Tears for Zamimbia (Western Atlantic Only)

[Snefaldia]

Barsalnuna shrugged. "The time for diplomatic doublespeak has passed, I fear. It became pointless to dissemble when bullets riddled the bodies of Tuilika Nkosi, her husband, and her innocent children. Besides, you are a military man, and a smart man, and I would not want to insult your intelligence by beating around the bush."

"As for junior partners? There is only one partnership, and it has no seniority." he said, putting down his tea and clasping his hands over his knee. "This is not gunboat diplomacy. Zamimbia has ports, markets, and resources. Snefaldia had the means to develop them all. It is an exchange. The left and right hands both need to work together to grasp the rake and till the garden. The Buta-Neer Dal train line could be announced this very day by Minister Ašsšuašwa in New Excalbia, should your government be willing to provide a lease for Snefaldian Navy anchorage facilities in Zamimbia. And if those Buta men don't fancy working on the railroad all the live-long day, they might prefer working in a Weldazmiton factory assembling motherboards. It would be air conditioned, at least."

He paused, eyeing Gowan. "We are also expanding our military exchange programs. Spots for promising Zamimbian officers at our military academies could come at a preference. I'm not so sure the Anahuacans would be as generous... or as effective teachers. They are communists, after all. How could they understand the traditions and hierarchy of the armed forces?"

[Zamimbia]

Barsalnuna shrugged. "The time for diplomatic doublespeak has passed, I fear. It became pointless to dissemble when bullets riddled the bodies of Tuilika Nkosi, her husband, and her innocent children. Besides, you are a military man, and a smart man, and I would not want to insult your intelligence by beating around the bush."

"As for junior partners? There is only one partnership, and it has no seniority." he said, putting down his tea and clasping his hands over his knee. "This is not gunboat diplomacy. Zamimbia has ports, markets, and resources. Snefaldia had the means to develop them all. It is an exchange. The left and right hands both need to work together to grasp the rake and till the garden. The Buta-Neer Dal train line could be announced this very day by Minister Ašsšuašwa in New Excalbia, should your government be willing to provide a lease for Snefaldian Navy anchorage facilities in Zamimbia. And if those Buta men don't fancy working on the railroad all the live-long day, they might prefer working in a Weldazmiton factory assembling motherboards. It would be air conditioned, at least."

He paused, eyeing Gowan. "We are also expanding our military exchange programs. Spots for promising Zamimbian officers at our military academies could come at a preference. I'm not so sure the Anahuacans would be as generous... or as effective teachers. They are communists, after all. How could they understand the traditions and hierarchy of the armed forces?"

Ministry of Defence, New Hope

General Gowan expression grew briefly serious. “Very well, then, Ambassador,” he said as he refilled his tea cup. “Let us come to a definite proposal. Shall we say a Snefaldian commitment to extend the rail line to Kuobama and open this motherboard factory there, and in return we agree on a lease for naval facilities? All I need to know is how much space you will want, how many ships you would be looking to accommodate, and for how long.”

Gowan sipped his tea and his cheerful smiled returned. “As for your generous offer of places at your military academy, we will naturally consider it an extra benefit. Although,” the General held up his left hand which featured a large class ring from the Excalbian Imperial Military Academy, “the Excalbians do have a damn fine sports programme at their academy; we wouldn’t want to lose out on that.” He grinned and lowered his hand. “Of course, I’ll need to present the deal to Field Marshal Amupanda for his approval.”

[Snefaldia]

Barsalnuna smiled, and internally chastisted himself for even bringing up the factory. He quickly dispelled the displeasure he felt as a negotiator for giving something away. It was part of the CCDI program anyway, and would've been built regardless.

"Excellent. The port site can be determined between our two powers at a later date, but the general specifications are already in some of the CCDI prospectuses. Two general purpose berths, a bunkering berth and a small craft berth, a bunkering facility and tank farm. An administrative complex will also be constructed as part of the project. We also have plans to build drydock facilities. I will confirm with the Ministry of War about the later specifics. Th e prospectus included, I think, proposals for a 99 year lease. Construction will be handled by a joint Snefaldian-Zamimbia enterprise. As for the naval specifications? I believe we can finalize those at a later date. Let's not walk before we can run, hmm?"

He chuckled as Gowan noted his class ring. "I'd not dream of denying your fine officers opportunities they enjoy now. But the bonds of partnership can be built in the classroom."

When the topic turned to Amupanda's approval, Barsalnuna took that as a sign the meeting was about to end. He stood up, extending another firm handshake. "I am pleased we could come to an arrangement, and I look forward to hearing of the Field Marshal's assent. Thank you very much for the tea, General. I will send some of my own personal blend. I hope you enjoy it."

[Uncle Noel]

Anahuacan Embassy, New Hope

“....I would say to all Zamimbians; do not let Tuilika Nkosi’s death be in vain. She was right! There is a conspiracy afoot..”

The Xonacatl in the room motioned towards the Xonacatl on the television. “Good isn’t it?” he asked Quequezquia.

The Ambassador had reservations. “Hmmm,” he said, “Do you not think it’s a bit……”

“What?” asked the station chief.

“A bit…..overdone?”

The station chief shook his head. “Oh no,” he replied, “That’s the point. You’ve got to tailor these things to the specific audience. We’re not trying to convince Amupanda, or the junta, or the Excalbians, they all know we probably did it, they just can’t prove it.”

He shook his head again. “No, that’s targeted at the Zamimbian public. They respond to big emotional responses, we’re just trying to nudge the narrative in Our Man’s favour.”

“Right,” said the Ambassador, still unsure, “I see. Well if you say so.” Quequezquia was not used to so foreign a concept as public opinion and so deferred to the other man’s experience.

Just then the telephone rang, but with the differing tone that told that it was an internal call. “Tulga Gainas is on the telephone for you comrade,” said Quequezquia’s secretary from her desk beyond his door.

“Ah,” replied the Ambassador, “The People’s Commissar for Foreign Affairs. He must be calling to congratulate us. Please put him through.” There was a click followed by the unmistakable hiss that come through from long-distance calls. Gainas’ breathing could be heard. “Good morning Comrade Gainas,” said Quequezquia effusively, “I hope the weather there is as pleasant as it is here. What can I….”

“That you Quequezquia?” interrupted Gainas gruffly.

“Er yes comrade,” replied the Ambassador, “How can I be of…”

“How’s your throat?”

Quequezquia looked at Xonacatl, who was able to hear the conversation, with a confused expression. “Umm, my throat is fine thank you, Comrade People’s Commissar, why do you ask?”

“Because,” said Gainas, “When I saw that you’ve got your VKS man to do your press conferences for you I assumed you must have come down with a cold.”

Quequezquia laughed nervously. “Ha ha, no comrade, it’s part of our….”

“Abarran Mabula,” started Gainas.

“Mbala,” replied the Ambassador.

“Don’t correct me Quequezquia; this Mabula, good communist is he?” The foreign minister’s tone implied that he knew the answer but still expected the Ambassador to say it.

“Er…..no Comrade Gainas, not exactly, but…..”

“Socialist then?”

Quequezquia looked at Xonacatl who looked blank and shrugged. “Not that we’re aware of…”

“I see,” said the People’s Commissar for Foreign Affairs, “So why exactly are we supporting him then?”

“Well,” replied the Ambassador, “well he’s an important man in the current provisional government and a prominent Buta leader and…”

“Is there a portrait of Lenin in your office comrade?” asked Gainas suddenly.

“Erm.” Quequezquia and Xonacatl looked up at the stern portrait that starred down at them from above the Ambassador’s desk. “Yes, there is Comrade, but..”

“And Marx. And Engels?” queried Gainas.

Quequezquia and Xonacatl looked at the heavily bearded portraits. “Yes Comrade, but I’m not sure…”

“Do you think any of them would any sh*t for your important man and Buta leader?”

The Ambassador pulled at his shirt collar, it was suddenly very warm in his office. “Well not exactly Comrade, but you must see….”

“You’re supposed to be a communist,” growled the People’s Commissar from distant Itztlan, “You’re supposed to be promoting communism.”

“Well yes but he’s on our side, we have leverage over him and…”

“Then why not bribe him?”

Quequezquia and Xonacatl looked at each with despair mixed with confusion, like school boys caught in the act of misbehaving my a vigilant teacher. “I’m not sure what you mean Comrade.”

“Bribe him, Quequezquia. If that’s the basis of your strategy, just to get any Jan Rap en sy maat who turns up with all his fingers and toes and at least some wits and then get them on side then just bribe him. Why are you going through all this trouble? Just bribe them, it would be considerably cheaper than the operation you are currently running.”

“Yes but,” began the Ambassador, “He’s still an asset, Comrade People’s Commissar, he’s still a route into…”

“Class war,” said Gainas boldy.

“...Sorry?”

“Class war; everything has to be seen from the prism of class war man. How does Mabala improve the situation of the proletariat?”

“Um…”

“He doesn’t! He just replaces one member of the bourgeoisie with another.”

