we fled one fire, only to run headlong into another.

We fought, and we fought well. We shot and stabbed our way into their trenches and killed as many as we could, and forced them to retreat. But the cost...far too high. Far, far too high. There were maybe half of us at muster the next morning- and a quarter of those were too wounded to fight again. I know you saw similar things- it was a disaster for everyone involved. But it was a bit more personal for me...”

Now this part, I haven’t heard. “What d’you mean?”

“My best friend was killed that day. Traian and I had gone back years- we had both been in university together, and we were also in the same classes at the academy in Adrianople. And we even got assigned to the same unit when the war broke out. I trusted him with my life- but I couldn’t save him that day,” he said, shedding a single tear. “I thought he was with the rest of us in the attack; it wasn’t until it was over that I realized he was gone. And there I found him, fifty metres behind the trenches, cut down in a hail of gunfire- there wasn’t a goddamn thing I could’ve done to save him. Nothing.

That- that is why I approved Megiddo. I thought that maybe- just maybe- if we acquired the most terrible weapon known to man, we might make Lujza think twice about crossing the border again. But, of course, that was based on the idea that they’d not get anything similar for a decade, and in that time, I’d hoped that she and I could develop a mutual understanding that’d rule out war for all time.”

“But you know what,” he spat, “God decided to fuck with me. Instead, Lujza now has the bomb six months after we first built it. What next? We build a bigger bomb? She then builds one even bigger. What if Dr. Petrides is right and we can build fusion bombs? They’ll just build those too,” the Emperor sighed, slamming his fist down on the chair. “Bomb will beget bomb, and before long- we all burn. Nothing left but ashes, Stipe. Is that what we’re facing?”

“You could say that...but Niko, if I may,” the Serbian interrupted.

“Yes...?”

“We still have to face facts: they’ve got the bomb, and sooner or later, they will be announcing it to the world. We’ve got the big crisis to face, yes, but we also need to figure out how we’re going to break the news.”

The Emperor mused for a moment. “Hold this publicly for until the middle of next week- go ahead and talk to State Security about keeping the papers quiet, I’ll summon the Director-General of the Broadcasting Commission and get him to keep this off the radio until then.”



“Are you sure? I only ask because we know that the that Hyperborean radio signals penetrate fairly easily into the European provinces, ditto the Georgians and Armenians. They might also report it before then...”


“Don’t worry about them,” the Emperor dismissed, “I’ll see to it that the screws are properly turned. At any rate, we can slowly quash anything in the interim as rumor and bluster. But today’s Pascha, Strategos. The greatest feast of the Church. The people should enjoy it while they still can.”

While glib in its origins, the Emperor’s remark was based in some truth. Now that the Hyperboreans had their own atomics, who knew whether or not they’d even be around for next Pascha? As Andronikos saw it, life was now measured by an incredibly sad metric: did we avoid blowing up the planet?

I thought that I would bring peace. But when I tried that, I only brought us closer to destruction...

Birchanin nodded as he stood up to leave. “I’m sorry, Niko. I’m sorry I didn’t speak up earlier and try to stop it.”

“You’re not as sorry as I am,” the Emperor sighed. “I can only hope that your children and mine will forgive us for it---if they’re around to forgive anyone.”

[The Batorys]

1941 CE

"This court has found Sarukê Katiaris to be guilty of displaying criminal negligence in the safeguarding Batory state secrets... negligence which is likely to have resulted in their leaking to the Empire of Sevaris." The judge's voice was dispassionate, as if reading a report of the weather, or an itemized list of parts acquisition orders, or some other trivial thing, rather than changing a human being's life forever. "The sentence for this crime is death, but in light of Commander Katiaris' otherwise commendable service, notably during the Trans-Euxine War, and unique expertise, as well as the fact that Katiaris is unlikely to be a danger to other Batory subjects if supervised, that sentence shall be commuted to a minimum of thirty years of servitude."

Sarukê said nothing, rendered speechless by the absurdity of the decision. While it was fortunate to have escaped death, thirty years was an almost unheard of length of servitude. Rarely did the courts give sentences longer than twenty years, as it was the general attitude that if a criminal was going to be rehabilitated, it would happen within two decades or not at all. Then again, this was no normal court, but a military tribunal. While doing her work under the auspices of the military had guaranteed mostly-adequate funding, it now appeared to have had a significant drawback, one that Katiaris hadn't anticipated. When she had joined the Batory Imperial Army Sky Force, or the Batory Imperial Sky Force as it was now being reorganized into, she had not anticipated being the subject of a secret trial, away from the eyes of the public, unlike a civilian court... let alone a trial that was a complete farce, as now revealed by the verdict. Her counsel had, effectively in her opinion, argued that there was nothing she could have done to prevent the leak, as without hindsight, there was no indication of the actual traitor's hidden loyalties.

"The Batory clan, through the Empress, shall retain possession of Commander Katiaris throughout her sentence," the judge continued. "Any breach in the terms of this sentence by Sarukê Katiaris will result in immediate execution. The prisoner will now be escorted to her quarters. Court adjourned."

Of course, Sarukê thought. They wanted to visibly punish her while also retaining her services to design their weapons for them. It was almost flattering, that apparently she was too valuable to kill. It was actually somewhat a surprise, given that while resources had been acceptable, she hadn't thought that her work was all that high a priority for the Batory military. But given that her projects were completely secret in most cases, it seemed reasonable to guess that there were other things underway that she had no knowledge of, and perhaps that tangentially made her a more valuable asset, apparently, than she'd heretofore realized. It seemed that this way, everyone got what they wanted. A scapegoat was punished for the leak, the Batorys got Sarukê's services and absolute authority over her and her work for the next three decades, likely the rest of her career, and Gôsakos Hippaka no longer chafed under Katiaris' de facto authority, and perhaps would even be placed in a position of command over her. Or so was likely said colleague's motivation for making the accusation.

As arms were grasped to lead the small woman to her place of confinement, Katiaris spared a glance over her shoulder to where Gôsakos Hippaka sat. He'd not been content to be merely a "witness," but had wanted to see the conclusion of the trial. Giving him a look that may as well have been a death threat was all Sarukê could do, though she wanted to wipe that smug expression off his face with a fist. Someday. Maybe. She'd have to check the rules her Batory owners set, and see if clocking an overly ambitious weasel would violate any of them.


December 20th, 1955 CE

Steam, a somewhat unusual sight in the middle of the desert, rose, billowing into the twilight sky. This, however, was mostly not the evaporation of water, but rather the boil off of liquid oxygen. Even at night, the ambient temperature outside was not low enough to prevent such. All the same, the rate at which it flowed made even the apparently copious boil-off a minor matter. Frost and ice covered the fuel tanks of the Sekhmet 2 missiles... or rockets rather, as despite normally being used to loft sun bombs on trajectories that would, in the event of a war and ensuing nuclear exchange, carry them to Sevarisian cities, these particular launch vehicles carried no warheads.

No, rather than the powerful devices that had by now supplanted the earlier fission atomics, their payloads were more esoteric, albeit simple. Atop these rockets were two identical, or mostly identical, containers, protecting small but powerful radio transmitters. These would be detectable from the Earth's surface as they, hopefully, orbited the planet. Minimalist, perhaps, but then, nothing like this had ever before been attempted by the Batory Empire. Or by the Empire of Sevaris, the Batorys' powerful and unfriendly neighbor to the south.

Women and men in military tunics were visible around the perimeter, barring passage to all but a few. Perhaps strangely, a well-informed observer might note that all three services were represented. Technicians, meanwhile, scurried around the launch pads, making check after check, and the occasional adjustment, often such a small thing as to go unnoticed by anyone else.

