Tears for Zamimbia (Western Atlantic Only)

[Snefaldia]

Secret Command Bunker, somewhere in the Snefaldian Southern Military Region

"...you're not hearing me, gentlemen. The question is simple," Sygme Vinselmo-Ryme, Minister of State and Vice-Chairman of the Central Military Commission, said the other assembled members of the CMC, "and the question is, in the event of a conflict over Zamimbia, can the Armed Forces engage and achieve victory over the Excalbians?"

Just as when he had asked the question five minutes earlier, uncomfortable silence ruled the table. Lord Admiral Ta'us Rata'a, the other vice-chairman and head of the Navy, crossed his arms with a disapproving look.

"That's not the question at all." General Udyn Tudhaliyatti said, spreading his hands and leaning forward. "It's not even in the realm of possibility."

Lord Admiral Ta'us sucked his teeth. Vinselmo-Ryme only stared as Tudhaliyatti continued to speak.

"We've concluded a Treaty of Amity with the Holy Empire, and all of our battle projections, supported by AI prediction, indicate a less than 2% chance that the Excalbians will actually enter any conflict in Zamimbia," he went on, gesturing at the piles of research dossiers each man had in front of them. "Every way we slice it, the Snefaldian Armed Forces are able to achieve all combat objectives for Operation Heavy Spear within three weeks with minimal losses, and why were are even considering Excalbian involvement-"

"But you haven't, Udyn." Ta'us said softly. Vinselmo-Ryme continued to stare, his jaw working.

"Haven't what?"

"Haven't considered Excalbian involvement." Ta'us said, attempting to lead a horse to water and at least show him how the drinking was to be done.

"But I don't understand why-"

He was cut short by the Minister of State's hand slamming into the polished steel table, the reverbrations rattling water glasses and startling the other military officials. "No! You don't understand. That is the problem! You're the head of the General Political Department, which includes all political outcomes! The Excalbians intervened in the last Zamimbian crisis, they are sending fleets into the gulf, and are willing to work with Anahuac to keep the status quo. We prepare for all eventualities! All of them! Even Ren Dirh drew up war plans against Knootoss while he was fucking their diplomat! The GPD sends me alarming reports on the disgraceful state of the armed forces and now you're telling me you haven't even done assessments for a conflict with Excalbia! Unbelievable."

The second most powerful man in Snefaldia fell silent, and soft-spoken Admiral Ta'us filled the silence.

"Gentlemen. This is not idle wargaming for sport. We saw how the Excalbians pounded the Daytan rocket forces into submission without putting a single boot on the ground. A unilateral declaration of an air exclusion zone would be true to form for the Holy Empire, and it would severely restrict our ability to achieve strategic objectives for Operation Heavy Spear, as well as increase the likelihood of conflict. This should not require explanation. You have all seen the Strategic Defense Assessments the Citadel has provided. Without a proper, complete evaluation of Excalbian-Snefaldian conflict as a result of an escalation in Zamimbia... then we cannot properly ensure our national goals can be met."

The other men around the table nodded. General Tudhaliyatti recovered from his tongue-lashing and sallied out again.

"You are, of course, right. The GPD will have a report for the Commission and the Chancellor in forty-eight hours."

"Twenty-four, Udyn. Things are moving quickly." Vinselmo-Ryme said, his eyes fixed on the glowing map of the Western Atlantic on the far war, the known force deployments of all foreign powers blinking on and off, moving in relation to the Snefaldian disposition.

"Twenty-four. And, issue orders to all General Departments. All leave passes are to be revoked, and service personnel are to report for inspection. In seventy-two hours I expect a complete assessment of all military forces in the country and a redoublement of efforts. Anyone who drags their feet is to be detained. We have been lax, gentlemen. No more. The stakes are now very high. Higher than ever."

[Uncle Noel]

Villa Engels, New Hope

Abarran Mbala accepted his seat in the sparse, uninviting room. His jaw clenched and eyes narrowed as Quequezquia spoke. However, when he spoke his voice was shockingly soft and mild. “You were right, Ahuatzi. Amupanda and Nkosi are both playing their own game and were playing me for the fool. So, no, I am not carrying water for anyone. Tonight, I speak for myself and my people only.”

The Minister looked down at his hands, which he folded in his lap. “I don’t know what Amupanda’s endgame is; the rest of the Council is eating itself up trying to figure it out. He arrests Oladeli then leaves the country… He has been meeting with the Ajubans and President Duna. The rumour is that - under his urging - Duna is preparing to dissolve the Council and call elections for a Constituent Assembly. That will take the writing of a new constitution out of our hands and put it in the hands of the assembly.” Mabala shook his head. “No one knows if he is preparing to make himself President or if he is using Duna as a puppet or if, just perhaps, Duna is more in touch with reality than we supposed.”

Mbala shifted in his seat, looking like a school boy sitting under the gaze of the headmaster. “As for Nkosi, it is now clear to me that she is in the pocket of the Snefaldians. That is well for her people; they border Snefaldia. But it will do no good for my people.”

The Ambassador looked at him sympathetically. "Look Abarran, don't be too harsh on yourself. It was a good plan in many respects; the problem is that it would have been at excellent plan in Ajuba. But this is Zamimbia, and you were relying on people putting a national interest above their own concerns when that national interest doesn't exist."

He leaned forward in his chair, perching himself at the end of the uncomfortable cushion and fixing Mbala with a hard look. "The thing you've got to realise Abarran is that we are now past the point of conventional political scheming. I can't blame you for having only had a limited plan to somehow maneuver Duna into resigning, or falling on his sword, I blame Mabuza; you create a system that treats people like children then you had hardly be surprised if in results in infants. But that way of thinking is over, Abarran, constitutional niceties are over. Which isn't to say that we're now in full Civil War Mode but..look Abarran, if you want omelette then you've got to break some eggs. There will be blood; not all of it guilty. If that's a price you can pay, if that's a burden you can shoulder, then we can help you. But if you think that we're going to do is impotently scheme about how we may someone defeat Amupanda or Nkosi...or even Duna with skillful words or deft political trickery then there's nothing we can do for you. The time for trickery is over; it's time for action now."

He leaned back and waited for the Minister's response.

[Snefaldia]

Taškuriya Manor, Zaruna Prefecture, Dayan Region, Snefaldia

The Lord High Chancellor of Snefaldia, Chairman of the Central Military Commission, and most powerful man in Snefaldia Márkës Vinsëłmø-Ŕymè was still, sipping his tea, at 11:00 in the morning. He always rose early and drank tea sporadically until noon, but on his days at the family manor he rarely dressed until 11, preferring a silk bathrobe and pajama pants over the three-piece suit he wore now. His son Ístam, a man in his early forties and already starting to go as grey as his father, found him that way in the same chintz armchair his late mother had bought in 1991, the day after his father received the commission as Second-Grade Minister of Commerce from Reijihan Herad himself.

"Dad?"

The Chancellor seemed not to notice for a moment, blinked, and acknowledged his son's presence. He didn't say anything, no "yes, son?" or "good morning, Ístam." His look of curious expectation said everything he wanted. He had been that kind of father.

"He's here, dad."

Vinsëłmø-Ŕymè grunted and lifted himself out of his chair, adjusting his goldenrod silk tie in the mirror over the fireplace. This parlor was his wife's favorite, and still had her hallmarks, despite her being dead for twenty years. The chintz chair had never moved, not even to be dusted under. Vinsëłmø-Ŕymè contemplated the futility of maintenance for a moment while his son disappeared and then returned, moments later, with the expected guest.

"Good morning, my Lord Chancellor." the elderly man rasped, shuffling in a starched black morning suit and lavender ruche cravat. His hair, what was left of it, was freshly cut and combed with hair oil over his balding head. Vinsëłmø-Ŕymè gave a short, sharp, military bow.

"Please, be seated, Chancellor." he said, instinctively twitching his mustache.

Anzapahhâdu Mugallu, former Chancellor, now nearing 85 years of age, sank into an overstuffed wingback chair adjacent to the chintz unmoved mover.

"You're keeping well?" the current Chancellor asked the former. "And your wife?"

"Both fine, thank you. You are also well, I am sure."

"Naturally."

There was an uncomfortable silence between them while they waited for Istam to bring another teaset. They preferred to have no servants at the manor before noon, except for the security staff. It was easier. More personal. Istam departed after a look from his father, one of the looks that said, "go away now, boy, the men are talking." If he was upset, it didn't show.

"I still don't understand why you have me over for these talks," Mugallu said, stirring some milk into his tea and letting the cup sit a moment to cool. "You have an entire council. I'm sure they're supremely qualified to give you advice." He chuckled at his own joke.

"They don't understand the Chancellorship."

"You remade the Chancellorship. After my nephew remade it. After he killed most of my clan. After he overthrew the last Chancellor. Who is still under house arrest. Come come. I never understood this side of you." Mugallu said with a disapproving frown. "You have everything in the palm of your hand and you still need advice from an old man. I'm your Herad now, am I?"

Vinsëłmø-Ŕymè chuckled at that. "You're not wrong. But you are about one thing, and you know it. The advice comes even when you don't need it. When you don't want it. This endeavor? It's not the same as your project, as our dear mentor Herad's. Those great old men who started the engines again in the nineties, they had the shared experience, the decades in the Tuhran Bel, coming up together, working on the same projects, sharing the same ideas. I'm here holding a government of upjumped colonels together with force and prayer."

"Yes." Mugallu said matter-of-factly. "And I know what you're going to say. 'That's why Hantili had to die.' That's what you're thinking. He wanted to baptise the country in fire so it could sprout anew, so you acted. I knew how it would work. You're the devout one. You believe in the promise of Aatem Nal, of the liberation of the mind, of the ultimate truth."

"Don't you?"

"Maybe? It's possible you can truly put those ideas into practice, but you can't do it with all these generals about. You were not a military man.You are, and always have been, a scholar, an administrator. Your great successes now are limited by the warmongering imaginations of your brother and Ta'us."

At that, the Chancellor frowned, and it was his turn to shake his head. "No. Not Ta'us. He's the servant. The defender. The quiet mind, the tactician. Sygme is the warrior, the hussar, charging into battle with a blade in his teeth, horsewhipping his men to go with him. No. But you've got to the heart of the matter, what I wanted to discuss."

He leaned forward, elbows on knees, and put his head close to Mugallu's.

"We are traveling very nearly at a headlong pace down the path of war over Zamimbia. I do not want that. It will endanger all the work I have been trying to achieve, the reformation of the state, of the army, of everything! Herad did it wrong: he opened the floodgates and said to the people, go! You're free! Build a democracy, be a good child! And that produced Hantili. We weren't ready. But if I have five more years, of peace, of stability? We can return there. Guided democracy. The rule of the enlightened."

Mugallu was shaking his head. "You cannot be worried about war. War is the essential interest of the state, the continuation of politics by other means, part of the inescapable Clausewitzian dialectic. You aren't worried about war itself. Maybe you really know that already, though. Not war with Zamimbia at least. Or Anahuac."

"Excalbia, though? That's the possibility. I receive the documents today. The chance is real!"

The old, retired statesman nodded, staring at his teacup. "That would really upset the applecart. If you avoided the conflict out of fear of engaging Excalbia, you'd weaken your position in the Council and endanger your project. Then your brother would come to the fore. But if you engage in conflict, which does bring Excalbia in, the threat of an embarrassing defeat could achieve the same purpose. They'd blame the defeats on you, and you'd have to retire anyway. Either way, dear baby brother still comes up.

The Chancellor laughed bitterly. "You see my predicament?"