“But Comrade,” protested the Ambassador, “He will owe his position to us, we will be able to…”

“Rot,” came the reply, “What’s to stop him revealing our complicity in the butchering of the Nkosi family? Or just throwing us out? Siding with the Snefaldians anyway? Seliing his country to the highest bidder? I can see from your reports that you strongly counselled your man in not to trust either Nkosi or this Field Marshal. Well fine, but why should you trust him?”

“Erm...because we would have put him power.”

“And? What loyalty does he owe you after that? About as much loyalty as this Nkosi would have owed him after they had leavaged President Duna out of his throne. In other words….”

It was the Ambassador’s time to interrupt. “None,” was his horrified response.

“Now you listen to be Quequezquia,” growled Gainas, “You’ve been given a long leash on this matter, too long if you ask me, and pretty much allowed to run things as you like. But you’ve gone native, Quequezquia, you and your team have become so focused on the immediate prize that you’ve lost sight of the bigger picture…”

“But,” protested the Ambassador

“Don’t interrupt,” snapped Gainas, “So what has your freewheeling policy produced? A gilded Buta leader, two dead children and every reliable indicator pointing to a civil war. Well it’s about time someone reined you in Quequezquia, so the days of your one-man, or two man if you include your crony from the VKS, foreign policy are over. In future I don’t want you to so much as fart without getting my permission, do I make myself clear?”

“Yes comrade,” said Quequezquia sheepishly, “So..er...what do you want us to do with Mbala?”

“Mmmm,” said Gainas, “Well our hands have already been dipped too far into the blood to back out now, he’d out rat us out for sure. So continue with that for now. But tomorrow morning I want you to call in whatever passes for the Zamimbian communist party and sound them out.”

“Yes comrade.”

“Get them on side, which is what you should have done before you decided to dabble in Zamimbian court politics.”

“But…”

“Don’t argue Quequezquia. This isn’t a game you know. There are more things at stake here than Zamimbia. There’s the peace of the entire region to consider and I will be damned if I am going to let Tuilika Nkosi be the Franz Ferdinand of the Western Atlantic. Are you following me?”

“Yes comrade.”

“I only hope we’re not too late.”

“But…” But it was too late. Gainas has gone, leaving only the angry dial tone of an empty line.

“Well,” said Quequezquia replacing the receiver, “That could have gone better.”

Offices of the People’s Commissariat for Foreign Affairs

Tulga Gainas slammed his telephone down. “Bloody fools,” he said out loud.

“Well,” said a voice in the office, “that could have gone better.”

One of the signs of growing older is that things that previously a person was able to do on their own gradually became tasks that needed the help of others, whether this was bathing or dressing or getting about. So it was for Tulga Gainas, who though he needed no physical assistance, still needed the occasional helping hand in carrying out his duties.

It was for this reason that he was ever rarely completely alone in his office. Around him, either standing by a bookcase or sitting about a sofa in the corner, was a gaggle of Special Advisors who helped the People’s Commissar for Foreign Affairs when tiredness or his great age meant that things had to be explained more carefully, small print read out or meetings postponed whilst rest and medication were taken.

The SPADs were mostly bright young things, fresh out of university and younger than Gainas’ own grandchildren; who used the People’s Commissar as a springboard for their own careers. They were, however, fiercely loyal to him which perhaps explained why, even as his centenary loomed into view, age did not appear to weary him nor the years condemn.

Avraham Schlesinger stroked his immaculately groomed beard as he sat upon the People’s Commissar’s couch. As with the others he was dressed smartly but fashionably, such that he would not have looked out of place in any of the capitals of the region. “So what now?” he asked.

Zolph Brandarmann spoke for the group. “How come this is back with us?” he asked, “We’ve been shut out of the Zamimbia situation since day one by the VKS and Central Command,” by which he meant the party leadership more senior than Gainas, “Why has this suddenly landed on our desks?”

Tlazohtzin Acahualli gave a bitter laugh. “Well there’s nothing quite like pictures of a shot-up family to suddenly make people reluctant to have their handprints all over it.” She shook her head. “We’ve gone from being asked not to get involved to being asked for an explanation as to what’s happened.”

Zolph nodded. “Comrade Gainas is right, they’ve lost sight of the bigger picture. We take weeks sealing the deal with the Excalbians and we nearly throw it all away in an afternoon.”

“

We were so glutted with victory that in our folly we threw it away.”

said Avraham forebodingly.

“Vulkmere?” asked Zolph

“Churchill actually. He may have been an old imperialist dog but he had a way with words.”

Gainas heard none of this, or if he did he pretended not to listen. Instead he stared out the window, across the city as a band of rain swept down from the mountains on the horizon. “I think…” he began, almost to himself. The others in the room fell into silence. “I think….” he said again but stopped.

“Think what colli?” asked Tlazohtzin, using a nahuatl word which roughly translated as ‘grandfather’ and was a term of respect few but the closest to Gainas were allowed to us.

“I think…..it’s about time we spoke to the Snefaldians.”

Pandemonium erupted. “Woah woah Comrade,” protested Brandarmann rising from his chair, “Let’s not be hasty now. They are the enemy after all.”

Tlazohtzin agreed. “Please colli, there’s no need for that, I am sure we can sort something out in Zamimbia.” Zolph opened his mouth to speak again but Gainas spoke first.

“You’re all much to young,” said Gainas, sounding very old all of a sudden, “To remember the Civil War.” He stared into the middle distance for a moment. “The things…” Like many men of his generation he did not speak about the war, only ever in vague and transitory anecdotes. As it happened Gainas did not elaborate this time. “Well, I would not wish that on anyway; not on you young people, not on the Zamimbians, not even on Snefaldia.”

Zolph continued to protest. “But how?” he said, looking about the other advisors in the room for support, “We haven’t had diplomatic relations in years? The border is closed, the old Snefaldian embassy is now an art gallery. We have no way of talking to them.”

“Not here perhaps,” said Tlazohtzin warming to the idea, “But there are other countries where we both have a diplomatic presence. It’s not as though there are no avenues.”

“Yes but what?” asked Zolph, “What are we doing to talk to them about?”

“What we will say,” said Gainas in a quiet voice, “Is that Zamimbia is not worth a war. Not between the Fiefdom and the States-Federation, not between Snefaldia and Excalbia, not between the Zamimbian army and its people or between its ethnic groups. We will go to the junta and say,” returning to a theme from his telephone conversation with Quequezquia, “It’s the June 1914, the Archduke is dead but we’re not prepared to step into the abyss.”

“So,” asked Zolph, “Isn’t that what the peace conference is for?”

“The peace conference can only ever answer this crisis,” said Tlazohtzin firmly, “It can never address the underlying problem.”

Zolph folded his arms. “Which is?”

It was Avraham who answered. “That Zamimbia is unable to maintain her territorial integrity.”
“So?” asked Zolph, “So what, we’re going to partition it? Is that our answer, we’ll just sit down with the bull and divide up Zamimbia between ourselves? I have to say this all sounds very Molotov-Ribbentrop to me.”

“Call it what you like,” said Gainas, his blue eyes still sparkling in an old head, “It doesn’t have to be a formal division, it can be spheres of influence.”

Schlesinger sat up in his chair. “Yes but we’re forgetting something, the Excalbians. We can barter with the junta as much as we like but nothing will stick without unless the Excalbians give it the nod.”

“Gordon-Robb and Freedman are never going to agree to a ‘shadow conference’, not after all the time and money they’ve sunk into the official one and they won’t agree to a conference discussing Zamimbia without Zamimbia,” replied Zolph.

“Then why ask them?” asked Gainas, “We all know an election is round the corner and they’re not standing again. It’s questionable how binding any decision will be on them if their party is thrown out of government.”

Tlazohtzin looked confused. “Well then, who should we speak to, if not the current government?”

An idea formed in Schlesinger’s mind. “The Emperor,” he said after a moment.

“What?” said Tlazohtzin and Zolph in unison.

“Now now,” counselled Gainas, “That’s not a bad suggestion. The Excalbians were keen to tell us that their Emperor was neither a tyrant nor a symbol. He’s a figure of continuity during the recent electoral period. If we reach out to him and say look, this may be our only chance for lasting peace, rather than kicking the can down the road for a few more years, then he may be willing to assist.”

Zolph scoffed. “I know Excalbia can be a pretty liberal place, but I’m not sure how it would take their monarch selling Zamimbia down the river.”

“It would only be an issue if it got out,” said Tlazohtzin, “An understanding doesn’t have to be in writing. Not a word of it could come out anyway and it doesn’t have to be the Emperor himself, it can easily be someone from their permanent civil service.”

Zolph offered one last defence. “Why should the Snefaldians trust us?”

“Why should we trust them?” parried Gainas, “But I would rather try and have it fail than not and potentially see the region plunged into war.”

“Where though?” asked Tlazohtzin, “If we were at the conference we could do it alongside, but we’re not.”

Gainas rubbed his chin for a moment. “Providencia,” he said finally, “It’s small, it’s neutral ground, it has no dog in the fight and there’s no reason at all why a scattering of officials from across the region might not be there at the same time.”