A large black sedan pulled up, not all the way to the launch pad, but to the bunker overlooking it, quite a distance away. After a moment, the rear passenger doors opened, and two women emerged. Hooded, they were by their stances likely Dragon's Claw, and more so by their garb. While normally secretive, the order of assassins sometimes found it advantageous to announce their status, such as when serving in a bodyguard role as they did now. Following them, a short woman plainly not a Dragon's Claw, at least, from appearances, stepped out. Idly, she ran a hand through her close-cropped grey hair. Her manner of dress was unlike that of the Dragon's Claw. Above boots that seemed a style originally intended for riding were baggy trousers. Over a simple blouse was a tunic, though not of military style, triangular patterns at its borders, the overall design proclaiming her origin from the province of Sarmatia.

After her, the driver of the vehicle, another Dragon's Claw, stepped out. Following him, another small woman, this one thin, and of oddly lanky proportions, emerged from the front passenger seat. Unlike the others, she wore a long skirt, a blue so dark it was nearly black, matched by a sleeveless vest on her chest. She was apparently not bothered by the cold. Long, jet black hair caught in the wind. A long scar ran down one side of her face, and her eyes were a startlingly vibrant green.

All five looked back towards the road as another car made its way towards them, this one a deep red, more of a burgundy color. None spoke as the auto came to a stop a short distance away, pulling to the side of the road to park. The doors opened, and out stepped a few officers of the BISF, some of them either former or current pilots, given the wing insignia on their uniforms. After these women and men came a taller man, who had likely been handsome in his youth, though still was not bad looking despite his lined face and the extra weight he now carried. His manner of dress, similar to one of the passengers of the first automobile, made evident that he, too, hailed from Sarmatia.

Clearly the leader, a smirk appeared on his face as the group approached the first. "Ah, hello slave," he said to the other Sarmatian. "How fare you this fine evening? Are these ladies and gentleman," he indicated the Dragon's Claw, "your bodyguards, or your chaperones?" He apparently thought he was being very funny.

If she was insulted, the woman he addressed gave no sign, her expression completely blank. "I fare well enough, cheese-monger. The Dragon's Claw, as you know, can serve many roles, sometimes simultaneously." Her lack of reaction seemed to disappoint the newcomer. "What a pleasant surprise, though. I didn't expect to see you here today What brings you to our little launch?"

Now on the defensive, the "cheese-monger" visibly bristled a bit. "I wanted to see what use you'd put my engine designs to, you know, the ones you stole when you jumped ship to the navy... pardon for the pun. Have to make sure my work isn't being misused."

At this, the woman raised an eyebrow. "Stole? Full credit has been given, and parts procured through legal means, with all parties, including the designer and manufacturer, duly compensated." After a pause, she continued "And as you said, I am a slave of the Batory clan. I didn't 'jump ship.' They reassigned me to the navy. I go where the Empress tells me to go, and she decided to grant the Navy's and the Sorvik clan's request for my services. Simple as that."

"You didn't have to take the sky force engines with you..." the apparent rival said, seeming somewhat defeated.

"On the contrary. You should take it as a compliment that our design team concluded that at this time that the costs of getting an engine with more than negligible performance advantages over yours would be prohibitive."

Changing gears to criticize the launch vehicle as a whole, he said "I still think it's an awkward design for a missile... so large at the base... requires a large launch pad... it seems strange for the navy especially... I can't imagine it working on a submarine."

It was the slave's turn to smirk. "My current assignment to the navy has made me privy to some things to which you are not, Gôsakos. Be assured that the navy is pleased enough with the Sekhmet, and that there have been developments at Isbjarneyja that make it practical, for more than submarines." As the other Sarmatian opened his mouth to reply, she cut him off. "Need-to-know basis, I'm afraid."

At that moment, a small group of Batory Imperial Army officers approached from the bunker itself. The crisply dressed High Fist at their head strode up, and spoke. "Designer Katiaris, Captain Sorvik..." he looked to the other Sarmatian, apparently also somewhat surprised to see him, "and Gôsakos Hippaka," he added. While the engineer had a rank within the BISF, he was currently in civilian clothing, and said rank was a secret. The three services were not the most communicative at the moment. "Welcome, once again, to Experimental Munitions Test Range 19. For those who don't me, I am High Fist Quterkin. While normally I trust the command of this facility to my subordinate, Fist Nadazdy, this is, after all, a highly unusual operation, one I wanted to oversee myself. I'm pleased to announce that everything is right on schedule."

"Thank you, High Fist," the black haired woman, apparently Sorvik, spoke, for the first time, having not participated in the bickering between Hippaka and Katiaris. Her voice had an underlying hiss to it, despite the sing-song accent. "Shall we, then?"

As the small group walked the rest of the way to the bunker, there was no conversation, only the footfalls of their boots on the path, which was still dirt, and sounds of the launch preparations, these still somewhat distant as the launch pads were separated by a substantial area, as was the bunker, could be heard. Such became partially muted when they had stepped into the bunker and closed the door. While perfectly safe, it was clear that the building had been thrown together in a hurry. It was small, bare concrete on the inside as well as the outside, only marked with numeric designations. The floor, too, was bare concrete. On the side facing the launch pads, were small windows, the safety glass obviously very thick, with a layer of loose mesh in the middle. Below were the various monitoring equipment, instruments, controls, etc. Camp chairs provided the seating for these stations.

For a while, nothing happened. There was some quiet small talk, but mostly they just waited. This was yet another 'hurry-up-and-wait' process, so common in militaries. Both rockets were visible, trails of steam rising from them. They had long since been towed, still horizontal, by rail from the makeshift assembly building (a modified prefabricated aircraft hangar), and erected onto the pads. Despite both being Sekhmet 2 launch vehicles, the two rockets were not identical. One had been painted dark green, one of the Batory clan's colors (painted hastily, though this was only apparent to those working close enough to the vehicle's hull to see patches of the original colors poking through), while the other still bore its original dark blue and grey.

"Interesting choice of colors, I must say..." Hippaka said, raising an eyebrow.

Katiaris shrugged. "The subject came up, and Empress Lujza said green, as it is a peaceful operation, not a combat one or a test for combat operations."

"I meant the Pendrunsk colors on the far one," the other Sarmatian grumbled.

This time, the Sorvik answered him, not moving from her spot leaning on the rear wall of the bunker. "You mean the same colors the navy uses? It's our prototype, and we paint tons of our stuff in those colors."

Glowering at the moroii, Hippaka spoke "a Sky Force rocket would have suited just as well. Some favoritism went into the selection of the navy launcher, I believe."

"No it wouldn't, the Ba'al still blows up even more often than the Sekhmet, and when it does, it contaminates the surrounding countryside," she responded, clearly annoyed.

"Actually," Katiaris cut in, "if you must know, the Dragon's Claw has acquired information that suggests a similar Sevarisian mission is not far off... timing is the main reason for Sarkanotthon's decision to use the Sekhmet rather than the Ba'al, since as Captain Sorvik mentions, the Ba'al is in an earlier phase of testing than the Sekhmet 2."

Before any further comment, Quterkin's voice sounded "two minutes." All conversation ceased as the final preparations for the first launch were made. All personnel, save for those who responsible for the fuel lines disconnect (or rather, the backup system for such) and the retraction of the launch trusses, were now leaving the pad. Final checks sounded as the clock ticked down to a minute and a half, and then one minute, announced by a female lieutenant whose accent placed her origin as Ingria.