Mugallu laughed, slapping a knee. "Well Marko, let me tell you plain. You're in the water so deep now you might as well keep swimming to the bottom of the sea. You've got to be ruthless! I know you've got it in you, otherwise you'd never have helped orchestrate the coup. Your fatal flaw was thinking you could control Hantili's energies and look where it got us. I nearly died, and many actually did. But a council is not a single, driven man. And you know better than anyone that just like chickens, they will flock to wherever the feed is being thrown."

There was a moment of silence between them, sipping tea, before Vinsëłmø-Ŕymè spoke. "You shouldn't have retired, Anu. Another two years and we could have avoided all this."

"Bollocks. You still don't get it. The motions are not fatalistic. Ta'us Ala'a was wrong about that, back in the 16th century when he wrote that encyclopedia about the order of the universe, and the faith accepted it. There is no determinism. The only driver of change, of growth and development, is power and the will to use it, for good or ill. I couldn't grasp the power any longer. Think about that. When one longer has the will to wield it, how dangerous will that person be? I give you these meetings because no one else is likely to tell you the straight, unvarnished truth, and if you start believing you're the only one who's got it then you're no better than dear dead nephew Hantili.

"Peace is grasped by those with the will to build it." Vinsëłmø-Ŕymè muttered.

"A good quotation from the Book of the Motions. It applies here." Mugallu said, nodding.

"We cannot handle a conflict now, you know that. It would tear the nation apart. Civil War. The faultlines are too shallow now."

"Then grasp the peace. You already have the will to build it. Apply old Herad's lessons. You learned them the same as I. Break the enemy first, before they can marshal their forces. Strike fast, when and where it is least expected. And reward them afterward for their premature defeat. They must be made to think that even after a loss they have gained. But for the most recalcitrant of enemies, be merciless. The Christians have a quotation, "the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb." Remember that."

The Chancellor nodded, thinking of his brother. "Peace, for those with the will to build it."


* * *

That day, a formal note, very brief, arrived for Lady Christina Freedman of the Holy Empire of Excalbia:

Lady Christina-

Permit me to inform you, as Ambassador of the States-Federation of Snefaldia, that the government of my Lord High Chancellor Márkës Vinsëłmø-Ŕymè will be pleased to attend the regional summit on Zamimbia without preconditions. We await formal notice of the time, place, and circumstances of that summit. May the gods smile on our endeavors and grant us peace in the world!

Welend Šarrukitni
Ambassador
States-Federation of Snefaldia

[Excalbia]

Ministry of Defence, Citadel Excalbia

The secure briefing room in the bunker beneath the massive Ministry of Defence was dimly lit - to make the many display screens easier to read - and always cold. Gathered around the table were a large number of officers wearing the white of the Imperial Navy, the dark blue of the Imperial Army and the sky blue of the Imperial Air Force. Most of the officers were captains, majors, commanders and over mid-ranking officers.

At the head of the table sat the room’s sole flag officer: an older woman with a deeply lined face and brown hair streaked with gray pulled into a severe bun. She wore the white of the Imperial Navy and the braid of a rear admiral. She sat slightly hunched forward, one elbow resting on the table and the other idly scrolling across the screen embedded in the table in front of her.

“...all leaves have been cancelled and all personnel have been ordered to return to their stations,” a young female Army major was saying as she used her fingertip to highlight several spots on the map of Snefaldia displayed on the screen in front of each officer assembled around the table.

“Hardly conclusive,” a equally young Navy commander said, looking up from his screen. “It could simply be a response to the Virtuous battle group…”

“Or a prelude to the invasion of Zamimbia,” said another Army officer, this one a young male captain.

“Enough speculation,” the woman at the head of the table said. Rear Admiral Anda Sidrane, the Chief of Military Intelligence looked slowly around the table. “Let’s focus on what we know for certain.”

The young major cleared her throat. “Ma’am, we know that the Snefaldians are looking to extend their influence on the continent and prevent being contained by any of its neighbors or outside competitors. Hence their interest in Zamimbia.

“Second, we know that they have changed their military posture. Specific reasons unknown, but it at least raises the prospect that they are preparing for an intervention in Zamimbia.”

“OK. What do we know about their capabilities?” Sidrane asked.

“Their Army is large and well-trained but still in the midst of a modernisation,” the major said. “Their special forces, however, are considered first-rate.”

“Their Navy,” the commander who spoke earlier chimed in, “is fairly modern with several top-line carrier-led battle groups…”

“Hence Anuahac’s interest in carrier-killing technology,” another naval officer said from the other side of the table.

“Indeed,” the commander continued. “And while most of their escort and support craft are somewhat older.” She paused and drew in a breath. “They nonetheless do have 14 first-generation Wraith-class missile boats.”

“Any indication that they’ve successfully reversed engineered the foam alloy construction or stealth features?” Sidrane asked.

“No, Ma’am. At least not sufficient to construct vessels of their own.”

Sidrane nodded.

“As for their Air Force,” a young major in the sky blue of the Imperial Air Force spoke up, “it is large and well-trained and while it mostly flies older equipment, it does have 100 of our decommissioned F-22s.

Sidrande frowned and nodded.

General Staff Briefing Room, Ministry of Defence

The General Staff’s briefing room was a twin of the secure room in the bunker, except it had more wood paneling, bigger screens and was contained in a secure suite on the top floor of the Ministry.

Several generals and admirals, including Rear Admiral Sidrane, sat around the table talking in hushed tones. As the murmur of conversation seemed to reach a crescendo, the doors of the briefing room opened. A young Army lieutenant wearing the braid of a staff officer jumped to his feet and announced, “The Chief of the General Staff, the Lord Admiral.”

Everyone in the room rose to their feet as Lord Admiral Ricards Turlais entered, a leather portfolio tucked under his arm and gaggle of aides following behind. Turlais moved quickly to the head of the table. “Let’s get started,” he said as he took his seat.

The others in the room returned to their seats, and Turlais turned to Sidrane. “What do you have for us on Snefaldia, Anda?”

Sidrane tapped the screen in front of her and began playing the briefing she had received earlier that day. “According to intelligence reporting, Snefaldia has cancelled all military leaves and ordered all personnel back to duty stations. We do not know why; however, it raises the possibility that they are at least planning for an intervention in Zamimbia.”

“If they do intervene, what is your assessment?” Turlais asked as he scribbled notes in the legal pad he had pulled from his portfolio.

“Their ground forces are a bit out-of-date, but large and well-trained. The Zamimbians will be no match for them. Their special forces are considered first-rate, which also gives them an edge.” Sidrane folded her hands in front of her display.

“And what if we - and our multinational force - intervene to preserve Zamimbian independence?” General John Tighe, the Chief of the Army Staff, asked.

“Their Army is significantly larger than ours, but ours is more mobile and has a technological advantage,” Sidrane began. “We also need to consider our Navy’s ability to secure the coast and our ability to provide air support.

“Their naval forces are significant,” Sidrane continued, “they have first-rate carriers and 14 of our first-generation Wraiths. However, they cannot match the speed or stealth of our ships and their naval railguns, while potent, are not equal to our Crimson Stars. I wouldn’t want to engage them in a war of attrition, but in terms of securing access to the Zamimbian coast, our Navy will be able to accomplish its mission.

“As for air support, they have a very large, well-trained Air Force, but most of their equipment is a bit dated. They do have 100 of our former F-22s, but they’re no match for the Air Force’s FX-19s or the Navy’s FX-21s. At Mach 10 and with an altitude of 100 km, they can live outside the F-22’s - or their SAM's - operational envelope, while keeping the F-22 and ground targets in their strike range. While there will be lucky shots and mechanical failures, we will literally have the high ground.”

“That will only get us so far,” Tighe said. “Ground forces eventually need close air support and you can’t get that from low orbit at Mach 10.”

Sidrane shrugged and nodded.

“So,” Turlais said, “is it safe to assume that our bottom line is: we could blunt a Snefaldian incursion into Zamimbia, thanks to sea power and air power, but it would be much harder to force them back from any territory they’ve occupied. And it would not be in our interest to get into a protracted war of attrition where their superior numbers could tilt things in their favour.”

“Very accurate summary, My Lord Admiral,” Sidrane agreed.

Secure Briefing Room, Imperial Chancery

“I see,” Lady Ashley Gordon-Robb, the Imperial Chancellor said as she rested her hands, palms flat, on the wooden table in front of her. She looked over at Lord Admiral Turlais, who had just finished his briefing. “So, what does that all mean? What if anything do we do about it?”

“It could be a prelude to an invasion of Zamimbia,” Turlais said.

“Or it could be them doing the same thing we’re doing,” Defence Minister Dr. Arturs Anders said with a shrug.

“True,” Turlais agreed.

“So,” the Chancellor began, “what are our options? Do we recall our forces? Dispatch more ships?”

“If,” Anders said with a sigh, “they are only preparing for contingencies, an aggressive response on our part could just persuade them to activate their contingency plans.”

“Or a lack of action might give them false confidence,” the Chancellor said, “and invite an intervention.”

“We need to navigate the middle course,” Lady Christina Freedman, the Minister of State, said speaking by secure video link from the Excalbian Embassy in Knootoss.

Lady Ashley nodded. “Can we move up the start of the conference? Perhaps the Snefaldians, if there planning an intervention, will think twice if they’re in the midst of international negotiations.”

“We can. And that is quite right,” Lady Christina agreed. “I also recommend some slight upgrade to our military posture…”

The Chancellor turned to Anders. “What could we do that would be a… warning, without being overly provocative?”

Anders rubbed his chin and looked at Turlais. “Hmm… We could add a strike group to augment our carrier battle group…”

Turlais nodded. “New Excalbia and her strike group are not far away; we could easily dispatch her. And Admiral Pluvitis keeps his flag on New Excalbia, so while we would not be sending the whole Second Expeditionary Fleet, by sending its commander, the Snefaldian’s might have to at least consider that the whole fleet might be coming.”

Anders nodded. “And if we had FX-21s begin air patrols over Ajuba…”

“And that would take what? Ten seconds at Mach 10?” Lady Ashley asked.

“The typical flight path,” Turlais said would take the flight over Ajuba, bank out to sea, along the coast of Zamimbia - just outside its territorial waters -then south and east of Aerion, then, back to Ajuba and up the Avar Sea, then back to Ajuba and back to the carrier. All in less than an hour.”

“OK,” Lady Ashley agreed, “dispatch New Excalbia to the Skralins Islands, but she she and her group are to stay to the west of the islands. They are not to enter the Bay of Fuschal, the Lawata Bay or the Aerion straits without my specific and direct order. And for now, no hypersonic flights over Ajuba. It's just too close to Snefaldia; it'd be too easy for them to mistake it as an attack on our part. When something's flying at Mach 10, the margin of error is far too small.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Turlais said.

* * *

Lady Christina-

Permit me to inform you, as Ambassador of the States-Federation of Snefaldia, that the government of my Lord High Chancellor Márkës Vinsëłmø-Ŕymè will be pleased to attend the regional summit on Zamimbia without preconditions. We await formal notice of the time, place, and circumstances of that summit. May the gods smile on our endeavors and grant us peace in the world!

Welend Šarrukitni
Ambassador
States-Federation of Snefaldia

Your Excellency,

I was very pleased to receive your note. Attached, please find your Government’s formal invitation to the Conference.

Sincerest regards,
Lady Christina Freedman,
Minister of State

The following Note was also delivered to the governments of Zamimbia, Ajuba, Anahuac, Snefaldia, Knootoss, the Caldan Union, Pantocratoria, Laneria, Kasakia, Brasland, Balthorvia, Aerion, Sabaristan and South Epheron.