“Especially if they’re making a deposit” muttered Schlesinger under his breath. Zolph grimaced. “I still don’t like the sound of this. A Conference of Berlin to determine the fate of millions, isn’t this what caused the problems in Zamimbia in the first place?”

Gainas nodded. “Yes but we have to remember that Zamimbia is not a continent, it’s one country. I know the current Excalbian administration wants to maintain the republic’s territorial integrity, and no doubt future administrations will as well, but no amount of peace conferences can stop the fact that Snefaldia wants a sea port and Knootoss will always back South Epheron.” He shrugged. “That’s cruel but there it is. There is only one Zamimbia, so she is always bound to be squabbled over by her neighbours. We can either accept that, and try and at least mitigate that fact, or we can pretend that words on a page can make straight the crooked branches of history and geography. I know, bless them, that the Excalbians wanted to assemble this multinational force but no one is really willing to join in because they all see that it’s futile. You can sink as much blood and treasure into Zamimbia as you like, you can’t change their neighbours and you can’t change the realpolitik of the situation.”

“Why,” asked Zolph, “Would the junta settle for half when they could have it all?”

“Because so could we,” said Schlesinger, “But there could also be a civil war and neither of us gets anything. Or Ampunda could outwit us all. Or their could be a miscaluation and a war between Snefaldia and Excalbia.”

“All we can offer,” said Gainas with an air of finality, “Is to take a collective step back from the breach. If they don’t want to then fine, but at least we tried and at least we can say of the coming conflagration ‘we tried, so let the blood of Zamimbia fall upon the bull’.”

[Zamimbia]

Private Residence of Abarran Mbala, Regina Island, New Hope

Abarran Mbala looked skeptically over his glass of Excalbian brandy. “Solomon,” he said after a moment, “it is bad enough that we have to treat that street scum Ndimande as a partner, but now you want to involve the communists?”

Solomon Ndandali met his protege’s skepticism with a mild smile that spoke of hard-earned wisdom. “You do realise, Abarran, that your friends in the Anahuacan Embassy are communists, do you not?”

Mbala shrugged. “Foreign communists.” He raised his glass. “And foreign communists with good taste.”

Ndandali shook his head. “And you do understand that half that roaring, cheering crowd today was there because of Bayron?”

Mbala sipped his brandy and scowled.

“The Zamimbian People’s Party is the best organised party in Butaland, next to our own Buta National Congress,” Ndandali said, “and while we have a local party cell here in New Hope, they have local party cells here, and in Port Freimanis, and in the other coastal cities, and even in parts of Sakoto. They have a broader organisation that we can use.”

“But the general population will never accept them at the polls,” Mbala said coming to his feet. “A bloody civil war was fought to remove them from power…”

Ndandali stood and placed a hand on Mbala’s shoulder. “Not them, Abarran. The Zamimbian Liberation Front…”

“They’re still communists…”

“Yes,” the older man agreed, “but they are not the same communists. And times change. Look at Upper Virginia. Less than two decades ago they were under a right-wing military dictatorship; now they are on the verge of electing a former communist as Prime Minister…”

Mbala sighed. “You really believe that they can help us?”

“I do, Abarran.”

“Very well,” the Education Minister turned and nodded to his gray-haired former professor. “Call Bheki Gumede. If he will comes to meet me, I will meet with him.”

[Uncle Noel]

Anahuacan Embassy, La Providencia

Dagobert Bauto inspected his image in the mirror with the intensity of a surgeon as he combed his moustache. Satisfied as to the optimal amount of sub-nasal rectitude he gave a satisfied nod and looked around for the pink carnation for his lapel. The Anahuacan ambassador was dressed in a white linen suit that, combined with his waxed moustache, gave him the appearance of a colonial official in German East Africa. He adjusted his tie, fetched his straw hat, and opened the door to his office.

“How do I look Florencia?” he asked his secretary, arranging himself like a peacock before her desk. She stopped her emails and cast an approving glance over him.

“Muy bueno your excellency,” she said, “You look very handsome today.”

The ambassador vainly brushed some imaginary dust from his sleeve. “Gracias Florencia, one tries.”

She picked up the desk diary next to her. “Will you be gone long your excellency?”

The ambassador shook his head, but not so vigorously as to disrupt his waxed moustache from its moorings. “I do not think so,” he said, “I shall certainly return before I retire for the afternoon.” With that he gave a polite bow and departed from embassy and out into the warm sunshine.

He could have driven, or rather been driven, but Bauto preferred to walk. His life was not an especially taxing one; visitors from the Fiefdom were rare in La Providencia and those that did come…...well the last thing they particularly wanted to do was make their presence known, especially if they were surreptitiously meeting with their bank manager. It was rare that he was asked to do anything, especially not a task of this import.

He turned and headed down the street, but not before accidentally colliding with a young woman pushing her pram. “Grievous apologies senora,” he said, raising his hat as he did. He strolled along the road, politely greeting those in the neighbourhood whom he knew. For all his pretense of old-world sophistication it would have come as a shock to people that Bauto was not the offspring of a Valdrician aristocrat but was the son of a man who worked at a tractor family who drank himself to death at an early age. His mother worked as a cleaner (cash-in-hand no questions asked) in the gilded homes of the nomenklatura to supplement the meagre pension she received from her late husband. But these homes were enough to inspire the young Dagobert to emulate them, if he could, and so he did in his own private kingdom-within-a-kingdom.

He paused at a crossroads and took from his pocket a folded, but scented, piece of paper onto which he had written the address of his destination. Satisfied that he was on course he continued his perambulations until, at last, he came upon his prize. The Snefaldian embassy stood before him. Bauto was unsure as to what security arrangements, if any, the Snefaldians would deploy so he attempted to locate either a security or a reception desk. He raised his hat in greeting to the official.

“Good afternoon,” he said pleasantly, “You will forgive me that I have not made an appointment but I should like to meet with the Ambassador at his earliest convenience. My name is Bauto, Dagobert Bauto. You may have heard of me? Either way I am the Anahuacan Ambassador and I have an urgent message for the government of the States-Federation. My instructions, I regret, are to hand this diplomatic letter,” he produced the same from an inner pocket of his jacket, “Directly to His Excellency the Ambassador.”

Offices of the People’s Commissariat for Foreign Affairs, the day before

In a world of emails and flying death robots and magical laser beams that fried people from above the clouds, there was still a place for the handwritten letter. Gainas took the ancient pen that was his father’s most treasured possession and a fresh sheet of paper.

“How do you spell his name?” he asked.

“Vinsëłmø-Ŕymè,” said Tlazohtzin next to the desk, “V-I-N-S-E but the E has an umlaut.”

“A what?”

“Two dots above the e.”

Gainas grunted. Valdrician had dispensed with much such unnecessary typographical baggage. “E.”

“L- with a line through it.” Gainas grumpily looked up..

“Maybe it’s better if you read it,” said Tlazohtzin, placing the name card in front of him. The People’s Commissar for Foreign Affairs adjusted his reading glasses and continued.

To His Eminence, The Lord High Chancellor.

Sir,

We have never met, indeed I do not recall that we have ever been in the same country at the same time, but my name is Tulga Gainas and I am, at present, the foreign minister of Anahuac.

You may think, sir, that it is very bold of me to write to you this day but I offer today no diatribe against Snefaldia or its system. Indeed, I write to you today under a mission of peace, not just between our two countries but also in a third-party and in the wider region.

It will not escaped His Eminence’s attention that the situation in your neighbour, Zamimbia, continues to deteriorate. Much of the current conflagration has been caused by issues particular to that nation; the inadequacies of the post-colonial settlement, the failure of governments since independence to adequately provide for their country’s future, continuing intercommunal rivalries; but we ought not to ignore the role that our two governments have played in this. You may, with some justification, argue that my country has done more until this point to pour petrol onto the fire; and perhaps you are correct. But Snefaldia’s position to quickly deploy forces into the Nalu provinces means that you hold in your hand the fate of many thousands, if not the fate of Zamimbia itself.

It is for this reason that I write to you. We are both aware of the current Excalbian peace conference being held in the originally-named New Excalbia. There are hopes that this may, perhaps, seek to reverse the current trajectory into war, either civil or interregional. It will not, however, address that which lies at the core of the problem; that Zamimbia is unable now to maintain her territorial sovereignty, nor does it look likely that it will be able to do so in future. The present peace conference is, therefore, a salve to current woes but being unable to address the primary issues at stake then I fear it will not be long before the powers of the region are called to a future conference, or required to deploy such forces as are necessary to prevent wide scale bloodshed.

Sir; you have no reason to trust me, and every reason to believe this to be a trap or machination on our part. But, as one patroit to another, as one father to another, let me urge you to look with pity upon the sons of Zamimbia and, in that spirit, meet with me at a mutually convenient time within the United Kingdom of Providencia and Saint Andrew. You may ask why this approach is not being made at the peace conference or adjacent to it, to which my reply is that the issues of Zamimbia must be addressed and a permanent resolution even if, regrettably, that does not involve the present Zamimbian government.