The last thirty seconds were announced each in turn. A massive boom, followed by a deafening roar, proceeded immediately after the announcement of "Ignition."

Five seconds later, the trusses released and the tower rose, slowly at first, the heat of its exhaust distorting the metal of the trusses and partially melting them, their eerie whining joining the roar, before the Sekhmet 2 began to pick up speed, rising higher and higher.

"Still destroying those fancy trusses every launch, I see," Hippaka said drily.

"We'll fix that, in time."

Before Katiaris could say anything else, however, a flash appeared on the still ascending launcher, followed by a larger explosion, the shockwave and sound of such reaching them a second or so later... and the Sekhmet 2 was falling back towards the surface, one of the three strap-on boosters having exploded, making the launcher's thrust unsymmetrical. Clearly there was nothing anyone could do, and all waited while vehicle made its slow spiral back to the ground. The bunker shook with the explosion that followed.

Hippaka had a smug look on his face, and seemed to be about to say something.

"Not a fucking word," Sorvik said. This seemed to head off anything the man may have been thinking of voicing, though perhaps it was the murderous look in the moroii's green eyes.

After a moment, Katiaris was the next to speak. "Begin launch procedure for the backup."

"Should we not wait? To recover the wreckage of the first launch vehicle, and figure out what went wrong?" The female lieutenant from earlier asked. "It seems unsafe to immediately launch again."

Katiaris shook her head. "Them both being duds is unlikely. This is what we have a backup for. Our first try I suppose will be further encouragement for those on the launch pad to follow safety procedures exactly." She arched her eyebrow. "Besides, do you want to be the one to tell Empress Lujza Batory that the Sevarisians beat us because we were too craven to use our backup?"

The lieutenant looked to High Fist Quterkin, who merely shrugged. "Two minutes." So it began again.

This time, the last personnel left on the launch pad visibly scrambled to their forward bunkers, leaving plenty of time before the engines screamed to life. A few seconds later, and the announcement of "liftoff" came. Again, ponderous at first, the ground shaking with the force of the vibrations as the Sekhmet 2 climbed slowly into the air, pushed faster and faster atop the tower of flame that expanded beneath it. Various announcements were made quietly, tracking altitude, horizontal distance from the launch site, etc. The announcement that really mattered, for the sake of everyone's nerves arrived soon enough, just under two minutes later. "Stage separation," the lieutenant proclaimed, and then the three strap-on boosters were tumbling back towards Earth, the core stage of the Sekhmet 2 propelling its humble yet vital cargo higher, further, and faster.

Another separation came later, but the mood had relaxed, the tension draining away as the most potentially catastrophic parts of the operation faded into the past. Small talk resumed, woman and men talking about the launch, the failed attempt earlier, how the drive out had been, what their husbands, wives, children, etc. were doing, all the usual things. This hushed, however, as a beeping came on the radio. Not a steady pulse, but short and long clips.

"I am pleased to announce," Quterkin said, and quite pleased he was, by the grin on his face, "that Enarei 1 is now operational and at intended altitude." This was met by cheers from the small group, and applause. All around, officers and even Dragon's Claw were giving each other congratulatory pats on the back, even if their roles had been only peripheral to the operation.

Captain Sorvik leaned over and whispered to Katiaris. "Sarukê, I thought that one was Enarei 2... since 1 kinda exploded... and is that morse code I'm hearing? When did you do that?"

No louder than the moroii had spoke, the Sarmatian replied "Enarei 1 is, officially, whichever of the two makes it to orbit. You know how these things work, Tal." Finally smiling, she continued "and yes, it is. We decided at the last minute to include a cheeky little message to Blachernae."

"Designer Katiaris, do you want to inform Sarkanotthon, or shall I?" Quterkin asked.

Thinking a moment, Sarukê shook her head. "Let's wait... it should be above us again in about two hours. Then we'll know Enarei completed at least one orbit."

---------------------------------------------------------------------

An hour and a half later, sounds of preparations could be heard at Batory Imperial Army Experimental Munitions Test Range 19... but not for launch. These sounds had the air of impending celebration. Distant happy voices, sometimes even flirtatious, the flick of lighters held to cigars, radios being turned on with their volume swelling gradually as the tubes warmed up, the clink of bottles, drifted over the desolate desert and the meager collection of temporary, prefab buildings upon it. Frost covered the ground, though snow was sparse. In the distance, the wreckage of the first launcher still burned, turned into a lamp of sorts as its kerosene lit up that tiny part of the horizon, the liquid oxygen long having boiled away. No one seemed to care; it could be dealt with later, after the holiday. It was no matter, for otherwise there was little artificial light out in Ryn, and the stars shone brilliantly. Soon their countless lights would be joined by a new, tiny, moving one. Truly, this Ithtyr's Night had begun in memorable fashion.

As the hyperboreans at Test Range 19 waited patiently, Enarei 1 passed over the Sevarisian capital, its message of morse beeps clearly proclaimed to anyone who had a radio dialed to the right frequency...

[Sevaris]

20 December 1955- Ergiske, 41 km west of Constantinople

“Mitsos! Dinner’s ready!”

“Just five minutes, mom, I swear!”

“Okay...but if you end up eating a cold dinner, that’s on you!”


As much as Dimitrios Petropoulos did not want to have to eat cold mushroom stew, the boy was far too engrossed with radio set. He had finally saved up enough to purchase that new antenna that he’d long had his eyes on. Old man Bozveli at the shop said that this model could pick up any signal on this side of the Atlantic and as far north as the hinterlands of Hyperborea. How much Dimitrios believed the old man was another matter entirely- he had a reputation for embellishment- but he was confident that he’d be able to pick up a great deal more traffic on this station. He might even be able to contact other operators as far away as Egypt and Carthage; before tonight, he’d only gotten replies as far south as the Syrian coast. Who knows what he’d pick up tonight?

Guys at the radio club are gonna be so jealous when they hear about this... With that in mind, Dimitrios made the final connections to his receiver and double checked all the others. Sitting back up at his desk, he flipped the main power switch, slipped his headphones on, and started listening. So far, it seemed to work well. He could hear the shortwave station in Neapolis clear as a bell; before, he had only been able to hear intermittent words and tones between blasts of static. What else can I get? Fiddling with the knobs, he explored other frequencies. He encountered a station broadcasting the end of a popular Egyptian song- lo and behold, the continuity announcer confirmed that he was listening to “KMEM, your Egyptian Radio and Television Commission affiliate serving the greater Memphis metropolitan area...” Memphis! Maybe Bozveli wasn’t lying after all- maybe this thing was actually worth several months’ pay from his courier job.

Thus he tried again, albeit he spun the dial a bit more quickly to make sure he got downstairs before his mother called up again. And there he heard more languages than he’d ever thought possible. One sounded like Gothic, which led him to conclude that he’d picked up a station somewhere deep in Hyperborean territory. Another station sounded vaguely Persian in tone- couldn’t figure out where, but still, Persia?! Amazing- yeah, the guys are *really* going to want to hear about this.

What he was about to find, however, would be far more incredible than a Persian music station. Beep-beep-beep--beeeeep---beep---boop---booop---boop, the speakers blasted, filling the room with an ungodly electromechanical noise. But this wasn’t typical interference- this sounded like actual code. Dimitrios did remember a fair bit of telegraph code from Youth Legion camp, and started taking it down as best he could. The tones stopped, then started again. Was I supposed to hear this? Or is SecStat going to bust down the door? Rumor had it that the airwaves were filled with secret radio stations conveying messages to agents all over the globe, and woe to anyone who figured out what those were...but that was just a rumor, right?