The Ministry of State of the Holy Empire of Excalbia presents its compliments, and, by direction of His Imperial Majesty David IV, has the honour to invite you to attend an international conference at the Joshua II International Conference Centre in the New Excalbia, an Imperial exclave in the Union of Ajuba, to develop a plan for lasting peace in Zamimbia and the southern Epheron region.

The conference will begin (date - OOC: this week) at 9:00 am. We ask all delegation to arrive the evening before. Accommodations will be provided at the Crown Imperial Hotel adjacent to the Conference Centre. While representatives of any level will be welcomed, we request that all parties provide representation at the ministerial level or above to facilitate on-site decision making.

Please be assured of our highest consideration.

[Zamimbia]

The Ambassador looked at him sympathetically. "Look Abarran, don't be too harsh on yourself. It was a good plan in many respects; the problem is that it would have been at excellent plan in Ajuba. But this is Zamimbia, and you were relying on people putting a national interest above their own concerns when that national interest doesn't exist."

He leaned forward in his chair, perching himself at the end of the uncomfortable cushion and fixing Mbala with a hard look. "The thing you've got to realise Abarran is that we are now past the point of conventional political scheming. I can't blame you for having only had a limited plan to somehow maneuver Duna into resigning, or falling on his sword, I blame Mabuza; you create a system that treats people like children then you had hardly be surprised if in results in infants. But that way of thinking is over, Abarran, constitutional niceties are over. Which isn't to say that we're now in full Civil War Mode but..look Abarran, if you want omelette then you've got to break some eggs. There will be blood; not all of it guilty. If that's a price you can pay, if that's a burden you can shoulder, then we can help you. But if you think that we're going to do is impotently scheme about how we may someone defeat Amupanda or Nkosi...or even Duna with skillful words or deft political trickery then there's nothing we can do for you. The time for trickery is over; it's time for action now."

He leaned back and waited for the Minister's response.

Villa Engels, New Hope

Mbala sat in silence for several minutes, then he slowly looked up at the Anahuacan Ambassador. “Just what kind of action do you have in mind, Ahuatzi? How bloody will have to get?”

[Uncle Noel]

Offices of the People’s Commissariat for State Security

Like a typecast actor Cunincpert Indiemurr knew what was expected of him and performed his role diligently. He was the perennial bad cop of Anahuac to the General Secretary’s good cop. So when a position needed to be put forcefully then he was the man they called.

Indiemurr leaned across and pressed the intercom on his desk. “Get the Excalbian ambassador in here now.”

He waited in his office, stoking his anger like a fire so that it burned bright and hot when the diplomat, or someone sent in his stead, arrived.

“Sit down,” he barked by way of an introduction. No hand was proffered to the representative of the Holy Empire. Once seated Indiemurr, who was standing, threw down upon a desk a small wad of papers that skidded across the polished surface and landed in the diplomat’s lap.

“So much for this so-called Excalbian loyalty to its friends of which we have heard so much,” he hissed, “Tell me ambassador are you always so quick to throw your allies under the bus? The ink is not yet dry on that Treaty Of Amity, more like Enmity if you ask me, and this is how you treat us? Your government was very quick to come to us, very quick indeed when Zamimbia was about to be partitioned and no one else in the region cared a damn apart from us. You were happy, then, to agree to a peace conference in both our countries’ names. But how quickly you turn, how quickly the mask drops, because lo and behold I see no reference to Anahuac here on this wretched missive sent out by your government but I do see an invitation to the Knootians. Of course! It all makes sense now. The great puppet-masters of international finance could not tolerate an opposing nation getting equal billing and so they pulled some strings and we go from co-host to just another attendee.”

He folded clasped his hands behind his back and gazed out onto the Itztlan skyline. “I don’t know why we should be surprised. It’s always the same with you damn capitalists, it’s all smiles until the knife is produced. All good humour whilst our blood is being sucked dry but the vampires of finance.”

He turned and faced the Ambassador. “How did you think we would react? How did you think we would respond? It’s one thing to invite the great bull, Snefaldia has a border so it cannot be ignored, but Knootoss? The greatest enemy of socialism in this region? Well we know now, we know that Excalbia will always favour it’s paymasters to us, it’s little dynastic cronies to any meaningful relationship with us.”

He leaned across and placed both hands on the desk. “Well you tell that Minister of State of yours that we in Anahuac do not take kindly to such insults and will not be attending this little capitalist pow-wow over Zamimbia. It’s clear that Zamimbia has nothing to gain from this talking-shop of the bourgeoisie. Because, my word, the Knootians. Really? What’s on the agenda? Debt-reduction? Maybe a free trade area? Why don’t you just eat the poor? It’s ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous. You, clearly, think so low of us that you never bothered to consult us.”

He straightened. “Well no longer. There is your response, now take it to your government.” He sat down at his desk and rearranged his papers. Clearly an unseen button had been pressed as two uniformed soldiers of the VKS appeared and stood to either side of the Ambassador.

“I will not keep you any longer,” said Indiemurr without looking up, “Good day.” The soldiers began to maneuver the Excalbian out the door.

[Excalbia]

Ministry of State, Citadel Excalbia

The secure conference room was a nondescript room buried in the Ministerial suite on the eighth floor of the Old State Building. With no signs announcing its presence and amidst the arte nouveau grandeur of the suite there was little to make one think the door to the conference room led to anything more than a broom closet. Of course, inside the door was another door. And an armed guard.

Inside the windowless room, Sir Adam Taurins, the Deputy Minister of State, sat at the head of the table. To his right sat Dr. Frank Ginkel and to his left sat Lady Tabitha Cerbule, the Director-General for the inappropriately named Office of Near-Eastern Affairs. Beside her sat Sir David McCawley, the Director-General for Epheronian Affairs. At the other end of the table, Lady Christina Freedman, the Minister, was joining the conference on a secure video link from the Excalbian Embassy in Knootoss.

“That was certainly rather shocking of them,” Sir Adam was said. “Certainly they recall that we already jointly issued the call for the conference, and mutually agreed that we would host. The Note with the specifics should not have caused any alarm…”

“Perhaps,” Sir David interjected as he pulled at the cuffs of his shirt peeking out beneath the sleeves of his suit coat, “it was really the inclusion of Knootoss. The Knootians do have rather strong policies with regard to communist states…”

“No,” Lady Christina said through the video link, “the Anahuacans are smart enough to know that you can’t have peace in Zamimbia without South Epheron at the table and you don’t get South Epheron without Knootoss. We made no secret of the fact that we need South Epheronian participation. Or that we always intended broad regional participation. No,” she said flatly, “something else is going on.”

“They may have found a better ally in Zamimbia,” Lady Tabitha said.

“Explain,” Sir Adam directed, folding his hands on the table in front of him.

“If they believe that they have a partner in Zamimbia,” Lady Tabitha said, adopting a schoolmarmish voice to match her rather old-fashioned and severe dress, “who can deliver them the whole country as an ally against Snefaldia, then why would they risk it at a conference? If someone offered you the whole loaf, would you settle for a slice?”

“Surely,” Dr. Ginkel said taking off his glasses and wiping them with a soft cloth produced from his shirt pocket, “they realize that, even if such a scheme were to succeed, Zamimbia is a weak partner. It would be a significant drain on their military to bring the Zamimbian military up to any kind of level where they would have a prayer of defending themselves against a Snefaldian invasion, much less pose a credible threat to Snefaldia or offer credible assistance to Anahuac in the event of hostilities…”

“It isn’t about reality, Frank,” Lady Tabitha said, looking across the table through the top of her bifocals, “ideology is a significant factor in shaping the Socialist People’s Fiefdom’s foreign policy. If they see a chance to orchestrate a socialist government coming to power in Zamimbia, then that is nearly as important as having an ally against Snefaldia.” She turned to look at Lady Christina on the screen at the foot of the table. “And we can’t dismiss the possibility that they are watching the Upper Virginian elections and banking on having a socialist ally in the Dominion.”

“Surely,” Dr. Ginkel said, adopting his own professorial tone, “they know that the President controls foreign policy in the Dominion. And the controls the military.”

“Again, it is knowing versus believing,” Lady Tabitha began.

“Believing,” Lady Christina interrupted. “Once our foreign policy was shaped by belief,” she sounded almost wistful, “then we learned the hard way that the world doesn’t care about your ****ing beliefs.” Mouths around the table dropped. Each had heard the Minister curse in private, semi-personal conversations, but never in a briefing. “So, now we follow the ideal of pragmatism. Any indication that they intend to break our shiny new treaty, Lady Tabitha?”

“No, My Lady,” Lady Tabitha said wide-eyed.

“Good. Then, we ignore their ***** little tantrum. So, they won’t come to the conference they helped create. Big ****ing deal. That’ll be their problem. We’ll continue to consult before taking any definite actions, including signing any final agreement or deploying troops. Inform the MoD that they should not expect Anahuacan participation in any stabilization force.”

The Minister paused and looked at something behind the camera in the Embassy’s conference room. “More importantly, we need to find out what they think they’re doing in Zamimbia and who this new ally might be.” Lady Christina paused again. “Amupanda is an Academy graduate, isn’t he?”

“Yes, My Lady,” Sir David said with a nod.

“Good. Find someone he trusts to go speak with him. It’s time we reach out directly.”

“But,” Dr. Ginkel protested, “don’t the Ajubans think Amupanda is one of the people behind… this current situation? That he might be planning a coup?”

“Pragmatism, Frank,” Lady Christina said. “Whether Amupanda is planning something or not, he’s either in power or the power behind whoever is in power. He’s bound to know more about what’s going on in Zamimbia than we do. If our intelligence reports are to be believed, their Foreign Minister is in the tank for the Snefaldians. Who knows who the Anahuacans are working with, but my guess is that it’s not Amupanda.”

[Uncle Noel]

Villa Engels, New Hope

Quequezquia looked at Mbala for a moment. “We’re not talking a massacre Abarran, so let me lay the cards on the table; there should be an attempt on the life of Nkosi.

Why her when clearly it is Amupanda who is on maneuvers? Simple, she’s here and he’s not. What’s that English expression, a bird in the bag is worth two in the tree or something? Anyway, we have an opportunity to strike at her now. We’re not proposing anything particularly sophisticated, no need for a poison-tipped umbrella, what we will do is round up some young men from the countryside, preferably who have no idea who Nkosi is, have some experience with firearms and maybe some form of addiction that needs to be funded. It would be the usual and crude manner of waiting until she’s entering or leaving her home and do a drive-by. If, by the Will of Mixcoatl, a bullet should hit her then good, every revolution needs a martyr, and as the last remaining sensible politician it would be natural that people would turn to you to provide stability and leadership during the crisis. And if she survives,” Quequezquia shrugged, “Well even better in a way, because she will naturally assume that Amupanda or Duna are behind the attack, and the more they protest their innocence then the more guilty she will think that they are because that’s exactly what she would do in their position. What she won’t suspect, Abarran, is that you’re guilty. Why? Because you’re going to be very open about this meeting this evening. You’re going to tell Nkosi that yes, you came here this evening, and that we talked about what we could do to help, but that I turned you away. Because we’re all ideologues here, Abarran, and you’re not a communist….yet...so there was sadly nothing we could do to help, other than to provide what support we could at the regional conference. And besides, everyone knows that we have a well-funded secret service of our own, so if we wanted her dead then she would be; we certainly wouldn’t be so crude as to pepper her house with bullets. And the Snefaldians are unlikely to suspect anything because we all know that Zamimbia-Snefaldian cooperation does not rest on one person. Let’s not kid ourselves that any one of us is indispensable to the drama. If you weren’t here, if Amupunda or Duna had contrived to have you arrested then I’m sure someone else would have found their way to the embassy and whoever occupied it. The junta knows that there are others who would sell out their country for thirty pieces of silver and probably with fewer conditions than Nkosi has.”