I cannot promise anything more than my good intentions for such a meeting. I am not Richard Nixon; Snefaldia is not China. The long standing disputes between us cannot be easily solved by a short meeting with translators at a luxury hotel. I am aware that some in Snefaldia may think that war between our two countries is inevitable; that is certainly not an unknown sentiment in my government. But whatever animosities we may hold ought not to be inflicted upon Zamimbia, like the unfortunate child between two warring parents. Such a meeting would take place with maximum discretion.

I hope that a common ground, however tentative and particular to the circumstances, can be found. I hope that my good faith has, however failingly, been apparent in this letter. I will obviously take it’s publication on your government’s part to be the answer, though I trust that will not occur.

I remain Your Eminence’s obedient servant,

Tulga Gainas

“There,” said the People’s Commissar, “That will do.”

Tlazohtzin looked concerned. “Are you sure this is wise colli?”

“Absolutely,” replied Gainas, “Now pass me another piece of paper.”

To: Lady Freedman

Madam,

I write further previous correspondence. Your Ladyship will no doubt have noted our last letter in which, at protest over the invitation of the Dutch Democratic Republic, the Socialist People’s Fiefdom of Anahuac (hereinafter referred to as “the Fiefdom”) declined to attend the recently inaugurated Peace Conference.

Noting that the invitation of the Dutch Democratic Republic (whose noted “anti-communist” policies serve to degrade the situation of the proletariat not only within the Western Atlantic but across the globe) continues to wound the Fiefdom, the recent upsurge in violence in the Republic of Zamimbia (hereinafter referred to as “Zamimbia”) as led the Central Committee of the Consitutional Socialist Party to reconsider its earlier refusal to attend.

It seems more pressing at a time like this that, whatever the ideological difference between the family of nations, a united front be shown in the cause of peace, both within Zamimbia but also in the wider region.

It would be churlish, therefore, to insist upon a role of co-host considering our earlier intransigence. However we would be grateful if you communicate, by return, your acquiescence to our attending the conference as delegates and as a concerned party.

I beg to remain, Madam, your most humble and obedient servant,

Tulga Gainas

Tlazohtzin nodded. “At least this puts right the mistake by those blockheads at the VKS.”

Gainas smiled. “Don’t you know Tlazohtzin, that the role of the People’s Commissariat for Foreign Affairs is always to rectify the mistakes of the People’s Commissariat for State Security. Now pass me another piece of paper, I have one more letter to write.

To His Imperial Majesty, The Emperor of Excalbia.

Your Imperial Majesty,

I hope that this letter is not seen as impertinent. I write only on the basis of what was communicated to my colleague the General Secretary on his recent visit to you and your court; mainly that the constitutional office of the Emperor of Excalbia allowed, upon occasion, the administration of a more executive function.

Sir, the recent crisis in Zamimbia is reaching a crisis point. His Imperial Majesty’s Government is currently undertaking a peace conference in one of His Majesty’s overseas dominions with a view to resolving the current crisis. It behoves me, sir, not only to engage with the conference but also to look, with dispassionate judgement, upon Zamimbia as a whole and attempt to devise a more permanent solution to this and future crises.

To that end I have extended an invitation to the Snefaldian government to meet with me in a neutral country to discuss those elements which, however unpalatable, may be necessary in the cause of a more lasting peace. It is only correct that, however secret, such an arrangement ought also to have the consent of the Holy Empire.

You may therefore ask, sir, why such a proposal has not been made to your government? The answer is impending elections in Excalbia mean it may be necessary that discussions are held between our three countries with more permanent members of the Excalbia government. I would be grateful if, in the cause of peace, Your Majesty may be able to suggest such a person to attend such a meeting if the government of the States-Federation is in agreement to such discussions taking place.

Any assistance lent would be of great help, not only to your allies but to the blameless people of Zamimbia

I have the honour to remain, with consideration, your Imperial Majesty’s obedient servant,

Tulga Gainas

[Excalbia]

Sweyn Castle, Citadel Excalbia

Although Excalbia had no formal equivalent of the National Security Council or War Cabinet that some countries maintained, sovereigns since the reign of Mary I had maintained informal councils to advise them on military and foreign policy matters. Early in David IV’s reign the Emperor had regularly convened his national security advisors. After his second heart attack, however, the meetings had become less and less regular almost to the point of ceasing altogether. So, it was a rather notable event when he summoned his unofficial security council to the Castle for an urgent meeting.

The group met, as had been their tradition during Lady Freedman’s and Sir Albert’s chanceries, in the Castle’s Map Room. The walls of the large, round room were filled with wooden bookshelves interspersed with framed maps illustrating famous battles - King Alsgood’s siege of the Citadel, Queen Hildegaard’s triumph on the fields of Turaida, and the Imperial Navy’s repulse of the Knootian fleet in 1874, among others - and tall, leaded glass windows.

Lady Ashley Gordon-Robb, the Imperial Chancellor, sat at one end of the large oval table. To her right sat Sir Adam Taurins, the Deputy Minister of State, sitting in for Lady Christina Freedman, who was still in Knootoss. To the Chancellor’s left sat Defence Minister Dr. Arturs Anders. A vacant chair sat at the opposite end from the Chancellor and to the right of the chair was Lord Alfred Landis, the Imperial Chamberlain. To the opposite side was the Rev. Jacob Donnelly, the Emperor’s Foreign Policy Advisor. In the middle of the table Lord Admiral Ricards Turlais, the Chief of the General Staff, and Vice Admiral Tucker Norland, ret., the Director of Imperial Intelligence, sat across from each other.

The doors at the far end of the room opened and everyone stood, turned to the doors and bowed. Emperor David IV entered, dressed in tan suit, and moved quickly to his seat at the head of the table. After he sat down, everyone returned to their own seats.

“I suppose you have all read the letter?” The Emperor asked, looking around the table.

“Yes, Your Imperial Majesty,” Lady Ashley answered for the group. “And,” she looked towards Sir Adam, “Lady Christina’s office received a letter for her from Commissar Gainas as well.”

“Indeed?” The Emperor raised an eyebrow and looked towards Sir Adam.

“Yes, Your Imperial Majesty,” the career diplomat said with a slight nod of the head. “The Anahuacans wrote to ask that they be invited back to the international conference on Zamimbia.”

“Hmmm,” the Emperor stroked his chin. “So, what do we think is going on? Why would they back out of the conference, then ask to be let back in? And why now seek an accommodation with Snefaldia?”

“It was our opinion,” retired admiral Tucker Norland began, gesturing with his right hand, which showed a slight tremble, “and that of our colleagues in the Ministry of State,” he nodded to Sir Adam, who returned the nod, “that Anahuac withdrew from the conference because they thought they had secured an ally in the Zamimbian government, who would shift the country in their direction at the expense of Snefaldia.”

“So,” the Emperor leaned forward, “why come back to the conference now?”

“They may have lost their ally,” Dr. Anders chimed in.

“Does that mean they were allied with Nkosi? Or Gambo?” Reverend Donnelly asked.

“Ajuban reporting,” Norland replied, “indicates that Nkosi was meeting with the Snefaldian Ambassador in private. It was Education Minister Mbala who was meeting with the Anahuacan Ambassador.”

“If,” Donnelly leaned forward, resting his arms on the polished surface of the antique wooden table, “Nkosi was Snefaldia’s woman on the council and Mbala was Anahuac's man, then was it the Anahuacans who killed Nkosi?”

“Most likely,” Norland said flatly.

“Damnit,” the Emperor muttered.

“What we don’t know,” Sir Adam said after a moment, “is whether Mbala acted against Nkosi on his own or if the Anahuacan Embassy was acting with or without its government’s approval in carrying out the attack.”

“The fact,” Lady Ashley interjected, “that the Anahuacan commissar for foreign affairs wrote you and Lady Christina after the assassination seems to indicate that it may have triggered this change in policy, even if the Anahuacans were in some way behind it.”


The Emperor frowned. “So, do we think Hoogaboom ordered the assassination, then had second thoughts or that someone was freelancing?”

“We believe,” Norland said, “it is more likely that someone down the line exceeded their authority. Whether it was the Ambassador, the Anahuacan intelligence service’s station chief in New Hope or Mbala himself, we don’t know.”

“The Anahuacans,” Sir Adam continued, “were likely content to use Mbala in an effort to gain a favourable outcome in Zamimbia, until the assassination. Now, they’re looking for a peaceful way out.”

The Emperor leaned back in his chair and stroked his chin. He thought briefly that he missed his beard and might regrow it during the summer. “So,” he said coming upright in his chair, “how should I respond?”

“How do you want to respond, Majesty?” Donnelly asked turning to face the Emperor.