At any rate, Mitsos had something much more real than secret agents to worry about: his mother. “Mitsos, you’ve got two minutes or I toss this out for the birds!” She wasn’t lying, too. Supper was serious business in the Petropoulos family- if you weren’t there, you wouldn’t eat. He grabbed his paper and ran downstairs to take his seat at the table. His brother Yannis was already there, staring hungrily at his plate, while his little sister Theano fidgeted in her chair.

“Was afraid I’d have to pry you out of there,” his mother said as she ladled out the soup. “Were you playing with that radio again?”

“I wasn’t playing,” he groaned, “I was setting up the new transmitter- and it’s just like Mr. Bozveli told me! I was picking up Egypt, and Persia, and even way in Hyperborea- but then it got weird.”

His father, Pavlos, a minor functionary with the Agriculture Directorate, chimed in. “How was it weird?”

“It sounded like telegraph code. I dunno if it was- but it sounded an awful lot like it. Dad, didn’t you learn that in the Army? I wrote it down,” he said, offering the paper.

“Can’t you boys talk about this some other time, we’re supposed to be eating,” his mother protested.

“Desi, it’s alright, I’m glad he’s got a hobby...it could be worse, he could be like that Mitrofanis kid down the street who smashes post boxes,” Pavlos said, adjusting his glasses. What he read shocked him. “How’s the weather down there.....Empress Luzja...Happy Ithtyr’s Night?” Could it be....no, how could it? Orbiting space probes were the stuff of bad novels and cheap Palestinian movies. This had to be a prank of some kind. Or maybe...

“If you turned that on again...would we hear it?”

“Yeah, I’ll show you!” The two got up from their seats and darted up the stairs, leaving the rest of the family at the table. An impatient Desi sat down and told the others to start eating- “Your dad and brother will be with us in a bit.” But the sounds coming from upstairs suggested that they wouldn’t come back to the table anytime soon. Beeps and buzzes and noises, interspersed with Pavlos dictating code to Mitsos and Mitsos spelling out complete words, filled the house. Desi sighed and sipped her glass of wine. Is it really too much to ask that we can eat dinner like a normal family?

Then she heard thudding feet come down the stairs. I guess so.

“Desi, I hate to ask, but could you cover this and warm it up,” Pavlos said as he reached for his jacket on the hanger, “Mitsos and I have to go now.”

“Go? Where? It’s 8 at night, everything’s closed.”

“Prefecture,” he sputtered. “We gotta tell them about this thing- they’ll call somebody who can do more. Aerofleet? The Emperor? I don’t know, but we’ve got to tell them.”

“Tell them what? Darling, I don’t understand,” Desi asked, perplexed at her husband’s fervor.

“Strange radio signals...we think from space.”

“Space?!? I’ve heard some crazy stuff from you, Pavlos, but never this crazy.

“I’ll explain later,” her husband called as he and Mitsos stepped outside, “but I tell you it’s real!”

Desi sighed and closed the door, wondering what possessed her to marry such a weirdo. Then the phone rang.

“Hello? Oh hi, Vasiliki, how are you....no, no, Pavlos just stepped out, what’s going on? Yours too? Where’s he gone....the Prefecture? He wasn’t going on about space, was he? Oh....well, I guess this makes more sense. Yes, do come over tomorrow- we’ll have to talk about it. I don’t know what’s gotten into him either. Bye-bye.” Evidently, Vasiliki’s husband was also keen to raise the alarm about the space invaders. Perhaps it was not so crazy if he was getting involved- he worked as an engineer for the Radio and Television Commission. He would know if this was a hoax.

Returning to the table, Desi sat down and took another large sip from her wine glass. Maybe I’ll open the spare bottle after the kids go to sleep. Yes, good idea.

“Mom, where’s dad taking Mitsos,” Yannis asked, “and can we eat already? I’m so hungry!”

“Yeah, go ahead. Your dad and your brother aren’t gonna be back for a while. They’ve run off to play space detective or something like that---I think.” At least I’m not the only one with a crazy husband.

--------

21 December 1955- Constantinople

“The War Directorate confirmed this morning that last night’s strange radio signal heard in Constantinople originated from a Batory satellite orbiting the Earth. According to the Directorate, the device was likely launched from an installation deep within Hyperborea earlier yesterday. Citizens are advised that the craft is unarmed and does not pose a threat....”

“Turn that off, Bidzina, I’m not learning anything new,” Strategos Birchanin called to his driver. “It’s been the same thing all morning. You didn’t hear it, did you?”

“That flying ball? No sir, I didn’t,” the Georgian driver replied as he changed the station. “I like to listen to comedy in the evenings, not electric noise.”

“I didn’t either.” Didn’t even know about the fucking thing until this morning. Fifth Bureau are about as useful as a blind man in an art gallery. Idiots. Stjepan was in a decidedly bad mood this morning. All of his efforts to cultivate a Sevarisian space program had come up short. It didn’t matter how much he had lobbied for funding when every other branch- including those useless people in the Navy- tried to stymie him. It didn’t matter how hard he had worked to poach top talent from universities, aeroplane firms, and Army Rocket Corps. It didn’t even matter how much he had worked to protect that crazy Yazidi whom he put in charge of the project. Everything the Sevarisians had done had amounted to nothing. And now I have to explain how badly we failed. Maybe I’ll get cashiered. Ah well, it was a good 40 years.

Had he his druthers, they would have launched earlier. Boyik told him in August that they could have launched “something” if they wanted really to. But Boyik didn’t want to launch just “something”. No, he was insistent that they could and should do more. To the designer’s credit, his prediction about what the Hyperboreans would launch had come true. “They might beat us to orbit,” he lectured Birchanin and the other officers last spring, “but so what? They’re going to put some silly little beeping thing up there. Great job- we can make it beep! Fear our doom and destruction,” he had mocked. “I’m not impressed. They’ll have telegraph code. We, however, will have voice- and if we’re lucky, video too. The Empress will beep and whirr at us. But His Majesty will be able to speak to her in his own voice.” Intuitively, he had every reason to trust Boyik. Intuition alone, however, might not be enough to calm the annoyed Emperor. He would need something to reassure him that not all was lost. Project Hermes is close. Still not launch ready, but much closer than we were even a month ago. Maybe that will calm him- we just need to get *something* up there. At heart, Stjepan knew that Andronikos was reasonable and understood the larger factors at play. But even still, that might not be enough to quell his anger.

Fuck me. Why do I always have to be the one to tell him these things? Pulling up into the courtyard, he wondered how he could possibly explain it. “Oh, sorry, Your Majesty, but we were asleep at the switch and the Empress beat us to space...” No, that one wasn’t good enough. “Well, you see, Dr. Boyik wanted us to put a radio station up there and wasn’t going to settle for anything less- oops.” Still a terrible explanation. God, we really did screw this one up.

“Shall I wait, sir,” the chauffeur called.


“Ah, yes- just for a half hour. If I haven’t returned by then, head back. It’ll be a long day if that’s the case.” Receiving the guards’ salute, a waiting footman escorted Birchanin into Blachernae’s inner sanctum. There was a palpable difference in the palace’s atmosphere compared to most days. One could normally feel the presence of intriguing courtiers, harried bureaucrats, and the more often than not annoyed officers who served as the War Directorate’s representatives to the Emperor. Combining those presences with the hundreds of servants, guards, and other staff, one could have felt as if he or she was in the middle of a city-within-a-city. But not today. Today, everything was subdued. Loud chattering was reduced to a dull whisper; even the servants seemed sullen. Worse than I thought. The last time the palace was likely this somber was the first day of the Morava in ’27, when they lost 80,000 men in the space of 15 hours...