He leaned back in his chair. “Anyway, plausible deniability; the less you know then the more realistic your surprise will be when it happens. Besides, you have some homework of your own to do.” He steepled his hands. “Let’s take a step back Abarran and try and look at this dispassionately. Let’s say that this is all the work of Amupunda; well then it speaks of the weakness of his position. I feel like I’m a broken gramophone because I keep repeating the same line but here it is again; what’s the point of a general who can’t trust the loyalty of his own men? The answer is jack ****.” He straightened his tie after an involuntary expletive. “Say what you like about the Snefaldian junta but they never schemed their way to power, they didn’t sneak about in the shadows, arresting this person here, intimidating that person there. They just took the reins of power and before you know it Wølmeÿ was in chains and Smyczek was dead and that’s all there was to it. If he could do then he would have taken power, and no one would have been especially surprised or especially shocked by that. But he hasn’t. There’s no need to scheme when you hold the guns. So the answer is why? Is it residual loyalty to Duna? Or is there an ethnic element to all this.”

Quequezquia leaned forward. “Well you’re always saying that you’re this great community leader Abarran,” he jabbed a finger at the minister for education, “So do something with it. There are Buta in the army, get them to talk to you. Find out why. And more importantly, find out if they are willing to do the necessary to see one of their own in the top job. Even if we don’t succeed then it sends a message to Amupunda that if he can’t rely on his men then he’s less of a general and just a tuppenny ha'penny warlord with a better pension.”

“It’s also time to start expanding our network of influence. You’ve previously been dismissive of the rest of the Provisional Government, and perhaps you’re right, perhaps they are gin-soaked nonentities, but they are useful now. So cultivate them. Give them a choice. Their choices are narrowing by the day; it’s either Amupanda, the next Mabuza. Or Nkosi, who will bind them all in cords that lead back to Taxilha or you, Abarran Mbala; the last patriot, the only man left who wants a Zamimbia for all Zamimbians. Who says no to the General in Sargedaín and the Emperor in his Citadel. Who demands that the riches of Zamimbia be used to enrich Zamimbians and not faceless foreign corporations.”

The Ambassador chuckled. “There you are Abarran, I’m even writing your stump speech. But you get the impression. Obviously that is all liable to change if we do get Nkosi, because then we’ll paint her as a Moses who tried to lead her people to the promised land but, failing at the last moment, she passed the baton onto you, our brave new Joshua, to finish her work. Or something, we can figure out the details later.”

[Excalbia]

Skralins Imperial Naval Station, Skralins Islands

The V-22 bearing the blue , white and gold markings of the Excalbian Imperial Navy tilted its wings back so the turboprops mounted on them faced upward like the rotors of a helicopter. The plane lowered its landing gear and slowly descended onto the tarmac of the Naval Station.

As the propellers slowed, the arrival party approached the plane. Two sailors placed a short, metal staircase at the side of the plane and a detachment of Imperial Marines lined either side of the plane’s main door. At the end of the line of Marines stood a petty officer with a boatswain's pipe and the braid of a staff assistant. Beyond him was a small clutch of officers, including the Station’s commander, Commodore Alexandra Kent, and the senior officer in the region, Vice Admiral Thomas Parn from the 17th carrier battle group.

The doors of the plane opened and a tall, somber man in dress whites and the braid of a full admiral stepped out. The chief blew the boatswain’s call on his pipe, then announced in a loud voice, “Second Fleet arriving!”

The Marines and assembled officers snapped to attention and crisply saluted. Admiral Jekob Pluvitis returned the salute and stepped down from the plane and walked passed the Marines followed by a trail of staff aides. He stopped in front of Vice Admiral Parn, who saluted again.

Pluvitis returned Parn’s salute, then, while remaining at attention, asked, "Permission to come aboard."

"Permission granted," Parn replied.

Then, with rehearsed precision Pluvitis said, “By command of His Imperial Majesty, David IV, as attested to by the Lord Admiral, I assume command of this military district.”

“You have command,” Parn replied. “I stand relieved.”

Pluvitis nodded. He turned to Commodore Kent. “What is our status here?”

“Fully operational, Admiral,” the Commodore replied.

“No communists about? No Knootians lurking?” Pluvitis asked.

“No, sir. They never came for their tour and the Knootians departed quite some time ago,” she replied.

Pluvitis nodded. “Very good. There will be no more tours or good will missions. While our leaders continue to pursue peace, our job is to be prepared if their efforts fail. I want every ship, every plane, every man,” he glanced at Kent, “every woman to be ready for combat at a moment’s notice.”

“Yes, sir,” Parn and Kent replied in unison.

“Very good,” Pluvitis said as he began to stride towards the headquarters building. “Let’s get started immediately. I’ll want a complete briefing on all plans currently in place, all contingencies and our latest intelligence on all foreign forces within the region…”

New Excalbia

The Excalbian overseas territory of New Excalbia was little more than the city itself. A small bit of land that had been ceded to the former colonial allowed allowed for some basic urban services, like waste disposal, water treatment and prison facilities, and for a small international airport. Daniel III International Airport had been built to serve a relatively small number of direct international flights in the belief that most airlines would choose to fly into the much larger airport in Abadan, the capital of Ajuba, and use a short-haul carrier for flights to New Excalbia.

While the airport could accomodate large airliners, it could not accommodate many at one time. So it was decided that Lady Ashley Gordon-Robb, the Imperial Chancellor, would fly into Abadan and leave her Imperial Air Force 777 there and continue on to New Excalbia in a smaller V-22 that could drop her off and return to Abadan. Not only did this leave more room for other ministers and heads of government flying into the conference, it had also allowed her time to confer with her Ajuban counterpart, Sir Dawuda Okpanache.

As Lady Ashley and Sir Dawuda arrived in New Excalbia to await the other delegations, staff finished setting up the Conference Centre. A plenary room featuring a large oval table would allow the delegation heads to sit together. Lady Ashley would be placed at one end. The other end had been reserved for Anahuac, but their cancellation would see the spot passed on to Sir Dawuda. A gallery above could hold all the staff that anyone might care to bring and rooms on that floor had been set aside for each delegation to use for private meetings.

With the finishing touches completed, all that remained was the arrival of the delegates.

[Zamimbia]

Villa Engels, New Hope

Abarran Mbala sat in silence for a moment. He studied the Ambassador’s face, as if searching for clues as to far he could trust the man. Then, he looked down at his feet. He imagined himself standing in the waters of the Rubicon. If he continued forward, the die would be cast. There could be no retreat. He would either sit at the head of the Zamimbian government or he would die, either shot by Amupanda as a traitor or killed by the Snefaldians, if the caught on, or his own Anahuacan allies if he failed. He knew this. But, if he turned back now, what would happen? Wouldn’t those same allies have to kill him to keep him quiet? Couldn’t Amupanda still brand him a traitor.

Mbala drew in a breath. “Very well, Ahuatzi. Let us proceed. You do what it is that you need to do. I will recruit my people to my side.” He gave a small smile. “I have some ideas about a few of fellow ministers who can be persuaded to support me. Especially after Nkosi is out of the picture. And there are Butas in the state apparatus and in the military and police. I will begin rallying them to my cause.”

The Minister leaned forward. “What will we do about the conference? If it starts before Nkosi if off the board, she will be there. She might negotiate a deal favourable to herself.”

[Uncle Noel]

Ayotochco Palace

Deep within the bowels of the Ayotochco Palace three old men played billiards. The room was hot, for having been occupied for some time, and the air was thick with tobacco smoke and rough language. Much mezcal had been taken.

“So…..er...er….er,” stuttered Stohlfel Amal as he tried desperately to both focus on the game and remember what he was saying, “Er….I’ve forgotten. Whose go is it?”

His jacket and tie long since discarded, Hoogaboom attempted to wipe his brow with a handkerchief and nearly missed his head. “Yours,” he said after a moment, “You drunk old fool.”

Indiemurr, who had fallen asleep in a chair, suddenly stirred. “I’ll hold,” he said, responding to a game of cards they have stopped playing several hours before. The General Secretary laughed.

“Oh er.” began Amal, “Right.” He carefully lined up the shot before dropping his cue on the floor. “Oh bother,” he said. He slightly inclined his head to fetch the offending implement from the ground but the sudden wave of dizziness convinced him to abandon it. He instead fetched another cue that was propped up against the wall. “So...er…” he began again, “What was the Excalbian response?”

Both men looked at the now conscious Indiemurr. “Humph,” he said, as the purple monocle fell from his eye to reveal the empty socket behind, “Just some rot. It was the diplomatic equivalent of

We thank you for your letter, the contents of which we note.

Kind regards

“Those cheeky swines,” muttered Hoogaboom.

“But they don’t care,” slurred Indiemurr, “They don’t! That Ashley Rordon-Gobb doesn’t care, she just wants one big Yalta so she can have something to finish her memoirs.”

“How...er...how did er….what’s his face? The Admiral?” said Amal desperately trying to remember, “Oostmal, how did he take it.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Indiemurr with such theatricality that he nearly fell off his chair, “Oh! Like an old woman. Kept spluttering about how he’d given his word to the Excalbians and how an officer never goes back on his word and…”

“Fuck his word,” bellowed Hoogaboom, smashing a hand into billiard table with such force that a glass fell from it and smashed, though all three of them were too far gone to notice it, “Who does he think he is?”

Indiemurr sneered. “It’s only because he fancies that stupid b**ch Christina.”

“****ing wh**e.”

“He was never cut out for the Politburo. There’s no revolutionary spirit in him. Perhaps it’s time he took early retirement?”

Amal, who was marginally, very marginally, the more sober of the three hesitated “We’re still in this treaty, we might as well keep in him place, at least until….you know…...er…….the next Excalbian election.”

“Yeah,” sneered Hoogaboom, “And if the next foreign minister isn’t putting out then maybe he won’t be of any used to her.”

“Was it bad, Noel, when you were in Excalbia?” asked Indiemurr with a grin.

“Oh it was awful,” said the General Secretary, looking in the vague direction of where the voice was coming from. “He was drooling over her like a rutting stag. It was unseemly.”

Amal lined up the shot before dropping his cue again. “Oh blast it,” he said, as he looked about for a third cue. “So do you think this, er, Abervan Maboolo chap, do you think he can, you know, deliver the goods?”

The General Secretary shrugged. “We can only see, but we will give him the tools and see if he can finish the job.”

“What about this conference,” said Indiemurr, his eyelid beginning to shut as the first tendrils of drunken sleep began to creep onto his consciousness, “If it all goes wrong then can we really just turn up as though nothing has happened?”

“Propriety for is for fucking bourgeoise,” said Hoogaboom, “The People’s History will judge us.”

Villa Engels

Quequezquia smiled at his Faustus. “You’ve made the right decision Abarran. And to answer your question, it’s only an issue if we allow her to get there.”

He stood up. “Excuse me for a moment.” He walked out the room and into the hallway where he kept his telephone. The number he needed was on autodial.