David IV sat in silence for a moment. “If there is a chance of Anahuac and Snefaldia reaching a concord on Zamimbia, even at the expense of our own interests in maintaining Zamimbia’s current borders and full independence, I think we have to explore it.” Lady Ashley seemed to be prepared to object, but the Emperor raised his hand. “This is potentially bigger than Zamimbia. If Anahuac and Snefaldia can reach an agreement here, maybe, just maybe they can begin to back away from the path they’re on. Right now,” he turned to Donnelly and Norland, “it seems to me that they are on a path that will lead to war.” Both men nodded. “And a war between Anahuac and Snefaldia would be far worse for Zamimbia - and Ajuba, not to mention the rest of the Western Atlantic, than some sort of concordat imposed on Zamimbia.”

“What, then, do we do about the conference?” Lady Ashley asked.

“It goes on, of course,” the Emperor said. “If a meeting between Anahuac and Snefaldia happens, and an agreement is reached, the conference will be necessary to put… the right face on that agreement and get Zamimbian acceptance of the deal. If the meeting doesn’t happen or worse - fails - then the conference may be the only hope we have for peace.”

Lady Ashley nodded somewhat reluctantly.

“Sir Adam,” the Emperor said, “please ask Lady Christina to reply affirmatively to the commissar.” The Deputy Minister nodded. “And I shall reply to his letter to me. The only question is who to send?”

“Well,” Lady Ashley said flashing a hint of a smile for the first time, “it’s clear they don’t want a lame duck politician. I think they want someone they believe can speak for you - over and above your government.” She looked at Sir Adam. “So, with all due respect, I don’t think anyone from State would fit the bill.”

The Emperor nodded. He turned to Donnelly. “Jacob?”

The Reverend frowned. “I don’t relish the assignment, but I would accept it, Majesty.”

The Emperor leaned back and folded his hands on his chest. “Then, it’s done. Reverend Donnelly will go as my personal representative. Thank you all.”

* * *

A short time later, two letters were delivered to the People’s Commissar for Foreign Affairs.

Your Excellency,

Thank you for your letter. I am pleased that the Socialist People’s Fiefdom is seeking a lasting and peaceful resolution to the problems of Zamimbia. We fully support your initiative to speak directly with the government of the States-Federation of Snefaldia, and to seek a resolution that all the powers in the region can accept.

To this end, I accept your gracious invitation to send a representative to join your discussions with the Snefaldian government. I appoint and recommend to you the Reverend Jacob Donnelly as my representative. Rev. Donnelly has served with distinction as our Ambassador to the court of Christ Pantocrator in New Rome, as Director of Imperial Intelligence, and, currently, as my personal advisor on foreign relations. I can assure you that he will speak for me and that I will abide by any commitments he may make.

Please communicate the date and place of these meetings directly to Rev. Donnelly.

I hope that your initiative meets with success.

Sincerest regards,
David IV
By the Grace of God, Emperor

Tulga Gainas
People’s Commissar for Foreign Affairs

Your Excellency,

I was pleased to receive your most recent correspondence. I agree that the interests of peace in Zamimbia, and indeed in the region as a whole would be best served by wide attendance at the conference about to convene in New Excalbia. Therefore, we are pleased by your decision to participate in the conference. We anxiously await the arrival of your delegation.

Sincerely,

Lady Christina Freedman
Minister of State

[Snefaldia]

Snefaldian Embassay, La Providencia, Providencia y San Andres

For a brief moment, the security officers at the door looked at Ambassador Bauto as if he had not one, nor two, but definitely three heads. In Spanish they politely asked him to wait a moment, leaving him on the doorstep, and disappeared inside. After all, they couldn't let him into the embassy, could they? It would be a symbol. The ambassador would probably lose his job and report back to Sargedain in disgrace.

That ambassador, a Sringi woman in her mid-thirties named Dahamunzu, had only been in the job for about a year. Her elderly, overweight predecessor had suffered a stroke after a night spent too liberally mixing cachaca and cigars with his local mistress and it was felt the post was better served with a woman. Arrival of the Anahuacan ambassador worked its way up the chain of communications until it reached her desk; fortunately for her, she was in the middle of a conference with Ambassador-at-Large Wemiya Tarku, who had taken up the offer of the Providencian Crown Prince and arranged a diplomatic trip to evaluate Snefaldia's position there. This was a chance for Dahamunzu to show the experienced diplomat she knew which end was up.

She couldn't have concealed the brief shock when the message was whispered into her ear.

"Well, Ambassador Bauto is at the door." she said with a smile to the older woman.

"Which one is Bauto?" Tarku said, not looking up from the bank records she was scrutinizing.

"The one from Anahuac."

Tarku dropped her pen. Dahamunzu liked that, but the recovery was immediate. The older woman straightened, took a sip from her water glass, and opined, "Well, at least the surveillance crews can take a break. We know where he is."

"I can't invite him in, though."

"Of course not. He hasn't said what he wants?"

"He has a message, for my hands only." Dahamunzu replied.

"So go meet him on the stoop. Just outside. Get it and go."

Dahamunzu responded with an affirmative grunt and a nod, and marched down to the front door, heads poking out of doors into the hallway to watch. The two guards opened the door to reveal Bauto, and she stood, just outside the door on the threshold, waiting. She didn't know what to do with her hands, so she held them at her sides before speaking in Spanish.

"I am Dahamunuzu, Ambassador of the States-Federation here. You have a message for me, sir?"

[Zamimbia]

Zamimbian People’s Party Offices, New Hope

Like many institutions in Zamimbia, the Zamimbian People’s Party had a checkered past that belied the image it tried to project. In the 1970s various competing Marxist guerilla groups formed a tenuous alliance that they named the Zamimbian Liberation Front. In 1975, the Marxists succeeded in toppling the weak post-colonial government (actually, the third such civilian government, which had come to power after the nation’s second military government had reluctantly relinquished power only three years earlier).

The rulers of the newly proclaimed Democratic Republic of Zamimbia, however, quickly fell into in-fighting. The various factions, built along ethnic lines and around a small number of key personalities, that had banded together in the ZLF began to turn on each other. A series of purges removed the few ethnic Nalu in the communist leadership from power, leaving an almost exclusively Buta Central Committee.

Proving that, in politics as in physics, every action provokes an equal and opposite reaction, the former Nalu Marxist guerillas joined with Jahrian-led anti-communist groups and ethnic Hansa Muslim rebels in Sakoto to form the Free Zamimbian Army. In 1986, the Communist government of the DRZ was forced to the negotiating table, where they agreed to hold elections. Forced from power after elections in 1987, the Zamimbian Liberation Front collapsed, and was subsequently banned by the new Nalu-led government of the Republic of Zamimbia.

From the ashes of the Zamimbian Liberation Front, the Zamimbian People’s Party was formed. Despite the presence of several former ZLF Communists in the leadership of the ZPP, the party successfully campaigned as a Western-style pro-labour, social democratic movement promising to improve the lot of poor Zamimbians. On that platform, the ZPP was swept to power in the elections of 1998 only to be ousted - again - by a Nalu- led uprising in 2001.

It was the 2001 uprising that had brought the late Reverend Dr. Solomon Bongani to power and set the stage for Field Marshal Mabuza’s coup, and the current Duna-led National Unity Government. Although Bongani had never banned the Zamimbian People’s Party, he had restricted them in many ways and, for better or worse, many Zamimbians blamed them for creating the conditions that had brought Bongani and Mabuza to power.

Despite its trials and checkered past, the Zamimbian People’s Party, the heirs of the Zamimbian Liberation Front and the closest thing to a Communist party in the country, was still alive and still one of the best organised political groups in the country. And now, it was moving into the orbit of Abarran Mbala.

All of this was in Party Chairman Bheki Gumede’s mind as he picked up the phone and called the Ambassador Quequezquia of the Socialist People’s Fiefdom.

[Aerion]

Imperial Embassy of Aerion in New Hope
New Hope
Zamimbia

The Imperial Embassy of Aerion in New Hope was relatively small for an Aerionian embassy. It was a two floor stone Neoclassical building at the back of a round driveway and though appearing like a small mansion it had less space than most embassies. It did have a regal bearing for the size, and the golden crest in the front gates as well as manicured landscaping helped the appearance. The mission had a small staff of about twenty including ten Imperial Diplomatic Service personnel. There was additionally ten armed Diplomatic Security Service personnel there who protected the Embassy in shifts. It was not considered a cushy assignment in the Imperial Diplomatic Service, and was on the lower rung of possible assignments.

HIM's Imperial Ambassador Viscountess Razea Valyuza was one of the youngest Ambassadors in the Imperial Diplomatic Service, and had replaced her predecessor Viscount Vonkal Zayzeter who retired from the Imperial Diplomatic Service after failing to secure a better assignment. Razea was an attractive Eastern Aerionian woman, and came from a prominent provincial noble family in Eklar where her father was the Imperial Satrap of that province. She was a long way from the plush surroundings and treatment of her father’s official palace in Eklar.

Many people attributed her success to her father’s influence, and as one of the patronage positions the Padshah Empress and the Imperial Aerionian Court had been handing out during the period of its recent isolationist state when foreign affairs seemed unimportant. She considered herself qualified. She had actually graduated from the prestigious Babak University with her undergraduate degree and obtained her MSc in International Relations from the prestigious Imperial University School of International Relations. Yet her academic studies had hit the hard reality of the daily life of being an ambassador and chief of mission to a dirt hole nation. To make things worse, the policy of the Padshah Empress or perhaps the Chief Imperial Advisor or HIM’s Minister of Foreign Affairs had suddenly shifted recently, and she had found the Ministry down her back even before this crisis.