Walking through the corridor, the strategos arrived at the Imperial study, whereupon he was about to be announced by the valet as custom, when:

“It is alright, Irakli. The Strategos is my friend, we’ve no need for ceremony,” the Emperor called out. Despite the stress of his position, he continued to age well. His green eyes had years of life in them yet, and his hair, although graying, was still well in place. Strangely, he even seemed more alive today than he did most days. His voice had a lightness to it that it normally did not. “Come over, Stipe. I’d like to show you something.”

“Shall I bring drinks, Sire,” the Georgian called as the Strategos walked past.

“Yes, please- but I think a good Asian will do today. Something light.”

No tuica? He’s either ill or completely out of his mind. Something has got to be up. “What did you want to show me, Niko?”

Andronikos smiled, presenting a painting hanging over a bookcase. “The latest in my office art collection. Picked it up at auction in Leukousia of all places, would you believe? The artist called it “Breakthrough at Naissus”- he was there, too- serving as a hypodekenas in a Cretan unit. Can you believe the detail on this? It’s incredible.”

Birchanin did not think of himself as a connoisseur of art, but he definitely agreed. The artist packed an incredible amount of detail into a comparatively limited canvas. From the rivets on tank turrets, to the Imperial Eagle pressed into the Sevarisians’ helmets, to the tracer bullets whizzing through the sky as airplanes duelled overhead, the artist spared no effort to make the scene come alive. Unlike many war paintings, this one had an overall brighter tone to it. The colors appeared much more vivid here than they did on ones of the Danube, the Morava, Thrace, and, especially, Taurida. Brightness made sense, though. Breaking the Naissus Line began what the historians called the “Year of Miracles” that saw the Sevarisians liberate almost everything up to the prewar border, setting the stage for the armistice early in ’31.

“It’s a very nice choice. Unfortunately, though, I do have an agenda other than admiring art,” the Strategos sighed, preparing to deliver the bad news.

“Oh, certainly,” the Emperor said, handing his old comrade-in-arms a glass of wine. “I assume it’s about what was on the news this morning- the Batory satellite, yes?”

“Yes, that. I do have a briefing with me summarizing what we know and do not know about the craft, what we estimate their options are for launching a second, and what our own response may look like,” Birchanin spoke deliberately. “But before that,” he said, taking a sip, “As head of Special Projects Division, it was my responsibility to manage the program against what we knew about the Hyperboreans’ capabilities. We were taken by surprise here, and I accept full responsibility for not having done more.”

Andronikos blinked. “Stipe, what are you saying?”

Birchanin gulped. “I am saying that- if you wanted my resignation, I am prepared to give it.”

“Resignation? From you?” The Emperor tried to stifle a laugh as he drank. “God and the saints, no! We’ve known each other since we were the new boys in the trenches, I’m not about to can you over something like this. That’d be daft.”

The Strategos’s face scrunched in confusion. He was happy to have avoided an unceremonious dismissal, but was perplexed by Andronikos’s almost jovial attitude. How could he be so happy when the Hyperboreans had won the first leg of this dance into the void?

“Permission to speak freely?”

“Granted, yes...”

“Niko, why are you so chipper right now? It’s really odd. I had thought you would be angry, I remember how you were when we learned about their bomb test in ’46,” Birchanin asked. “I figured you’d be swearing up a storm today.”

“Ah, well, you should talk to Anastasia about that, I was not a happy man at breakfast,” Andronikos drily replied. “But I took a walk in the garden afterwards and had some time to think for myself, and I’ve come to the conclusion that this might not be so bad. Actually, it might be a very good thing- a bigger blessing than you or I could’ve hoped for.”

“I don’t know if I follow?”


“Consider this. The Hyperboreans beating us to space gives us something to work for, something to be excited about in the morning. You and I were young men when the last war started- what was everyone saying as we marched off? It was the battle of the century, the start of the ‘war for civilization.’ We were going to get those heathens good, weren’t we? We were going to get them so good, we were going to march all the way to Sarkanotthon- you get the idea. It was outlandish, it was absurd, but people absolutely believed it. Hundreds of years of emotion got poured into one six year slaughter. It had to happen, even if we’d never had those incidents on the Danube- there was no way to contain all of that raw feeling.”

“Okay, so that makes sense for what happened in the war, but what does that mean for us now?”

“Well, you said so yourself. We both have the bomb- we cannot fight another major war with the Hyperboreans without risking our own destruction, or the planet’s. Yet the people’s desire for competition will continue to grow- we must simply find a way to best them. And I can’t think of any better way to do that than through space. We wouldn’t be nearly as frenzied if we had been the first to make it. Coming from behind, however- that’s a different tale. We may have lost the first round, but there’s still getting a man in orbit. The Moon after that, too,” the Emperor noted, looking again at the painting. “But what matters most to me is that we don’t repeat this,” he gestured, pointing to the painted carnage. “I will support anything to keep this as a chapter in the history books. If it’s space, then it’s space. You understand, yes?”

Birchanin nodded in agreement. Years after the first tests in the Syrian desert, he still felt remorse for having supported the bomb program and threatening the planet’s survival. Seeing the new space program through to fruition would be both an accomplishment for the country and a salve to his own conscience. True, space-capable rockets meant that there would soon be nuclear-tipped ones aimed at Constantinople; the Sevarisians would likewise aim them at Sarkanotthon. But if these rockets could be used to hurtle satellites and eventually men into space, then perhaps the people might be less inclined to want to use them in war. “It does make sense- and I have every hope,” he spoke optimistically, “that we will soon be able to write a new chapter in the contest. Dr. Boyik tells me that Project Hermes is bearing fruit sooner than expected.”

“Is it now...that was the communications satellite, correct? The one that he says will be able to transmit messages from here to Cathay and back? From what you said, I thought that project was bogged down in endless testing of subcomponents,” Andronikos mused. “Your last report said that the earliest we could launch would be two years from now.”

“I did,” Birchanin acknowledged, “but that was before my latest visit to the Phoenicon site. I’m now convinced that we will be able to launch by the end of next summer, provided that certain resources are being made available...”

“Knew it,” Andronikos interjected, taking another drink. “You need more money.”

“If we want to follow up what the Hyperboreans did in the near future, yes, we do.”

“I’ll reserve my final judgment until after we finish our chat, but for the moment, I’m thinking that you will tell Dr. Boyik that he has a blank check. Provided that he makes progress to your satisfaction, he will find me a generous benefactor....”

29 July 1956 - War Directorate Special Projects Division Site Phoenicon

Temure Boyik was a proud man today. Standing on a rise near the control bunker, he admired the fruit of tense hours testing prototypes, hectic days overseeing sensitive component assembly, sleepless nights spent chain-smoking over blueprints, and, above all, months of wrangling with nearly every government apparatus imaginable. There she stood, a proud and sleek silver, streaked with imperial purple. Sebastokrator was far bigger than anything the Sevarisians had built thus far, and likely would be surpassed by even bigger ones in the year to come. But today, she stood as the Empire’s greatest single technological achievement, one that would avenge their humiliation last year at the Hyperboreans’ hands. Katiaris is good. But I’m better.