Anahuacan embassy

Ueman Xonacatl was alone in his office, watching the same footage of the protests in Winburg. It was late, and one of the problems with 24 hour news is that after a while people run out of things to say. The VKS man nursed his mexcal and shook his head as the same poor reporter told those back in the studio that there was no news, because anyone capable of making news had gone to bed several hours ago, unlike the reporter who appeared to be stood in a car park.

“Poor bastard,” muttered Ueman to himself. Suddenly his telephone rang. He knew who it was likely to be.

“Xonacatl,” he said as he picked it up.

“It’s me,” said the Ambassador from his hallway, “We are go for Operation Krupskaya.”

“When?” said Xonacatl, “They’re moved the conference forward, she’s going to be moving out shortly.”

“Can’t our delegation at the conference stall it’s beginning?” asked the Ambassador.

“Erm, well, about that,” said the station chief, “I’ll tell you about that in the morning but that’s not really an option anymore.”

The Ambassador nodded, though obviously Xonacatl couldn’t see this. “Well then we’d best get moving now. You know what to do.”

“Roger that,” said the VKS, hanging up the phone. He would need to act quickly before their prey escaped.

[Snefaldia]

Near the Hotel Zwange, New Hope, Zamimbia

With the afternoon sun beating down on the sun awnings lining the tourist-trap street of hawker stalls and local shops, Thuyan Mattiy sat at his little table inside, slurping down a bowl of dry-fried Taxilhan noodles, his flower-print shirt unbuttoned to reveal a white undershirt stretching over an expansive belly. He devoured the bowl, scratched his equally-expansive salt-and-pepper beard and lit a cigarette, his trademark Tahjilmur Special, with a single deft move from his left hand.

The shop was crowded, for its size, but not with tourists. Those had started drying up when the communal violence started, and there were fewer now than there had been five years ago during Bongani's rule. For Mattiy, it didn't matter. He was an agent of ISITMA, the Snefaldian intelligence service, and the two men now pressed up against the cheap brass pots and pans, machine-beaded handbags and "ethnic" scarves were not there to negotiate over the price of a pair of sandals. One was a woman, a compact, dark-skinned Allashan with strong cheekbones and a nose that was made to cut granite. The other, leaned up lazily with one eye out the door, was handsome; the lighter skin of a Sringi Luwite, with jet black hair and soft ladykiller looks. Both wore streetclothes, to look like tourists. They both had pseudonyms, not that Mattiy would know them anyway, but her real name was Tugtushe, a junior intelligence officer, and he was Ren Pinikimurri, Special Services Office and Divisional Chief for the Citadel.

Mattiy offered a cigarette. The woman looked offended, but the man waved it away and pulled his own case from the pocket of his linen suitjacket.

The shopowner sucked on the cigarette, removing it and scratching his head with the two free fingers, exhaling with a heavy breath. "Two of you come in person, a thing I can count on one hand as ever happening before."

"And?" Tugtushe asked, not really caring about the answer.

"Whatever you're going to demand will be dangerous." he said, and pointed to Pinikimurri. "I know you're a high muckety-muck. You wouldn't be here unless it was serious."

Tugtushe seemed taken aback by this admission, but Pinikimurri didn't move, holding his cigarette in place in two fingers at lapel height. The junior office took strength from his solidity and spoke.

"Duna."

There was silence for a time, the heat of the day periodically alleviated as a breeze caught the windtrap on the roof of the stall, drawing the hot air out and bringing a tiny respite. Mattiy sucked again on his cigarette and grunted, then smiled. "Big fish, then! And it won't be easy. You think I have any assets here that will be able to get to him? Or even get close? He's paranoid these days. You'd have better success with a 'White Fox' commando."

Tugtushe threw a sidelong glance at Pinikimurri, who still hadn't moved, his cigarette burning down, unsmoked.

Mattiy stared into his eyes for what seemed like a full minute, grunted again, and then started from his chair, but thought better of it and remained sitting. He produced a handkerchief and mopped his brow.

"It's not supposed to succeed." he said with finality. Pinikimurri smiled and brought the cigarette to his lips. Tugtushe licked her lips and started to run through it.

"We already know the man to hire. The Valdrician. I can't pronounce his name."

"Thiudreiks." Mattiy supplied, frowning.

"Yes. him. He'll be supplied with a Knootian high-powered rifle, one of the older kind that filters through the area here, but we've picked up Anahuacan-made armor-piercing rounds. That's also not uncommon around here. There's a spot set up for him to fire at the presidential motorcade when it next moves through the downtown. We already have a line on the route. It's a garret space with a line of sight that gives easy access to the president's vehicle."

"The cars all have bulletproof glass, and he never sits in the same on or the same place twice in a row." Mattiy protested.

"We told you. You're not supposed to hit him." Tugtushe went on. Mattiy nodded, extinguishing his cigarette but in an already crammed disused coffee can and lighting another.

"He leaves the weapon behind. It doesn't matter if he remembers to wipe it clean. The ammunition and the weapon's pieces will already be spotless. He proceeds to the extraction and debrief point. You'll get the coordinates off the numbers station."

Pinikimurri took another drag on the cigarette, and his face broke into a roguish smirk, the kind that so many men and women had fallen for in barrooms and boardrooms across half the Western Atlantic. The kind that said, "I know more than you do. I'll teach you. Don't I look like I'd be a great teacher?"

Mattiy was scratching his head. "Problem one. Thiudreiks is Valrdician, yes, but not Anahuacan. They're like us Taxilhans. Moved here generations ago. That'll be the first place the Zamimbians look, after the Fiefdom officials freeze them out. They'll find him."

There was another silence as it dawned on Mattiy. "...they're supposed to find him."

"But in no condition to report." Pinikimurri finished, retrieving a black plastic airtight package from his tourist's backpack. Inside was a small pistol, cheaply stamped metal with a plastic grip. "Standard-issue Anahuacan peashooter. Some of their intelligence agents carry Excalbian or Knootian pieces but there's no way to know who. Give him the Blokhin treatment."

Mattiy grasped the gun with his handkerchief, looked it over, and replaced it in the bag. He chuckled, winking at Tugtushe. "This one, I will wear gloves."

Pinikimurri tossed the spent cigarette butt out the window and took a hand-woven reed fan from the wall, fanning himself absently. "Use an intermediary for Thiudreiks. One of the double-blinds who's never seen your face," he said, Mattiy nodding. ISTIMA used, in some cases, a series of double-blind agents who knew they were working for the Citadel, but didn't know the chain of command, or anyone else in the system. A variant on the sleeper cell model, it wasn't foolproof, but it provided enough of a buffer to protect other agents in the network, and the intelligence officers that managed them.

Tugtushe straightened and looked at Pinikimurri, the job done. Mattiy eyed the Divisional Chief, with a mixture of respect and disquiet. Pinikimurri smiled. "You're a smart one, Mattiy. I can read your mind. My predecessor criminally underused you. I'll rectify that. The answer to the question you're thinking of is no. Tugtushe and I are on our way to New Excalbia. We're diplomatic attaches for the summit advance security team. Minister Ašsšuašwa is attending and we needed to meet with him."

He chuckled. "Criminally underused."

Then, they disappeared into the dusty street and the afternoon sun. Mattiy sat for a while, before lighting a cigarette. He stepped into the street to shout at his neighbor, "I'm closing up, Peter! Too slow. Meet me for a beer and dominos tonight. The usual place," and then closed up the shop. Threading his way through the interior rooms and down into the cool cellar, he removed a few loose bricks from the wall and produced an oilcloth package, inside of which was a small box. From that box, which contained several passports, a pistol, and a variety of regional currencies, he produced a small electronic device, the other half of the contact system for his double-blind counterpart. Within a few hours, Thiudreiks had been hired, and the plan set in motion.

That evening, when it had cooled, everything went about normally, and Mattiy sat, drinking lukewarm beer with Peter Mfunda and playing dominos. Ren Pinikimurri and Tugtushe, traveling on diplomatic passports to New Excalbia, would have been on a plane to New Excalbia for two hours already, to prepare for the diplomatic dance the summit would bring.

[Uncle Noel]

The Private Residence of Tuilika Nkosi

Bamidele Fashola let out an angry sigh. “Calm down you boys,” he said to the jittery youths who squabbled and bickered in the back of the van.

“Hey,” said one of the older ones, and evidently some sort of leader to this pack of lost boys, “When are we going to get paid? They told us we would get paid by now, so where is the money?” The they in question would never be revealed to them, Fashola himself wasn’t sure, at least he wasn’t until a one-way ticket to Markund was pressed into his hand earlier in the early hours of the that morning. That was a shame, he thought, he had been hoping it was the Caldans behind it, or maybe even the Pantocratorians. But a ticket out was a ticket out, and anywhere was better than this dung heap of a country. He had a cousin in Brasland.

He pushed the leader angrily in the shoulder. “You shut your mouth,” he said forcefully, “You will get your money when you do your job, and that’s that.” He knew former child soldiers when he saw them and knew that, like wild dogs, you had to be firm otherwise you would be savaged.

It wasn’t just the loud mouths you had to watch though. One of the quieter ones, clearly labouring under a greater addicition than the others, began to protest. “When am I going to get my fix? My skin, it feels like it is crawling with ants!”

Fashola pulled a face. He wasn’t sure how long he could keep them confined before there was an explosion. He was interrupted by the van door opening and a face appearing. “Look sharp,” said the hooded figure, “She’s coming.”

Fashola breathed a sigh of relief. “At last, come on boys, it’s time to do it, and then you can get paid.” The van was an ancient and rusted thing, it would not last much longer, though hopefully it would have better longevity than their target. Whoever had originally acquired it had evidently sought to modify it by allowing the entire back and roof to be quickly jettisoned and it did, but only because the rust had made the job easier. Thick sheets of heavier iron had been cruelly welded to the lower portion of the van to provide some degree of protection, though it was clear that the survivability of the cargo was only a secondary concern.

The van rumbled and spluttered down the street. Just an ordinary workman’s van pootling through the streets of New Hope, as unordinary here on these gilded streets as it would have been in a shanty town. Fashola could not see from his position in the back, but he could guess how long it would take to….

“Now!” cried a man from the front who he had only met just over an hour ago. Fashola provided the boys, it was someone else who provided the van. He didn’t ask what his name was and he didn’t care.

“Now!” echoed Fashola. He, and one of the more competent of the group, undid the crude buckles that kept the roof in place. The flimsy roof was light enough to be cast off, but not before it snagged at one point and was given another heave.

Not that it mattered. Like flowers opening at the first light of dawn the twitchy cargo emerged with AK petals. They had been told, clearly and at length, who they were to target. But that was then, and in the thrill of the moment they unloaded their magazines into everything. Bullets tore up Nkosi’s house, up neighbouring properties, all across her official cars and any other car unfortunate to have been parked nearby. Fashola nodded. Whoever was behind this had complained, through the channels, and asked why he needed so many. But these foreigners were used to their trained soldiers with their precision and accuracy. That was never the Zamimbian way. Here it was quantity over quality. Better to pore as much as you could on an area and hope that it hits something than worry about adjusting for windage.

Their magazines empty the van accelerated as fast as it’s dying engine could manage. In half a mile it would be abandoned and burnt. This struck Fashola as a bit unnecessary. Who cares if there were fingerprints, it was not as though there was any central database or anything. In the shade of a baobab tree, as the sound of sirens could be heard in the distance, the money and the cocaine was distributed. The boys took both greedily and dispersed into the city, their morning’s work complete. The cocaine, of course, was poisoned though Fashola would never know that; for what were a few more accidental drug deaths in the great Republic of Zamimbia?