HIM’s Imperial Ambassador Viscountess Razea Valyuza was a tiny Eastern Aerionian woman with jet black hair and attractive though small features. She sat in the cramped conference room of the Imperial Embassy of Aerion in New Hope. Next to her was the Deputy Head of Mission, Daeryan Veurt, a Western Aerionian man in his forties who was a seasoned Imperial Diplomatic Service bureaucrat who was presumably attached to her due to her inexperience.

Across from Valyuza was the ‘Economic Attaché’ of the mission Veran Ketyen who was an Aerionian-Epheronian who held only the diplomatic rank of Second Secretary but was, in fact, the Secret Intelligence Service station chief in Zamimbia. He was a relatively handsome man in his thirties who also had a bit of a shadiness about him though suave as well. Also present was Colonel Urase Areut, the Imperial Military Attaché. He was in his fifties, and was a bit old to be in this position though it is likely he had received his position as some form of patronage from the Imperial General Staff. The discussion was too sensitive to bring in the full country team of the mission, and for such a small mission these were among the most important staff in the embassy.

Ambassador Valyuza did not look happy. “Imperial City is taking this out of my hands. How dare they. This is my time to shine! The Padshah Empress herself could know my name.” The Deputy Head of Mission (DHoM) Daeryan Veurt simply leaned his head in his palm as he reviewed notes on a notepad and rubbed his head as if he had a headache. He stole a discreet glance to Veran Ketyen, the Secret Intelligence Service station chief as if a request for saving.

Veran looked incredulously at the Ambassador, “Madam Ambassador, with all due respect, you do not want the Padshah Empress to know your name as it would normally mean you have done something horribly wrong.” He stated almost sarcastically. Ambassador Valzuya’s eyes filled with age, and she reacted like a young petulant child. “Excuse me? I am one of Her Imperial Majesty’s Ambassadors! I have admission to the Imperial Court! Do you have admission to the Imperial Court? Aren’t you from humble roots?” Veran rolled his eyes. There had been tension in the mission since Razea had been appointed Ambassador.

Veran felt the Madam Ambassador was a petulant child, and was simply complicating his job of really keeping tabs on affairs in Zamimbia for the Imperial Government. He was busy. He was busy keeping an intelligence journal, and receiving reports from agents who were handling informants. He was worried about the safety of his agents, his outside officers, some of whom were transmitting directly to Imperial City Center rather than through him to avoid detection. He was being required to report an intelligence summary every six hours, and a national situation intelligence report regularly. He knew Secret Intelligence Service and Imperial Military Intelligence was engaged in tactical signals intelligence to determine what was happening as well.

He had already sent his last intelligence report up the chain of command through the country desk which would go to the Epheron Mission Center and Director of Operations for the Epheron Division in Imperial City Center, that is Secret Intelligence Service HQ, and was hoping for promotion to Director of the Epheron Division in the Secret Intelligence Service. The Ambassador was an obstacle to that he felt. In any case, there were already meetings happening elsewhere and he was not the decision maker on what would happen next.

Ambassador Valyzua snapped back, “Also, sir. Why am I not receiving your full intelligence reports? You are withholding information from me. What have your agents found out? The Ministry of Foreign Affairs Operation Centre has more information than I do on the situation here!”

Veran kept a stoic, and dangerous appearance though he looked less than amused. He responded in a measured tone, “Madam Ambassador, you are in being briefed on a need to know basis. In any case, this is out of our hands and now decisions will be made in Imperial City. This is becoming an international incident, and could lead to a regional war. This is way beyond your pay grade, and my pay grade. I am taking direction from Imperial City Center. We just sit here and wait. We also hope they don’t replace us or that we have to implement the emergency operations plan.” He added a final jab, “Also, your daddy may want to get you out of here before the situation becomes too dangerous.”

Razea was staring daggers through Veran, but knew better than to threaten a Secret Intelligence Service station chief. Secret Intelligence Service was not as dangerous as the Imperial Security Agency (ISA), the secret police in Aerion, but their backchannel reports could damage careers.

She still looked like she was about to yell when DHoM Daeryan Verut, who had maintained bureaucratic stoicism the entire time, interjected. “Your Excellency, in any case this is out of our hands. Imperial City sounds like it is placing responsibility His Grace the Viceroy and Count Kartea.”

Razea rebutted, “What does His Grace the Viceroy know about this country? He never visits this shithole and barely leaves his palace.” Daeryan responded calmly, “He has friends here. The last cable I received from the Ministry was to stand down and listen. They are also dispatching extra Imperial Diplomatic Security Service personnel to us, and have given us funds to fund locals if we must hire them. Veran is right though. Your father, His Grace the Satrap of Eklar, has inquired after your safety with the Ministry. We need to prepare for evacuation if needed.”

Razea respnded quickly, “My father does not own me. I am not leaving here.” DHoM Verut simply inclined his head, “Very well, Your Excellency.”

Veran interjected, “On to important business, Colonel Areut, do you have any reports from your contacts in the military? My agents are reporting in, but are being extremely discreet and slow at this time as we are using cutouts and intermediaries. I am trying to avoid our safehouses being endangered. One of my agents is simply paying potential informants for information outright and may be blowing his cover shortly if he is too aggressive. He is of course under the cover as a megacorporate private intelligence mercenary ”

Colonel Areut had remained silent, but spoke gruffly. “No one knows what the hell is going on with Amupanda. They don’t think he is planning a coup like Mbata, but no one knows. He is ‘protecting’ President Duna. I am getting calls every hour, especially after the assassinations. The Imperial General Staff are personally interested in what is going on as it looks like this may turn into a regional proxy war or worse.”

Veran rubbed his chin, “My agents say the same. Amupanda has not moved against Duna. Mbala appears to be making a play for himself. It looks like he may be getting support from the communists. My contacts with Dr. Wale say he is concerned about his safety. The Viceroy or Feran Kartea should get on the phone with him soon. We possibly can extract him to Zrepzunia with mercenaries if necessary, but he is definitely not ready to go. The megacorps are getting antsy about their interests.”

DHoM Verut hummed, “Let’s wait for direction from Imperial City on Dr. Wale. Colonel though can you get on the phone with your counterparts in the other embassies of the Great Powers?
I am told Ministry HQ is speaking to Feran today. We should have more direction shortly. I need to get back to work as I am doing your cover job, Veran. The consular staff is also overwhelmed with inquiries about Imperial Citizens wanting to leave the nation. The Consul General is calling me every thirty minutes. The megacorps are not removing their employees yet. Reports are coming in from our economic interests all over the country. The megacorps want to keep shuttling their ferries through to take any émigrés or potential refugees to Zrepzunia who want to work. Cheap labor should be abundant if the national government collapses but our economic interests inside the nation will be damaged. I say we get back to work.”

DHoM Daeryan Verut then looked at the skulking ‘Madam Ambassador’ who he had nicknamed the tiny Viscountess privately, “Your Excellency, get some rest. We will have a trying few days, and we may need you to meet with Dr. Wale as well as others if Feran cannot get here in time.”

Veran muttered to Daeryan Verut as they walked out of the meeting out of the earshot of Razea, "What do they teach those kids at Babak anyway." Daeryan Verut responded in such a deadpan way with his proper posh accent that Veran almost laughed, "To snort a lot of coke and get completely sloshed I hear." Veran chuckled, "That's what I hear. Now we have to babysit the brats."


Zrepzunia

Zrepzunia was a neocolonial hellhole and could serve as the poster-child for all that was wrong with neocolonialism. The Grand Empire of Aerion had a reputation for the quality of its environment and wilderness. It had offshored all of it’s dirtiest heavy industries to Zrepzunia, and then there was the resource extraction. The extraction of oil, diamonds, cobalt, and other precious resources. The rivers and streams of Zrepzunia ran black with high acidity. There were open pools of mercury. Tens of thousands of massive block sweatshop factories surrounded the largest cities where millions of immigrants worked. Massive concrete block tenements up to fifty floors high housed tens of thousands of workers. Flying public security and corporate security drones policed the skies.

It was the worst of what the leftists expected and critiqued neoliberalism for though thankfully the other Western Atlantic nations could blame neo-imperialism for the sins of the Grand Empire of Aerion and claim that their system did not reflect neoliberalism.

There was little resistance. The policy of the Imperial Government together with Aerionian megacorporations had been to separate members of tribes into different factories. The petty monarchs and chiefs of Zrepzunia had been bought off, sworn to the Padshah Empress as their suzerain or even sovereign, or outright assassinated and replaced with pliable leaders.

Zrep City, the walled Viceroyalty capital of Zrepzunia, was the exception to the rule. The nearby Zrep Imperial Park which encompassed the largest of the pyramids of an ancient civilization which had existed in Zrepzunia was also an exception and the area was kept pristine for tourists who were not allowed to stray beyond Zrep City.