Gazing out over the horizon as he held a cigarette between his fingers, he admired the growing complex. When they’d moved out here two years ago, there was nothing other than a few ramshackle buildings and a vast expanse of dry, empty plain that stretched out as far as the eye could see. He remembered being barely able to make out the gravel runway beneath the dust. But today, there now stood a veritable city. Workshops and hangars clustered around the launchpads like mushrooms on a stump, with more being built every day. To his right, there now lay a massive airfield that had runways stretching for easily 4, 5 kilometers in either direction. Aerofleet had no bombers based here, but Boyik insisted that they needed them that large for the ultraheavy cargo planes Sevavio was designing. And the space planes I’ll one day build, but don’t tell them that just yet. Railway tracks criss-crossed the plain like stripes on a tiger, hauling supplies to the platforms and shuttling personnel to the seaport 20 klicks away. In a way, it didn’t really matter that the Sevarisians had lost the race to orbit, and neither did it really matter if they beat the northerners to put a man in orbit. This city was an achievement in its own right, and one that would remain for the ages. The great Emperors had their own cities- Alexander Alexandria, Constantine Constantinople- Temure...Temuropolis? No, you’ll have to do more to get this place renamed that.

None of this was a small feat for the son of destitute Yazidi refugees. His parents, like so many of their co-religionists, fled to the empire to escape the Caliphate’s death squads. But unlike many of his coethnics, Boyik escaped a life of subsistence farming and won a place at Aerofleet academy. His superiors recognized that he had a particular talent for physics and sent him to Alexandria for higher study. When he returned, he earned an offer to work on the ‘special project’ in Syria. But that wasn’t to his taste- he saw himself, at heart, as an artist, not a designer of death machines. He instead took an offer from Naibandyan to work at their design bureau, where he worked on some of Aerofleet’s latest and greatest interceptors. From there, it was only a matter of time until Strategos Birchanin personally approached him with an offer to work for Special Projects Division on- how had he put it? ‘Affairs of the aether’. How could he refuse?

His latest creation would soon take to that very aether. It had taken some time to get the design to the point it needed to be Sebastos had been a good first start, and Protosebastos was an improvement on that But Boyik refused to accept anything less than perfection, even when it caused tensions with the War Directorate. It wouldn’t do them any good to rush the project and have it blow up on the launch pad. Katiaris would laugh so much we’d hear it for years.

Nobody knew the Director’s pursuit for perfection better than Peristera Memrouda, his immediate deputy Much like him, Peri grew up with no expectation of prestige. As the daughter of a Galatian country doctor, she grew up with the idea that she would have a short career before marrying and settling down with a family. She never thought that she would pass lykeio with the highest marks in the entire governorate, or earn a space at Imperial University of Constantinople reading chemistry. She also never thought that her talent would be enough to attract the attention of Dr. Boyik, who interviewed her not long before graduation and asked if she wanted the ‘opportunity of a lifetime’. He couldn’t say what it was at the time, but promised it would be worthy of her talent.

Peri absolutely agreed. Walking up from the launch bunker, she smiled as she saw Sebastokrator undergoing final preparations.

“Doctor,” she said, noting that her boss was once again ‘taking the edge off’ with a cigarette near something extremely flammable, “if you are ready to proceed, we can begin the launch sequence at any time.”

The Yazidi inclined his head to the left and nodded. “Thank you, Miss Memrouda, this is good to know. Are they looking for me? I thought they knew that

She gulped a little before speaking, her classic tell that there was obviously something amiss. “It is not so much that they are looking for you, Doctor, but more that our higher ups want...”

“Higher ups,” he beckoned her over, offering a cigarette that she politely declined. “Which higher ups,” he said, taking a drag on his own, “Blachernae? Akritas? Or our dear Strategos Birchanin- how is he doing, by the way? He looked like he was about to keel over during the daily brief?”

Memrouda shook her head. Everyone knew Birchanin was neurotic and always the voice of pessimism, but he wouldn’t ruin it today. No, it was everyone’s least favorite rulers from on high: the War Directorate. “Akritas. They are concerned we won’t make today’s launch window and we won’t be able to make the morning papers. They say the palace is equally concerned and wants to make sure there is appropriate coverage of our triumph.

“Papers?” Boyik laughed. “You and I are looking at the same thing, right,” he asked, gesturing to the rocket. “We’ve been working for years to get this thing right- every little fastener, the precise composition of the fuel, metallurgics- everything I have asked for, every lepta, they have given me. And now they want to know when we are sending this thing up so the papers will hit the streets in the morning? You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

Peri sighed, sharing her supervisor’s frustrations. She knew her place was in the control room, not chasing down her boss so she could make the War Directorate shut up for the next few hours. “I wish I were. But you know how they are...and at any rate, it would be wrong for Hermes to go up without its creator there to push the button.

“Alright, alright, you’ve got me,” Boyik conceded, dropping his cigarette and extinguishing it with his boot. “I’ll be in. Tell our boffins in Akritas that Hermes will be ready for his debut in the papers. If not, they can call me personally...”

-15 minutes to launch-

Were it not for the banks of computers, one might’ve mistaken the control room for an Alexandrian bazaar. Technicians ran to and fro across the room with stacks of calculations and papers, guidance specialists plotting Hermes’s projected minute by minute track across the globe, engineers recording and verifying every measurement on the rocket; one could hardly walk a meter without bumping into someone else.

Standing on the main control platform above the fray, Strategos Birchanin nervously checked on the clock before taking a swig from his flask. Since he arrived two days ago, he had perhaps gotten eight hours of sleep during that time. He insisted on being present for every last check and inspection prior to launch. Indeed, his dedication to the mission was such that, rather than staying in the officers’ barracks 5 km down the road, he had instead set up a cot in a conference room. Perhaps not the most comfortable accommodation in the world, but he knew it was better to be around ‘just in case’.

‘Just in case’. That was what he had spent the flight from Constantinople worrying about. How do we explain it if we blow this one? Birchanin already had an awful track record of having to deliver bad news to the Emperor and did not want to add to it. He had dealt with Boyik enough to knew that the Yazidi would never want to go to launch without the fullest confidence that everything would work as planned. He also knew that everything today involved in today’s launch had been tested three times over- if it failed the third time, then they’d test it thrice more until they were satisfied. All signs indicated that the day would go well; even so, Birchanin still refused to believe it until he heard that satellite beep. Or boop. Or whistle. Or whatever the hell it does before we get the Emperor talking on it.

To pass the time, he paced around and began chatting with one of the desk officers. “You’re certain that all we need is Doctor Boyik and we can begin? Nothing else, yes?

A Syrian-accented voice, male and in his mid 20s, answered: “Yes, Strategos. We’ve completed every step in our operations manual and simply require Doctor Boyik to give the final launch order. Otherwise all we need to do now is wait.”

“Good, very good, very good,” Birchanin nodded, struggling to suppress his anxiety. “And who might you be?”

The young man replied, almost as if by rote: “Elias Oshana, Junior Telemetrics Officer, Special Projects Division- here, I track sensor readings from the rocket in flight and will monitor Hermes’s status once in orbit.”

“And....Army? Your tones are a little too crisp to come out of Aerofleet.”

“Yes, Strategos. Before I qualified here, I had been assigned to 5th Lochos, 109th Engineering Tagma. My last post with them was in Artaani along the Iberian border supporting the mountain garrisons.”

Birchanin nodded. “I know the 109th very well. When I was your age, they helped blow that big crater right in the middle of the Hyperborean lines in the Juzna Morava sector. Good chaps, them- and good to know they’re continuing that tradition...”

At that moment, Boyik, flanked by Memrouda, entered the room with an uncharacteristic wry smile on his face. “Strategos, please don’t tell me you’re talking Ypolochagos Oshana’s ear off, you do know that we all have work to do- we’ve got the main event coming in just a moment!”