[Zamimbia]

Private Residence of Tuilika Nkosi, Enhle Heights, New Hope

Foreign Minister Tuilika Nkosi’s residence was nothing less than a mansion. It was a large, three-story modernist building behind a high concrete fence with a large metal gate in a tranquil neighborhood. Mornings at Nkosi’s residence, however, tended to be chaotic. Nkosi’s husband Geoffrey, who owned a computer consulting company, was getting ready to drive to his office in his expensive, sporty coupe. A nanny was getting the three oldest children, including a step-son - Geoffrey’s by a previous marriage, ready for school. Meanwhile, Nkosi herself was preparing to head to the Ministry and complete some paperwork before flying off to New Excalbia and was walking out of the house to meet her official limousine.

With all the movement about to take place, Nkosi’s guard had - as he did every day - opened the gate. It would allow everyone to leave without the inconvenience of waiting for the gate to open and close. It would also allow the daily staff easy access to come and begin their day’s labours. This day, it also presented a wide open target for the rundown van full of young killers.

By the time the shooting was done, Geoffrey and Tuilika Nkosi lay dead. Two of their children also lay dead, beside their lifeless nanny. The guard, ironically, survived by being hidden behind three layers of the steel gate. Nkosi’s step-son, though gravely wounded, had survived, and at 16 would now be responsible for his two youngest half-siblings who had remained in the playroom at the back of the house.

Presidential Palace, New Hope

“What is that you say?” President Joseph Duna asked from his seat on the sofa in his private living room.

“Foreign Minister Nkosi has been assassinated, Sir,” the President’s young aide repeated.

“Who did it? What should we do?”

“I have some ideas, Joseph,” a voice said from the shadows behind the President.

“What? Who is there?” The President asked.

“Just me, Joseph,” Field Marshal Amupanda said, stepping into the light. “I’ve just returned from my anniversary trip with my wife.”

“Ah, good,” Duna said. “I am glad you’re here, Lwazi.” The President looked at his aide, whose name slipped his mind at the moment. “You may go.”

The aide nodded and left, closing the door behind him.

Amupanda walked around to the front of the sofa and sat down beside Duna.

“So, what is this about Nkosi?” Duna asked.

“Someone shot up her house. Killed her, her husband and two of her children.”

‘Dear God,” Duna murmured. “Do we know who?”

“No,” Amupanda said, “but I suspect either the Snefaldians or the Anahuacans are behind it.”

“Why not the South Epheronians or even the Ajubans?” Duna asked as he slumped slightly to one side.

“The South Epheronians have nothing to gain by killing Nkosi; she’s never been an ardent opponent of apartheid and the Nalu have few kin in South Epheron to complain about it.” Amupanda shook his head slowly. “And it was too bloody to be the Ajubans; they are too much like their Excalbian patrons. If they had wanted her dead, they would have accused her of some violation of international law and huffed and puffed about us not turning her over, and then they would have asked the Excalbians to vaporise her with one of their flying rayguns from above the clouds. All clean and antiseptic. They would never dirty their hands with something like this.

“No, it had to be someone willing to get bloody and who would profit from her death or its repercussions. It had to be Snefaldia or Anahuac.”

“How do we figure out which one?” Duna turned to look at Amupanda.

“The who is less important,” Amupanda began, “than what we should do now.”

“What do you think we should do, Lwazi?” Duna asked.

“Three things,” Amupanda said, holding up three fingers on his right hand. “First, for you own safety, Mr. President, you should remain here in the Palace where we can protect you.”

“Yes, yes,” Duna agreed.

“Second, we need to carefully select a new representative for the Conference.”

“But who? We have no Foreign Minister…” Duna said, beginning to wring his hands.

“No, but you can appoint a new one.”

“Oh, yes, right,” Duna said. “This job has taken so much out of me… I forget sometimes.”

“I know, Joseph,” Amupanda said gently.

“So, who should we appoint?”

“Ricards Abiwole,” Amupanda said. Duna began to protest, but Amupanda held up his left hand. “I know he is half-Excalbian and half-Ajuban by ancestry, but that will work in our favour. The great powers will trust him.” Duna nodded. “Especially once you announce that elections will take place after the Conference.” Duna nodded again. “And empower him to negotiate on autonomy.”

“Autonomy? No,” Duna said, “we cannot let the country be pulled apart!”

“It won’t be pulled apart, Joseph,” Amupanda said, “allowing autonomy will keep the Boers in. It may even bring back South-Western Epheron. And it will buy the support of the Great Powers.”

Duna chewed his lip for a moment then nodded.

“And, finally, we need to adopt some special security measures.”

“No, no martial law,” Duna protested.

“Not martial law, just some extra security,” Amupanda replied. “Let me post my troops to protect you and the remaining ministers. Let me take charge of the investigation. Do what needs to be done to restore order before the elections.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Duna said.

Amupanda smiled and pulled out his phone. He sent a one-word message to his deputy: “Execute.” Then, putting his phone away, he put a hand on the President’s shoulder. “Have you seen your doctor, Joseph?” The President nodded. “What does he say?”

“Same as always,” Duna sighed. “Always wanting to give me pills. But I won’t take them. It’s only the stress.”

“I know, Joseph. I know.”

New Hope

Mohammed Gambo, Minister of Public Safety, sat in the back of his black SUV reading the morning paper. His young female companion sat beside him looking at her nails with a bored expression. After finishing his page, Gambo looked out of the window and instead of seeing downtown New Hope, he saw an abandoned industrial park. He lowered the glass separating him from his driver.

“Daniel, where are we? What are you doing?” Gambo demanded.

The driver, tears in his eyes stopped the car. “I’m sorry, Sir,” he began. “We spent all our savings when our youngest got sick. And we need money to send the oldest to university. And for our parents… I tried to tell you. To ask you. But you just wouldn’t hear of it… I am sorry.”

“What did you do, Daniel?” Gambo looked around in a panic as he noticed men in dressed in black wearing masks approaching the car with guns.

One of the men opened the front door. Daniel raised his hands. “I kept my part,” he said. “You promised money for university. For my parents…”

“Your son will get a generous scholarship,” the man said through his mask, “and your family will get a generous bereavement package.”

“Bereavement?” Daniel started to ask as the masked man raised his gun and shot him in the head.

The young woman in the back began screaming and the man leaned over the seat and shot her as well.

Gambo jumped to the floor and tried to reach up and lock the door, but it was no use. Other masked men opened the door and riddled him with bullets. Their work almost done, the men stepped back and proceeded to empty their clips into the vehicle.

[Uncle Noel]

Anahuacan Embassy, New Hope

Quequezquia was not the marrying type, or the breeding type, so the nervous anticipation he felt now was as close as he would get to the long wait at the altar or on the prenatal ward. He straightened his tie and tried to read the report on his desk for the 15th time. There was suddenly a knock on the office door which, even though it was expected, still made him jump.

“E-Enter,” he said, snapping a pencil with the force of his nerves as he said this.

Xonacatl entered. He had considered, on the walk from his office, looking very sombre and reserved when he entered the Ambassador’s office but he changed his mind, thinking that it would be cruel. The station chief had a big smile. “We got her,” he said after he had closed the door.

“Oh excellent!” said Quequezquia, punching the air as they rejoiced over the death of another human being, “Great news! Well done Ueman, damn fine work.”

The station chief looked modest for a moment. “Thank you,” he said, “It couldn’t have gone better if we’d tried.”

The Ambassador beamed. “That’s really fantastic, was there..for you know..any collateral damage?”

The Station Chief looked at the report he was holding. “Her husband, two children and the nanny. Oh and possibly the family dog but that last one hasn’t been confirmed.”

Quequezquia nodded again. “Oh well,” he said callously, “These things can’t be helped.”

“Well no,” agreed the Station Chief, “It was within acceptable operational parameters. And besides; the stepson is in a serious but stable condition and the two remaining children were at the back of the house, so it’s not as though the entire family was killed.”

“Well quite; and they say childhood trauma builds character,” the Ambassador straightened the papers on his desk, “At least those poor young men we hired will be able to do something productive with the money we gave them; improve their lots, build better lives for themselves?”

Xonacatl looked evasive for a moment. “Well yes,” he said shiftily, “I’m sure they will….but still though, a great success.”

“Absolutely!” agreed the Ambassador, “This is a cause for celebration. Can I interest you in a glass of Kartlian wine?”

The station chief nodded. “That would be great. I didn’t know they had grapes in Kartlis.”

“Nor did I,” said the Ambassador, “But it’s quite good, in a way.”

They drank the chilled wine that Mbala had provided and looked out across the brown lawns.

“Gambo’s dead,” said Xonacatl in a matter-of-fact way, “They found his car and driver riddled with bullets on the outskirts of the city.”

“Oh?” Quequezquia raised a quizzical eyebrow, “Did, did we..?”

Xonacatl shook his head. “No,” he replied, “It’s not one of ours.”

The Ambassador looked out over the New Hope skyline. “Who then?”

The Station Chief sipped his wine and shrugged. “No one knows for sure yet, but unless there’s a new actor on the stage then it probably points to Amupanda.”

Quequezquia nodded. “What’s his game?” he asked almost rhetorically.

The Station Chief sighed. “I don’t know, but it’s either incredibly clever or incredibly stupid. I’m not sure which yet. What I don’t understand is why as a General he just doesn’t have his damn coup?”

“Exactly!” said the Ambassador, “I’ve been saying that since this Day One.”

“It’s because he doesn’t trust his men.”

“Well quite.”

“Which is where our man comes into it,” replied the Station Chief, “Do you think he can do it.”

“Well,” said Quequezquia leaning back on his heels, “To use one of the farming metaphors that this country loves to use; we’ve cleared the weeds, it’s up to the plant now to grow.”

[Snefaldia]

Embassy of the States-Federation, New Hope

Barsalnuna's day had not started well. The deaths of Ministers Nkosi and Gambo were indications of two things: the Snefaldians were two steps behind, and they would need to cultivate a different approach. He'd been speaking with the intelligence officers all morning. Divisional Chief Pinikimurri had given him a direct and surprising plan, but one that he liked. He was to request a meeting with Field Marshal Amupanda, and try a similar approach as the one he had tried with Nkosi. Not outright bribery, this time, though. Amupanda has pride and would take it amiss. No, try a different approach.

For the meeting, he dispensed with the traditional Allashan robes and put on a three-piece business suit, to appear more diplomatic, and made the calls, attempting to arrange the meeting. There would probably be heightened security around all government officials now. That couldn't be helped. As he waited, reading through documents of the day, he couldn't help thinking about the violent death of Nkosi, who he had so recently eaten fruit and drunk tea with. She had been such a promising candidate, and now? Poof. Gunned down in a hail of bullets.

"What a waste, what a waste." he muttered to himself in his deep voice. "All that tea, wasted. Pity."

[Zamimbia]

Airport Road, Outside New Hope

Ricards Abiwole sat in the back of his armoured black SUV very nearly in wide-eyed shock. Twenty-four hours ago he had been the relatively unknown Minister of Culture in a nation with virtually no budget for culture. He had driven himself to work everyday in a modest sedan and worn off-the-rack suits (bought in Abadan during trips to Ajuba; they were cheaper there). Now, he was the Minister of Foreign Affairs riding in an armoured SUV with a military escort on his way to represent his nation at an international conference. It all made his head swim a bit.

Abiwole’s family had immigrated to Zamimbia when Excalbia had extended her colonial domain to this chaotic land. His great-great-great grandfather had come to Port Freimanis on board an Excalbian warship to serve as a mid-level bureaucrat in the colonial administration. His grandfather had studied in Excalbia and married an Excalbian. His father, in turn, had married his mother, a half-Jariahan, half-Excalbian woman from Ajuba. Continuing the family tradition, Abiwole himself had married a mixed-race woman from the Southwestern Province.