Viceregal Palace
Zrep City
Viceroyalty of Zrepzunia

Zrep City was a gleaming modern Aerionian city of glass and metal skyscrapers. Water was filtered clean to run through its canals, fountains, and parks. Citizens still occasionally had to wear masks due to the air pollution, but on some days it was the exception rather than the rule. Glass domed parks provided filtered air. Only Imperial Citizens or the wealthiest Zrepzunians lived in Zrep City. Most of the petty monarchs and chiefs of Zrepzunia who had been bribed off by the Aerionians and for whom the Padshah Empress was their sovereign or at least their suzerain had homes here as well.

The Viceregal Palace towered over them all with its domed edifice. It was a palace built in the monumental Neoclassical Empire style with Baroque elements. It had five visible floors, and was a massive arc that bent inwards with one massive central dome in the middle. Massive steps led up to the official front entrance. The forecourt plaza was large with a massive obelisk in the center which had been relocated from the ruins in Zrep Imperial Park. Viceregal Guards wearing black uniforms with red sashes and elegant red turbans lined the perimeter of the Viceregal Palace.

The Viceroy of Zrepzunia, an Epheronian-Aerionian named Balzaye Rauye had been appointed to give some Epheronian face to the colonial rule of Zrepzunia. He was mixed, and more Aerionian than Epheronian. His mother had been an Epheronian-Aerionian who grew up in Aerion, and had married an Eastern Aerionian megacorporate executive. He had attended an elite boarding school in Aerion as well as the prestigious Babak University in Elearan.

The Viceregal Council governed for the Viceroy, and the day-to-day administration of Zrepzunia was overseen by the Chief Administrator and the various provincial Governors or more rarely the petty monarchs or chieftains. The Chief Commissioners over various areas of governance on the Viceregal Council served in various portfolio positions.

The Chief Commissioner for External Affairs of the Viceroyalty of Zprezunia was Feran Kartea, an Epheronian-Aerionian man who was also educated in Aerion like the Viceroy and whose family had lived generations in Aerion rather than Epheron. In theory he reported to the Viceroy and Chief Administrator but in practice more often reported to HIM’s Ministry for Foreign Affairs and HIM’s Secret Intelligence Service.

The palatial office of the Chief Commissioner for External Affairs in the Viceregal Palace featured high ceilings, and was decorated in a French Baroque grand interior style with windows overlooking the gardens behind the Viceregal Palace. One large chandelier held overhead. Two Baroque sofas sat across from one another on a fine Persian rug. A large finely polished oak desk dominated the room. In typical Aerionian executive style the data terminal and screens of the Chief Commissioner were hidden in recessed panels in the desk, but were out now. He looked into the camera on secure video link across the quantum cryptography encrypted Imperial Aerionian Diplomatic Telecomm network.

HIM’s Minister for Foreign Affairs, Marquise Charaj Aniasalvers, could be seen through the screen. She was a dignified woman in her sixties from a noble Eastern Aerionian Persianate family. Her hair was in a bun, and she wore traditional Persianate dress rather than the typical Imperial Court uniform. She stared through the screen, “Feran, old friend. How are you.”

Feran nodded, “I am well, Your Illustriousness. It is good to see you well.”

Charaj smiled, but then gave a running lesson in a quick witted voice “Well friend, let’s get down to business. I have the Foreign Affairs Op Center giving me updates every hour. I have the Chief Imperial Advisor calling on me to appraise this situation, and of course the man seems indecisive about our policy on Zamimbia. Every other Great Power seems to be sabre rattling, and Excalbia just moved their forces closer than comfortable. The corporations are calling on me to give them more information, and the Imperial Satrap of Eklar is calling me about the safety of his damned daughter. I was just appointed to this office as you know, and I know we have neglected Epheron with the insularity of the Chief Imperial Advisor until just recently. We seem behind in the game, and I have to go attend this conference and smile prettily as the other Great Powers wave their swords near our territories.

We need to get that little girl out of there by the way by the way. Let me cut to the chase. Have you spoken to oh what is his name, the Minister for the Economy, and what the f*** is going on with Amupanda and Duna and all the wet works. Is this a coup?”

Feran responded calmly as he was used to Charaj’s quick temperament, “No. I don’t think of it as a coup…..yet. It seems like all of the Great Powers want to get in on the action, but all have conflicting agendas. You probably have better analysis than I do on the Great Powers motivations at the Ministry and from SIS. I would love to hear it. It looks like Mbala is making a play for Buta power again, and no one knows what Amupanda is at but I think it is a soft coup. A military coup would anger too many of the troops and Amupanda might face resistance from in his own ranks. Duna has been unwell recently, and increasingly weak. Gamba seems surprisingly ineffectual and weakened. The National Unity Council has become dysfunctional. Nkosi was cozying to the Snefaldians before she was removed from the picture. Duna is looking like he may be becoming Amupanda’s puppet. The next step is to see if Amupanda crushes Mbala or tries to co-opt him somehow. I need to move on Dr. Wale immediately with your permission but I need to know our agenda.”

Charaj sighed, “The Great Powers are meddling as always. The Excalbians look like they are trying to expand their sphere of influence, and need to get the fuck back up north. The Snefaldians.” She paused, “The Snefaldians. Something else is happening there. I wish we moved more aggressively into Zamimbia before they did. We have better relations with the Supreme Council than before, but they are very imperialistic. We suspect they may even be aiming for superpower status. Many at the Imperial Court…are not comfortable with the idea of Snefaldia as the superpower in this area of the region. Neither am I for the future of our Grand Empire” She shifted her eyes in thought, “Doctor Kassvar has given me little to no guidance on this outside of preserving our economic interests. I don’t think we are positioned to make a huge play on Zamimbia but can try to see what use that Minister of Economics is to us. I know we owe him a golden parachute at the least for his assistance to our economic interests.”

Charaj looked more serious, “We need to make sure we can maintain our economic stake in the country. A relatively free market and resource extraction are vital. Snefaldia may want to move in with their port deals and so the plans of the other powers to preserve a functional democracy may be preferable but not if they are planning to invade. They already act as if Epheron is their domain with Ajuba.” She paused, “In any case, Mbala’s rise must be prevented. Doctor Kassvar has not ruled out anything in….that. If you think Mbala can be brought to maintain our economic interests than we need to know, something to ask that Minister of Economics.” She did not state it out loud, but it meant she was not ruling out that that SIS may help try to assassinate Mbala. She cleared her throat, “We will let others work that out, and hope that the other powers block the communist incursion. We may reach out to Snefaldia on preventing this Anuhuac incursion, but I am not sure yet.”

Feran nodded. He was processing all of the information, “I will relay this to the Viceroy as well. Do you want me to go to Zamimbia to meet with the Minister of Economics, Doctor Wale?”

Charaj shook her head, “Maybe, but not yet. Veran is going to feel him out. You will be accompanying me to the Conference in New Excalbia.”

Feran puffed up with pride. As Chief Commissioner of External Relations of the Viceroyalty of Zrepzunia he did have the diplomatic ranking of a ‘Minister’ in the Imperial Diplomatic Service, but was not a plenipotentiary of the Grand Empire entirely, and had felt like a Consul General at times. This was a sign of promotion in status.

Feran nodded, “I would be pleased to serve you in our Imperial delegation.”

Charaj, “Very well. My chief of staff will send you details you will need to prepare for the Conference, and my transport will pick you up en route to New Excalbia. I look forward to seeing you again. Keep safe. Signing off. ” She gave him a warm friendly smile though with a grave look in her eyes.

Charaj sat back in the plush velvet chair in her private study at the golden desk she sat at in her Ministerial Palace in the Garden District of Imperial City. Even she did not know if Zamimbia could be the trigger of the next regional great war. She suspected saber-rattling, but wars had been triggered by far less. It had been a question that had been keeping her, and analysts across the Imperial Government up at night particularly at the Ministry, SIS, and MOD. She knew it was not keeping the insular Imperial Advisors up enough.

She looked around the palatial surroundings. She was in a palace, and she still could not get used to the size of it after moving in when the Padshah Empress appointed her to the Ministry. She preferred simplicity and simple living since her days as a novice in the Sisterhood of Abeshala, and had kept to her apartments in one wing of her Ministerial Palace. Her most conspicuous consumption was in her outfits.

Her palace was one of the larger Ministerial Palaces so that HIM’s Minister of Foreign Affairs could impress the diplomatic corps if necessary as if the Imperial Palace nor massive Ministry headquarters did not do that.

She gazed out the window at the pyramid megastructure that was the Imperial Palace rising into the sky like an arcology. She had been working too hard, and had not even had time to visit her ceremonial office in the Imperial Palace. She dreaded going back to the Imperial Palace and as one of HIM’s Minister having to deal with court duties at the Imperial Aerionian Court. Court intrigue was ruining Aerion she thought. Insular sycophants caught up in pomp, circumstances, and baubles. They had no idea what it to took to preserve their lives in their floating bubble of splendor. She was climbing the ladder, but for a different reason. Suddenly her chief of staff was ringing her. Another call was coming in. Reflecting on that would be for another time.