Birchanin, who had by now become used to Boyik’s mannerisms, could only laugh and sigh as he shook the professor’s hand. “And I hope it will be the event that we have been waiting for, Doctor. Not another unfortunate event like last summer.” It was true that, at times, Project Hermes had been a source of major frustration for the government. Had the prototype Sebastokrator had not blown up during fuelling tests last September, for example, they might have been able to beat the Hyperboreans to orbit. But those dreams, plus about sixty million nomisma, went up in a cloud of liquid oxygen smoke.

“That? Not today. We’ve done enough calculation and recalculation to fill the Library of Alexandria,” the Doctor dismissed. “If this goes south today, then-” he smirked, looking at the control screens. “if I ever meet your god when I die, I will have to have a word with him about why he doesn’t like me. But don’t worry yourself. We have done all we can here. What happens from hereon is a matter of prediction. Now, Strategos, are you ready? Do you have your link set up to inform Blachernae?”

“Yes, we have the telex working. When we tell them we have succeeded, they will prepare to transmit and then confirm that they have started transmission. We will confirm if we are receiving...”

“Good. You did impress on His Majesty that he needs to be short to make sure it goes through?”

Birchanin nodded. “The Emperor assured me he would be brief. I have the Empress’s word that she will hold him to it as well.”

Boyik nodded as he prepared to take the microphone to announce the launch. “I like the way you think, Strategos. Always best to go through the wife...”

Clicking the button on, the Yazidi’s voice resounded through the control room.

“Gentlemen- and ladies”, he turned, nodding to Memrouda, “we are about to witness the beginning of a new age in human communication. Because of your work over the past year and a half, we will soon be able to beam recordings from one corner of our empire to another. Before long, we’ll be able to send them across the world. Project Hermes’s possibilities are endless. I do not think any of us will see them fully realized in our lifetime. But we can nevertheless be proud that we will have sent man’s first message in a bottle onto the wide sea of space. Truly, I could not have asked for a better team to realize this effort- and for that, you will have my eternal attitude.”

He was interrupted by a brief moment of applause as technicians turned in their seats to hail their director. But, eccentric as ever, Boyik cut them off. “What are you all clapping for? We still have three minutes until this thing goes up!”

From there, the countdown echoed as the final checks completed and the last crew on the launch pad moved to safer locations. But tension in the room wasn’t quite what Birchanin expected. Yes, there was a chance that all could go wrong and they would once again have to start from scratch. And yes, there was a chance that if this failed, it could sink any hope of an independent space program. Yet it also felt as if none of that mattered right now. What was fated to happen would happen. All the crew at Phoenicon could do was hope that fate smiled upon then.

Thirty seconds....twenty seconds....ten seconds

At that moment, Birchanin spied Boyik reaching for a flask and asking for an aide to bring glasses. 


“Drinking now, really?”

 “Not yet, Strategos. Just want to be ready.”

Five seconds....

“For?”

Three seconds....

“Either event. How *much* I drink depends on what happens...

Zero...ignition engaged.

Like an inverted lightning bolt, Sebastokrator separated from the gantry and ascended skyward. As the dust cloud cleared from her wake, the crew could see the rocket progressing ever upward on the camera feeds. Every announced check came as predicted. Altitude, distance, time to orbit, everything sounded as Phoenicon’s personnel hoped it should. Even stage separation proceeded as they had hoped; the feared malfunction didn’t happen.

The room went silent as they approached the expected time that Hermes itself would separate from the rocket. This part was the key to the whole mission. What good would it do to put an object in orbit if it didn’t respond to the controls? Technicians soon confirmed the separation, but then had to wait for the appropriate beeping pattern: 3-3-3. If they heard that, it had all worked. Anything else- especially the 6-6-6 indicating that the receiving transmitter had failed- and they were screwed.

Everyone waited with baited breath for the first signal to come through. Even the usually cool Boyik could be seen muttering under his breath something along the lines of “talk, damn you, talk”.

Then the transmission started:

Beep-beep-beep. Beep-beep-beep. Beep-beep-beep.

As it started its cycle again, the room broke out into applause and cheers. One of the engineers burst open a bottle of sparkling wine. Birchanin, ever religious, crossed himself and murmured a quick prayer of thanks to Saint Christopher for getting them through this. Boyik then approached him to offer a glass of arak.

“Much more where this came from,” he smiled, pouring, “I’ve got a whole bottle in the office that I’ve been saving for such an occasion.”

The Strategos raised his glass to the scientist. “You’re mad, Doctor. But I am goddamn glad that we’ve got you running this. To the first of many successes.”

“Only if we keep getting those nice checks, Strategos,” he said, clinking. “Now I suggest you contact Constantinople- we should really get this going.

29 July 1956- Palace of Blachernae

True to his word, Andronikos kept the message was short. From the ersatz transmission site at Blachernae, his message then bounced from Hermes to receivers as far away as Mauritania, Dalmatia, and Armenia. Of course, if the Hyperboreans were paying attention to the correct frequency, they might even pick it up too. The Emperor’s words came through remarkably clear. So clear, in fact, one could hear a certain emotion in his voice that did not come through on normal broadcasts.

“This is Andronikos, Emperor and Autocrat of the Sevarisians and Romans, speaking to you from Constantinople. At this moment, a satellite circling in the aether is bringing you my voice through the aether to your radio set. It is my sincere hope that this technology will bring nations together that have traditionally been separated by wide seas and vast deserts, and bring us to a greater appreciation of our common heritage as mankind. May Christ our true God, through the intercessions of His most pure Mother and of all the saints, have mercy on us and save us, for He is good and the Lover of mankind.”

[The Batorys]

“I mostly remember the screaming.”

The engineer brought the cannabis cigarette to her lips. Although she tried to do so slowly and carefully, her hand shook, the involuntary motion impossible to suppress. She exhaled a long stream of thick smoke, and attempted to steady her breathing. Her flamboyant dress, characteristic of her clan, and perhaps in some ways more suited to a gala than a top secret military facility, was at odds with her present nervous, solemn condition. She looked away. “The mic was the last signal to cut out.”

Across from her, the black clad and otherwise frightening woman nodded, and refilled the engineer’s teacup. Despite the fearsome reputation of the Dragon’s Claw, this one, for the moment at least, projected no ferocity or murderous intent. “It’s all right,” she said in a calming voice. “Please just try to remember what you can of that day.”

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Batory Imperial Army Experimental Munitions Test Range 19
April 12th, 1958, according to the Gregorian Calendar

The desert wind blew, its dry breath stealing way moisture, making eyes ache and chapping lips. Having long since began its daily descent, the sun boiled a violent red on the horizon. Various mechanical noises pierced the relative quiet of the launch pad. Technicians walked about in their heavy protective gear, poking at and futzing with the Ba’al 2 rocket, an adapted ICBM, that dwarfed them like some dark monolith of ancient times.

Repainted green from the Batory Imperial Army’s blood red, this mission represented a first by the fledgling Batory Imperial Ministry of Space Exploration. In the short time since its creation, the Space Ministry, or BIMSE, had launched successfully more ambitious missions into orbit. Ever more complex satellites, eventually containing rats, rabbits, cats, and so forth, all working up to today’s mission, Anat 1.