All of which had meant that Abiwole’s legitimacy as a “Zamimbia” and an “Epheronian” had been called into question at every turn of his career. Every success had been attributed to his ties to Ajuba and Excalbia by his critics. Even in the Council, his every suggestion had been picked apart by his colleagues, as if searching for the hidden hook designed to benefit foreign powers at their expense.

He had, then, been shocked when he had been called to the Presidential Palace and told he was to be his nation’s new Foreign Minister. He had been even more surprised at the broad latitude President Duna had given him to negotiated on Zamimbia’s behalf. Yet it was Field Marshal Amupanda who had stunned him the most. The big, beefy military man had placed his hands on the taller, leaner Abiwole’s shoulders and said, “You are essentially our prime minister. What you decide at the conference will be law. And whatever you decide, I and the Army will support you to the fullest.”

Abiwole rubbed his eyes as his motorcade rushed through the gates of the airport and drove directly to the side of an old 737 passenger jet painted in the colours of the Zamimbian Air Force.

Ministry of Defence, New Hope

General Moses Gowan was a man of modest height and substantial girth. He had always been a bit of bowling ball; yet, in his younger days he had wrestled with considerable success at the Excalbian Military Academy and had been known as the strongest junior officer in the Zamimbian Army. While those days had long since passed, Gowan was still a formidable man, if not for his strength then for his ties to Field Marshal Amupanda.

Throughout Amupanda’s long assent to the top of the military heap, Gowan had always been at his right hand. His nickname had even been “The Shadow” - as in Lwazi Amupanda’s shadow. Today, Gowan was Amupanda’s deputy and his alter ego. Just as Amupanda had once been Joseph Duna’s protege, Gowan was now Amupanda’s protege.

So it was that when the Snefaldian Embassy reached out for a meeting with Amupanda, they were told that the Field Marshal was in meetings with the President and unavailable, but that General Gowan would be delighted to meet with them.

[Snefaldia]

Barsalnuna arrived and extended a hand to General Gowan, gripping it firmly but not too much so. This was a diplomatic meeting, after all, not a venture capital firm.

"General Gowan, thank you for meeting with me on such short notice," he said, smiling with his perfect white teeth. "I understand that Field Marshal Amupanda is unavoidably detained, which is to be expected in these times. Allow me to present the condolences of my government, and my personal regrets, on the shocking deaths of Minister Gambo, and Minister Nkosi and her family. I am personally shocked and outraged at the brazenness with which terrorists and wreckers dare to operate in this day and age. I had a very good working relationship with Minister Nkosi, and believe her death will be a great loss to your government."

He paused briefly, composing his face in an appropriate mixture of sadness and regret. "Have you any idea the parties responsible for this uncivilized outrage? Can my government provide assistance in any way?"

[Zamimbia]

Government House, New Hope

Abarran Mbala launched his campaign for control of the Zamimbian Government on three fronts simultaneous. First, be began meeting privately with his fellow ministers to gage their support. Or their susceptibility to flattery, bribery or coercion. Second, he arranged to have the President of the Buta National Congress flown to New Hope for a meeting. Third, he scheduled a meeting with one his kinsmen, Funani Magoza, one of the Deputies of the State Security Service.

The first round of Mbala’s meetings with his fellow ministers quickly turned to disappointment. Several were too frightened by Nkosi’s and Gambo’s assassinations to even think straight, much less engage in any worthwhile plotting. Ironically, Mbala came closest to success with the lone Boer on the Council, Walter van Beek, the Minister of Trade, and Ibrahim Shagari, the Hansa Muslim serving as Minister of Mineral Resources.

Despite the age-old enmity between the Boers and the Buta, van Beek had been intrigued by the possibility of a Buta-Boer coalition leading the nation. The possibilities for greater trade with the wider region, rehabilitated ports and greater regional power for the Boers had almost sealed the deal. At the last minute, however, van Beek had gone wobbly, worrying about the consequences to his people if Amupanda discovered that he was working with Mbala against him.

Fortunately, the meeting with Shagari had gone much better. The Emirate of Sakoto, the region that the Mineral Resources Minister called home, was another ancient antagonist of the Buta, having played a key role in the fall of the Buta Empire in the face of Knootian and Excalbian colonizers. From that time on, although most of Zamimbia’s mineral wealth lay under Buta lands, it had been the Hansa and the Muslims among the Nalu who had controlled that wealth. Shagari, however, could see the writing on the wall.

“Your Buta are growing faster than we are,” Shagari had said over strong, sweet coffee. “And your youth are idled, like young lions without prey. They are growing more aggressive by the day. It is better to find a way to accommodate them than wait until they must be fought.”

Shagari had set his cup down and folded his hands into the voluminous sleeves of his flowing, embroidered robes. “If we can wrest the structure of the State from the hands of the Jariahan and Nalu Christians and put it in our hands, there will more than enough power… and money… to sustain my people and lift yours back to their former glory.” Through a smile of yellowed teeth, the Minister had added, “Why, we may even support moving the capital to Kuobama, the ancient centre of your people’s empire.”

While Mbala did not trust Shagari any further than he could toss him, having the man controlling the nation’s mineral wealth on his side, even if only for a brief period, would prove most useful.

Later meetings with S.S.S. Deputy Magoza and Buta leader Solomon Ndandali had gone even better. The Buta National Congress would stand squarely behind Mbala and Magoza would begin working with other kinsmen in the State security apparatus to undermine Amupanda and secure the path to Mbala ascent.

So, the following morning, even as Nkosi was waiting to be buried and Abiwole was in New Excalbia, Mbala delivered the first speech of his political campaign.

* * *

Standing on the steps of Government House, flanked by Shagari, Ndandali and host of other community leaders from among the Buta, the Hansa and the Muslim Nalu - with even a Boer and a Christian Nalu here or there, addressed a large crowd.

“My brothers and sisters,” the Education Minister began, “we stand at the precipice. Before us lies the vast pit of civil war, ethnic violence and foreign subjugation. Yet, there is still hope. We,” he turned gestured to those around him, “Buta and Hansa, Boer and Nalu, Muslim and Christian, stand together to call for a new beginning for Zamimbia.”

The crowd roared and cheered, egged on by young men organised by Bayron Ndimande, the Buta activitist who had organised the earlier marches in the capital.

“There are those who conspire to end Zamimbian independence.” The crowd booed. “The administrative class, who live in luxury in their villas in the hills,” Mbala continued without mentioning his own luxurious home, “conspire with the Ajubans, the Epheronian puppets of the Excalbians, to place us back in the chains of colonial oppression.” The catcalls and jeers rose louder. “Others would place us in different chains, subservient to generals in Sargedaín. Or those closer to home.”

The crowd hissed and a few chanted, “Down with Amupanda! Down with Duna! Down with the generals!”

“Some would seek to carve off our richest agricultural land and merge it with the racists in South Epheron and South-West Epheron.” Ant-apartheid chants errupted.

“Yet,” Mbala smiled, “there is hope.” The crowd cheered. “If we stand together, all Zamimbians for a united Zamimbia, nothing can stop us!” The cheers washed across Mbala and he raised his arms and soaked it in.

“We must ensure that the next government will a be a government of all the people, for all the people, and that it will answer to none,” he paused, then pointed to crowd, “but you!”

As the cheers died down, he continued: “My late friend, Tuilika Nkosi, had discovered the rot deep within our current government.” The chorus of boos began again. “Yes, Oladeli was corrupt, but those who knew he was corrupted only arrested him when they were in a position to profit by it! Gambo was an oppressor in league with foreign agents, but no-one tried to remove him until it was to their benefit! Nkosi herself, just as I was, was wooed by foreign interests,” the jeers of the crowd reached a crescendo, “but like me - she rejected them! And for that they killed her!

“But I am still here! I still believe in Zamimbia! I still believe in you! And because of that, I still have hope!”

The crowd began to chant, “Mbala! Mbala! Mbala!”

[Zamimbia]

Barsalnuna arrived and extended a hand to General Gowan, gripping it firmly but not too much so. This was a diplomatic meeting, after all, not a venture capital firm.

"General Gowan, thank you for meeting with me on such short notice," he said, smiling with his perfect white teeth. "I understand that Field Marshal Amupanda is unavoidably detained, which is to be expected in these times. Allow me to present the condolences of my government, and my personal regrets, on the shocking deaths of Minister Gambo, and Minister Nkosi and her family. I am personally shocked and outraged at the brazenness with which terrorists and wreckers dare to operate in this day and age. I had a very good working relationship with Minister Nkosi, and believe her death will be a great loss to your government."

He paused briefly, composing his face in an appropriate mixture of sadness and regret. "Have you any idea the parties responsible for this uncivilized outrage? Can my government provide assistance in any way?"

Ministry of Defence, New Hope

General Moses Gowan smile and spread his arms apart to greet Ambassador Barsalnuna. “Welcome, Ambassador,” Gowan said as he enveloped the Snefaldian’s hand in his own meaty right hand. “Yes, yes, the Field Marshal is very busy,” Gowan said. “You know he’s now in charge of State security, after Gambo’s death. A big job, in addition to his own!” Gowan chuckled.

Still holding the Ambassador’s hand, he turned and gestured to two sofas on the far side of his office. “Please, have your seat, Ambassador.” Releasing the Ambassador’s hand, Gowan walked over to a small counter with an electric water kettle and several bottles and glasses.

“Thank you for your kind condolences,” Gowan said as he turned on the kettle. “Minister Nkosi was a good woman. A friend of yours, I understand,” Gowan smiled and winked. “Gambo’s loss is a tragedy for his family.”

“I understand,” the General said turning to Barsalnuna, “that you are an aficionado of tea. While it may not be up to your standards, this is a nice rooibos blend. Or would you care for something stronger?”

Turning back to the kettle and tea, Gowan said, “We have no firm idea yet who was behind these attacks. Though we cannot rule out foreign intriguers.” The General smiled. “Your assistance is much appreciated, however. How do you think you might be able to help, Ambassador?”

[Snefaldia]

With a smile, the Ambassador accepted the tea. "Delicious. I have found that being an aficionado does not mean indulging in snobbery. There is always something wholesome about a cup of tea, no matter its quality. Real or imagined."

He set the cup down and clasp his hands over his crossed leg. "I was lucky in my relationship with Minister Nkosi, peace be upon her soul, that we were able to speak frankly with each other. You are a military man, and I know you are a man who favors plain speaking. And besides, the time has passed for doublespeak, with two high government officials dead and the political situation deteriorating."

He paused, perhaps realizing that he was in danger of slipping into diplomatic doublespeak. "In any case. I am certain that Field Marshal Amupanda and your intelligence services are already looking into the parties behind the death of Minister Nkosi. You probably have three targets: someone in your own government, the government of Anahuac, or my own government."

He picked up his tea and sipped it for emphasis, then looked around the ceiling. "I'd like to discuss why my government is not involved in this heinous act. I wouldn't want my words repeated elsewhere, though. A man in my position can't be too trusting, you understand."

[Uncle Noel]

Anahuacan Embassy, New Hope

What a difference a few weeks make. The last time the Zamimbian press corps had been summoned for a press conference it had been forced to be held in a marquee in the garden whilst the embassy itself was renovated. Not any more; the assembled journalists were ushered in a plush suite which still smelled faintly of paint. A portrait of the General Secretary looked down upon them all like a face of a disdainful god.

Ueman Xonacatl stalked into the room. His back slightly hunched, this face one of thunder. “Thank you for coming,” he said as the corps took their seats.

“Before I begin let me make it perfectly clear that we in this building are neither deaf nor dumb to what it being said. You’ve been asked to come here this morning due to the vicious slander that someone we, in the peace-loving Socialist People’s Fiefdom, had anything to do with the recent barbaric murder of Tuilika Nkosi. These outrageous lies cannot go unchallenged, which is this press conference has been called, in order that the complete truth of the matter can be made open.

You see, ladies and gentlemen, rather than being somehow our adversary, Tuilika Nkosi had in fact contacted us only a few days ago. She had contacted us because of her profound concerns that a clique of corrupt neo-imperialist diplomats and criminal military officers were conspiring to achieve nothing less than the partition of this great country, and to divide up its spoils like a gang of robbers. She had expressed concern that her own life was in danger from this…….group and, knowing that we have always treated Zamimbia evenly and with a fraternal spirit, sought our assistance in this matter.”

Xonacatl paused as though to compose himself. He took several deep breaths as the merest of tears formed at the edges of his eyes. “But I am afraid, ladies and gentlemen,” he took another deep breath, followed by a sip of water held in a shaking hand, “I am afraid that we did not believe her, and so we turned her away.”

Xonacatl’s words now rushed forth like a man in the confessional. “You must see ladies and gentlemen that….well we knew that there were some corrupt elements, every society has that, but an organised conspiracy? It just sounded all too fanciful. It sounded like the stuff you see in movies and we thought that, perhaps, the pressures of her job were getting to her. “

He swallowed. “Ms Nkosi told us that she was planning to reveal the extent of this gangsterism at the upcoming peace talks. She was going to reveal all that she knew, from those persons in the government behind this to those foreign powers who were sponsoring them. She was afraid that these powerful men might get to her before she could make it to the safety of New Excalbia, she was asking for our help, for our protection….”

He sighed. “But we turned her away, and thought nothing more of it until the recent tragic events, when we realised, to our horror, that she was right.” He pounded a fist into the lectern. “If only we’d listened, then maybe we could have done something to help, maybe things would be different. But we didn’t, and now that poor boy, who remains constantly in our prayers, fights for his life in hospital and those two poor children are left as orphans.” He shook his head sadly. “What a waste. And whilst others are engaged in this sickening speculation, and grotesque slandering, we have all lost sight of the very real tragedy of those young children. Which is why, as a small gesture from a friend of Zamimbia, we in the Fiefdom propose to set up a bursary in memory of their courageous mother and stepmother, to look after these children. Nothing can replace their parents’ love, which has been cruelly taken from them by the machinations of their own countrymen, but it is something.

We have also offered what medical assistance we can, even to the extent of flying her stepson to our top hospital in Itztlan, to ensure his survival and full recovery.

And perhaps it is our way, my way, of saying sorry. Sorry that we didn’t heed their mother’s warnings, sorry that we didn’t do enough to prevent this awful and shameful attack, on just on Geoffrey and Tuilika Nkosi, but on all Zamimbia.”

He looked up towards the red star that sat in the middle of the ceiling and stood for a few moments as though offering a silent lamentation over the senseless murder and beseeching the departed foreign minister’s forgiveness.

“I would say to all Zamimbians; do not let Tuilika Nkosi’s death be in vain. She was right! There is a conspiracy afoot in this country to rob you of what little you have. Heed her warning, otherwise her poor children will not be the last orphans created during this crisis.”

As though on the very brink of tears, Xonacatl uttered a hoarse “Thank you for coming,” slunk out the room.

[Zamimbia]

Ministry of Defence, New Hope

General Gowan smiled when Barsalnuna included his own government on the list of likely suspects. “Yes,” Gowan said in a surprisingly pleasant tone, “those are our chief suspects as well.”

The General sat down with his own tea cup and sipped at it. “You can be assured that anything you say in this office will not go beyond me. Except to Field Marshal Amupanda, of course.” He dramatically glanced up at the ceiling, then looked back at the Ambassador. “However, allow me to reassure you.”

Gowan set his cup on the table beside the sofa and called out, “Sergeant!”

The doors to the General’s office opened and sergeant stepped through and saluted. “General!”

“Sergeant,” Gowan said with a smile, “please turn off the recording system.”

“Sir?” The sergeant asked looking surprised.

“It’s alright. Please, turn it off.”

“Yes, sir!” The sergeant saluted again, then exited, closing the door behind him.

“There,” Gowan said with a slight chuckle, “now I have nothing but my own memory to record our conversation.” He picked up his cup. “Now, Ambassador, I would be most curious to hear your case for why your government is not involved in these terrible crimes.”

* * *

Meanwhile, in his office down the hall from General Gowan’s Field Marshal Lawazi Amupanda sat on his sofa, watching Xonacatl’s press conference in the Anahuacan Embassy. As he sipped a glass of cola, the barest smile came to his lips.

[Snefaldia]

Ministry of Defence, New Hope

General Gowan smiled when Barsalnuna included his own government on the list of likely suspects. “Yes,” Gowan said in a surprisingly pleasant tone, “those are our chief suspects as well.”

The General sat down with his own tea cup and sipped at it. “You can be assured that anything you say in this office will not go beyond me. Except to Field Marshal Amupanda, of course.” He dramatically glanced up at the ceiling, then looked back at the Ambassador. “However, allow me to reassure you.”

Gowan set his cup on the table beside the sofa and called out, “Sergeant!”

The doors to the General’s office opened and sergeant stepped through and saluted. “General!”

“Sergeant,” Gowan said with a smile, “please turn off the recording system.”

“Sir?” The sergeant asked looking surprised.

“It’s alright. Please, turn it off.”

“Yes, sir!” The sergeant saluted again, then exited, closing the door behind him.

“There,” Gowan said with a slight chuckle, “now I have nothing but my own memory to record our conversation.” He picked up his cup. “Now, Ambassador, I would be most curious to hear your case for why your government is not involved in these terrible crimes.”

Barsalnuna gave a courtly nod, sipped his tea, and relaxed a bit.

"Whatever you might think of the Snefaldians, we would not be so bold, and so stupid, as to attempt to assassinate one of the few people we thought capable of helping keep your country from open civil war. We had nothing to do with her death. In fact, we were paying her. I can show you - not give you, mind, but show - evidence to that effect."

He frowned. "Her death, frankly, is a setback. It puts both of our countries closer to an eventuality of war," he said, pausing only to watch the General's face if it reacted to that final word. "I am sure you, and the Field Marshal, realized the situation both of our nations are in. The ethnic fault lines are dangerously frayed, and now that Nkosi is dead, I fear they will unravel. Let me walk you through the eventualities. The government fractures and outright ethnic conflict erupts between the different regions. Refugees try to escape the fighting. They'll head, not for South Epheron, but for Ajuba and Snefaldia. The Snefaldian government will be under immense pressure to prevent this wholesale migration, and to stabilize the situation. Would you want a civil war next door? What do you think my government will do in that situation?"

He frowned. "We had believed that Nkosi would be an effective figurehead for a new national unity government who could promote stability, peace, reconciliation, and economic development. There are a lot of angry young Buta men, for example, who could have jobs building Snefaldian-backed infrastructure projects. There are a number of army regiments that could profit nicely from Snefaldian-led training programs. Schools and libraries! The list goes on."

Barsalnuna leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Ask yourself, who would want to prevent Snefaldia from building this relationship with elements of your government? Who would stand to lose the most if a Nkosi working with my government became more influential? If Sargedaín desired stability, continuity of government, and investment, who should profit by seeing those aims frustrated?"

He poured another cup of tea, for both men. "You are an intelligent man, as is Field Marshal Amupanda. I think you already suspect the source of these tribulations. You might ask, though, why you should believe what I'm telling you. You should ask instead why you shouldn't. I'm here, an official ambassador from my government, in your Ministry of Defense, knowing that you have the capability to record me, admitting my government was bribing one of your ministers. What do we have to gain by that? And how much would we lose should it become public knowledge? "

[Zamimbia]

Barsalnuna gave a courtly nod, sipped his tea, and relaxed a bit.

"Whatever you might think of the Snefaldians, we would not be so bold, and so stupid, as to attempt to assassinate one of the few people we thought capable of helping keep your country from open civil war. We had nothing to do with her death. In fact, we were paying her. I can show you - not give you, mind, but show - evidence to that effect."

He frowned. "Her death, frankly, is a setback. It puts both of our countries closer to an eventuality of war," he said, pausing only to watch the General's face if it reacted to that final word. "I am sure you, and the Field Marshal, realized the situation both of our nations are in. The ethnic fault lines are dangerously frayed, and now that Nkosi is dead, I fear they will unravel. Let me walk you through the eventualities. The government fractures and outright ethnic conflict erupts between the different regions. Refugees try to escape the fighting. They'll head, not for South Epheron, but for Ajuba and Snefaldia. The Snefaldian government will be under immense pressure to prevent this wholesale migration, and to stabilize the situation. Would you want a civil war next door? What do you think my government will do in that situation?"

He frowned. "We had believed that Nkosi would be an effective figurehead for a new national unity government who could promote stability, peace, reconciliation, and economic development. There are a lot of angry young Buta men, for example, who could have jobs building Snefaldian-backed infrastructure projects. There are a number of army regiments that could profit nicely from Snefaldian-led training programs. Schools and libraries! The list goes on."

Barsalnuna leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Ask yourself, who would want to prevent Snefaldia from building this relationship with elements of your government? Who would stand to lose the most if a Nkosi working with my government became more influential? If Sargedaín desired stability, continuity of government, and investment, who should profit by seeing those aims frustrated?"

He poured another cup of tea, for both men. "You are an intelligent man, as is Field Marshal Amupanda. I think you already suspect the source of these tribulations. You might ask, though, why you should believe what I'm telling you. You should ask instead why you shouldn't. I'm here, an official ambassador from my government, in your Ministry of Defense, knowing that you have the capability to record me, admitting my government was bribing one of your ministers. What do we have to gain by that? And how much would we lose should it become public knowledge? "

Ministry of Defence, New Hope

General Gowan smiled and sipped his tea as the Ambassador spoke. “Ho, ho,” he said with a chuckle as Barsalnuna admitted to bribing Nkosi.

“Well, Ambassador,” Gowan said continuing to sound shockingly jovial, “no one can fault you for hiding behind diplomatic double-talk!” The General laughed again. “Of course, we’ve been following Nkosi and knew all about your meeting.” He smiled and looked at the teapot on the table. “Do you need more, tea, Sir?”

Gowan set his own cup on the table. “I believe we both suspect the same party behind Nkosi’s murder…” Gowan shrugged slightly. “Gambo’s is more of a mystery. Still, knowing and proving are different things. And, in our current situation, proving may create more problems than it’s worth!” The General chuckled and leaned back in his seat.

“So, tell me, Ambassador, how much influence does Sargedain want in return for this generosity?” Gowan raised a large hand and extended a single finger. “Mind you, now, that we have no desire to find ourselves the… junior partners, as it were, of your generals in Sargedain, nor economically dependent upon anyone, no matter how generous.

“So, for instance, let’s say, a rail line from Kuobama - the Buta region’s capital - to Snefaldia to transport the mineral riches coming from the mines, and all the attendant jobs in construction, maintenance, shipping, etc. This might go a long way to relieving the tensions out there. How much say would your country want over our affairs in return for such a thing?” Gowan smiled and waited.