Like the previous Bastet launches, this one would use Hippaka’s design. His star was on the rise, so to speak. Yet he did not appear to be enjoying it. He was shouting orders, infuriated at the unexpected delays. Dr. Njadsen Narva, having come back to the control room, thought she would linger outside a while longer, though her smoke break was finished. While she believed in the work, she found Gôsokos Hippaka somewhat unpleasant to work for. He had a hot temper, possessed an arrogant air, and didn’t take criticism well. And there had been plenty of criticism of the Ba’al and Ba’al 2 rockets, though much of it came from his rival, formerly at the Batory Imperial Navy, Dr. Katiaris. Thankfully she wasn’t here to agitate him further. Over at the launch pad, as Narva watched, the technicians visibly started working faster and more frantically, Hippaka’s frustration apparently having come through their radios. As if anyone could be more frustrated by Kerubi, the pilot, the first of the Ginnungagöngufólk, the voidwalkers. Narva had met Captain Kerubi at the party the previous week, a sort of send off. The diminutive former BISF pilot had a smile that lit up the room, and was witty but never mean-spirited. A fine candidate for the first Hyperborean into space. Everyone knew that the first would be under intense scrutiny should the mission succeed, and so in addition to all the technical qualifications, a pilot beyond reproach, even from the hated Sevarisian press, was required.

Narva went inside with a sigh, and continued to watch through one of the thick windows. The bunkers adjoining each launch pad were still mostly just bare cement inside, but at least the footpaths were no longer dirt.

“What’s happening?” Kerubi’s voice crackled over the radio, from her tiny Anat capsule.. “We going to be ready any time soon?”

Hippaka replied into the mic “just a few minutes more. We should have it sorted out.”

“Good, because my butt is getting numb.” This lightened the mood considerably.

After a few laughs, the work resumed, until the voidwalker’s voice came over the radio again, this time less cheerful, now concerned. “What’s that hissing?”

Another engineer watching through the window yelled “There’s a fire!”

Narva looked, and only had time to register that her colleague was right, the upper stage of the Ba’al 2 was on fire, before being blinded by the conflagration as the rest of the launch vehicle ignited, then knocked off her feet by the shockwave of the titanic explosion. Staggering to her feet, the moroii leaned against the wall as the ringing in her ears subsided. Even in the bunker, the eruption had been deafening. A new, more disturbing sound filled her ears, though. Over the radio, screaming that rapidly became inhuman howls of sheer agony, and then continued that way.

Amidst the chaos, she looked to Hippaka. “Is that Kerubi?” she felt she whispered, but in reality must have yelled.

All color had vanished from the man’s face, and he simply nodded, standing dead still amidst the chaos around him as everyone scrambled to and fro, trying to figure out something, anything, to do about the nightmare unfolding on the launch pad. Gôsokos Hippaka, the head designer of the BIA’s ICBM program, and of BIMSE overall, was powerless against what had been unleashed. The man who had all the answers did not know what to do. And all the while, Kerubi’s shrieks of pain continued, no one daring to cut the signal from the radio.

Dr. Narva’s responsibilities were over various functions related to the Anat spacecraft itself when it entered orbit... or that’s what she was supposed to do today, anyway. But there would be no orbit; the entire stack and everything around it were on fire. There was nothing that anyone could do. Unsymmetrical Dimethylhydrazine, the fuel, was bad enough on its own, toxic and volatile in the extreme… but the oxidizer, Chlorine Trifluoride, was even worse, instantly reacting with almost everything, only storable in metal tanks due to rapidly forming a thin layer of metal fluoride, insulating the rest of the metal against the deadly chemical. As it and the fuel, and everything else burned, clouds of combustion products that included chlorine gas and various other substances considered to be chemical weapons in most civilized nations drifted over the launch complex, blown by the desert wind, mostly eastwards. The gantry holding the rocket in place was doing an admirable job, but soon enough it would collapse, deformed and eventually melted by the heat.

“Those gases are going to blow to the village…” Njadsen said, to no one in particular. Her own words sounded far away as she stared out the window, unable to tear her eyes away from the unfolding horror. Figures were emerging from the flames now, fire seeming to stick to them. Some rolled around once free of the conflagration, desperately trying to put themselves out. Others visibly collapsed and lay still. She knew that many others had been closer to the Ba’al 2, with no hope of escape. Still Kerubi’s wails went on.

Finally, the gantry collapsed, and with it, the deformed, partially molten remains of the rocket, sending embers and flames flying upwards as if in some demon’s campfire. No one else emerged from the flames. Everyone who was going to make it out had already done so, and very few they were in number. The screaming finally stopped, and Narva whispered a quiet prayer to the gods.

She wasn’t sure how long the fire lasted. Much of the launch pad itself collapsed, the concrete itself burning, the underlying supports melting. All through the night, Anat 1 burned, and its remains and those of the launch pad were still glowing with heat as dawn shone through the choking haze. Dr. Narva left the complex a few hours later, in a daze, speaking automatically, her mind elsewhere, as if her body was functioning purely on autopilot. Sleep came easily, and it was only upon waking that she recalled the previous night’s horror.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Emerald jotted down notes as the shaky engineer concluded her recollections. Unlike Hippaka, once Dr. Njadsen Narva got talking, it all came out like a dam had broken. The incident had clearly affected her. While no one could be ruled out yet, given the other interviews she had conducted today, Emerald suspected that the entire catastrophe was down to negligence, human error, and perhaps, most of all, hubris, rather than Sevarisian sabotage. It had been an exhausting week.

“Thank you, Dr. Narva, I know this must be difficult for you.” Emerald refilled the engineer’s teacup. “That will be all; you’re free to go at your own leisure. Please get some rest.”

A few minutes later, Emerald was outside, lost in thought, the wind whipping at her trench coat. Njadsen Narva, for all her quirks, had been right. The toxic gases produced by the fire had been blown away, specifically towards the nearest village, whose residents tended to be dissatisfied at the best of times, and who had already complained about contamination from previous Ba’al rocket launches from Test Range 19.

“What a fucking mess,” her young subordinate, Lisak, opined, trudging up to Emerald’s position, overlooking the debris. It was an unrecognizable pile of slag, glass, rubble, and twisted metal now. “Same as the others?”

“Mostly,” Emerald nodded. “A few additional details owing to where she happened to be. The woman’s clearly in shock. She’s no saboteur.” The Dragon’s Claw sighed. “No one is; it wasn’t sabotage.”

Lisak looked away. “Hippaka seemed to suggest otherwise, specifically, that Katiaris had something to do with it.”

Her superior laughed. “That’s his ego talking. It’s at war with the scientist in him… which is why in his raving comments, he alternated between blaming her, and apologizing and saying it’s all his fault. He’s having a nervous breakdown. His arrogance doesn’t permit the idea that it could be anything but sabotage, yet his capacity for logic knows that this is the only reasonable explanation.” She sighed. “Besides, neither Katiaris nor any part of her team have been anywhere near the Ba’als. And anyone who was close enough to do anything untoward never made it out of the fire.” The veteran assassin shook her head.

“So, no one’s fault then?” Lisak asked, eyebrow raised.

“Certainly someone’s fault… just not intentionally so.” Emerald was exhausted. Pages upon pages of notes to transcribe into a cohesive report on the incident, with recommendations. “The blame lies with many, but of the living, Hippaka bears the greatest share.”

The younger Dragon’s Claw nodded. “He will lose his position, at the very least.”

“He would anyway, for health reasons.” She kicked a rock, which bounced down the hill that had been the launch pad. “The man’s a nervous wreck. That will be the public reason for him stepping down.”

“And what will they hear of the incident itself?” Lisak mused.

Emerald gave a sardonic chuckle. “A terrible accident. The launch technicians should not have let Hippaka pressure them into rushing through procedures and skipping steps to avoid further delays, but they paid for that mistake with their lives. There is no benefit to publicly scolding the dead.”