[Uncle Noel]

Ayotochco Palace

Tlazohtzin Acahualli coughed slightly and tried, as surreptitiously as she could, to waft away the pipe smoke from her face. The General Secretary pretended not to notice.

Gainas and Acahualli sat before Hoogaboom like school children summoned before the principal and watched, in silence, as he read their report. Gainas, who was no stranger to such things, knew that this was all power politics; that the General Secretary must have read their report before now, and this was just a not-so-subtle way of emphasising who was in charge.

“Well,” said Hoogaboom, turning over the final page and setting down his pipe in an ashtray, “It is certainly a bold strategy.”

Gainas nodded, “Well they do say that fortune favours the bold.”

The General Secretary fixed him in a hard stare over the rim of his spectacles. “Do they?” he asked flatly.

Acahualli spoke up. “Colli...I mean Comrade Gainas is right though, Comrade General Secretary, a more conservative strategy might not result in our desired outcome.”

Hoogaboom looked at her. “And what is our desired outcome?”

“Peace with honour,” replied Gainas, “It’s a loaded phrase I know but it’s true. We’ve all seen the reports, we know that the situation in Zamimbia is spinning out of control. I don’t agree with the assessment of our man in New Hope; he talks endlessly about Ampunda’s weakness; how he would launch a coup if he could, how he can’t trust the loyalty of his men and so on and so forth.” Gainas waved a dismissive hand. “But he had been underestimated I am sure.”

Hoogaboom raised an eyebrow. “A Field Marshal that can’t trust his own soldiers does not speak from a position of strength.”

“True,” agreed Gainas, “Which is why he hasn’t used them. Like any good strategist he has maximised his strengths and played down his weaknesses. He has successfully maneouvered himself around Mbala and Nkosi, and if anything our eliminating her has probably made his task easier. He stands at the apex of power, with a failing president following his every command and Abiwole completely in his debt. Not bad for a man we described as a second-rater and a warlord with a pension.”

Hoogaboom said nothing but, instead, turned a few pages of the report back as though to inspect something he had missed. “So?” he said finally, “What are you suggesting, that we start making contact with him?”

Acahualli shook her head. “With respect Comrade General Secretary that just serves to move the problem. Instead of trying to gather support in the provisional government we would try and seek allies in the army. And then what? We have to start removing generals from the scene so that our chosen candidate can rise?”

Hoogaboom looked between Gainas and Acahualli. “Why should the Snefaldians agree to anything? They have a chance here to take the whole damn thing, kit and caboodle. Why should they barter with us and the Excalbians?”

“Because they may get it,” said Gainas seriously, “Or they may not. The junta is, by and large, cautious. They don’t want a war; not yet at least. A civil war puts a humanitarian crisis on their border, there will be pressure to intervene and the risk of escalation with Excalbia.”

“Snefaldia and Excalbia I understand,” replied Hoogaboom, “Snefaldia has tank divisions on the border, Excalbia has a fleet in the bay. Why should anyone do a deal with us?”

Gainas leaned forward. “Tuilika Nkosi and her children are our deposit. I mean, that’s why it’s been passed back to us,” he motioned towards Acahualli next to him, “It’s because we all know that in five or ten years time the whole thing will come out. Someone will talk, or some bright young investigative journalist will write thirty thousand words in some weighty journal that lays out, in terrible and forensic detail, how every indicator points towards our involvement. And so we need something to justify it, not just a civil war or President-For-Life Amupunda.”

“And the Excalbians have to be considered,” chipped in Acahualli, “Who wants to go before an electorate promising better ties to a country that murders children?”

The General Secretary shook his head. “I don’t know what’s worse, having the Excalbians think that we can’t keep control of our security services or having them think we’d butcher a family to advance a cause.”

Gainas put a hamd on the desk. “We’ve crossed the Rubicon, Hoogaboom, and we’re desperately looking for a way back.”

Acahualli nodded. “The other thing we have in our favour is….well, we have an arsonist’s discount. If there is a civil war in Zamimbia then it is an immediate issue for Snefaldia, because of her border, and Excalbia, because she does not want instability in Ajuba, but for us it’s not so much of an issue.”

Hoogaboom looked incredulous. “So that’s our opening position. Talk to us or we’ll do a Samson and bring the temple down around you?”

“The death of the Nkosi family is regrettable, and depraved, but is a signal of intent,” said Gainas, “If you’re marching through hell then you need to keep going, so unless we maintain the pretense that we’re mad enough to do it then it will be taken as a sign of weakness. But, I will have to decide on the best course when, and if, talks start.”

“And how are you going to work that?” asked Hoogaboom, taking up his pipe and a box of matches, “Not even you, Gainas, with all your powers can be in two places at the same time.”

Gainas smiled. “I was thinking of sending the Deputy People’s Commissar for Foreign Affairs.”

The General Secretary looked confused. “Who is that?”

Acahualli smiled. “Hello,” she said sheepishly.

There was a hard stare from Hoogaboom. “You’re a little young to be a minister.”

Gainas protested. “The Foreign Minister for Kuronami is only 25, and she is head of the entire department.”

“Well bully for Kuronami,” said Hoogaboom, “But she was appointed by some stripling of an Empress. We are not Kuronami.”

“But Hoogaboom,” continued Gainas, “Think of it this way; if the meeting with the Snefaldians and the Excalbians doesn’t go to plan then I will go straight to the peace conference and take up discussions. And if it does go to plan then the peace conference itself will be surplus to requirements.”

The General Secretary stroked his beard. “I’m still not sure about this.”

Gainas pressed his point. “We have to act quickly though, the Aerionians are beginning to stir, as we all knew they would at some point.”

“Pah,” exclaimed Hoogaboom, “Those half-mad pagan dogs, what do they want; fresh meat for their satanic mills?”

Acahualli gave a weak smile, unsure whether to be offended or honoured that the religion of her people did not classify as ‘half-mad pagan’. “Well yes, Comrade General Secretary, exactly that. They want continued access to cheap labour, we doubt they’d want any territorial concessions.”

Hoogaboom looked to Gainas. “So what about the Snefaldians. The two, in the past, have been quite close and they are again, on paper at least.”

The People’s Commissar gave a small shrug. “Aerion and Snefaldia are already great powers; Aerion wishes to defend her position but Snefaldia wants a place in the sun of her own, above the others. Whatever they say in public there’s bound to be a clash, and the junta would not hesitate to throw Aerion under the bus if she got in the way of her ambitions.”

The General Secretary nodded. “Which Aerion will, of course, because I doubt the Padishah Empress has any desire to play second fiddle to anyone.”

“I think she would prefer it if we all bowed to her,” interjected Acahualli, “It’s just that she doesn’t know how to achieve that goal.”

“And she has too many enemies at home,” said Gainas, “But in terms of a simple transaction the Aerionians could probably do a deal with Snefaldia, agree to demands here to keep the ports of Zamimbia free so that the tired, the poor, the huddled masses yearning to breathe free can all go get jobs in their sweatshops. Which is why we have to do something. In fact it adds urgency to our cause, because not only are we trying to prevent a civil war, we’re also trying not to sell Zamimbians into indentured servitude in Zrepzunia. Dialectically we have to act.”

“Fine,” said Hoogaboom, “Fine. Talk to them, the Snefaldians, if you can stomach it. But let me make one thing clear, and that is that not one jot or tittle do we recede from our just demands in the Mallen lands.”

Gainas gathered up his papers. “Of course Comrade General Secretary. I will, as always, emphasis the impregnability of the Anti-Fascistiese Beskermingsmuur. Come, Comrade Deputy People’s Commissar for Foreign Affairs, there is much to do.”

“Acting,” interrupted Hoogaboom, “Acting Deputy People’s Commissar, don’t push your luck Gainas.”

La Providencia

The Ambassador raised his hat politely but could not mask a confused expression. “Good afternoon madam,” he said pleasantly, “Thank you but I was told to provide this letter directly to the Ambassador.” He stood patiently before realisation broke across his face like sunrise on a mountainside.

“Apologies Your Excellency,” he raised his hat again, “Quite inexplicitly I was still expecting your predecessor. A foolish error on my part; do pass on my regards to him if you should meet him in your diplomatic duties.”

He fetched from his linen jacket an envelope sealed with the rather dull socialist crest of Anahuac. You could immediately tell that this was not a letter of the Ambassador as it did not smell slightly of lavender.

“I have been asked,” said the Ambassador solemnly, “to hand this directly to you. As you will see it has been marked for the attention of His Excellency the Lord High Chancellor. You will see,” Bauto turned it over to show the unmolested seal, “That I have not opened the same, though its contents have been made known to me, of course.”

He proffered the letter to Dahamunuzu. “I shall leave it to you whether it is customary in the Snefaldian diplomatic service to pass such correspondence unopened to the recipient or to open it yourself and pass on the contents to your government.”

Like his opposite number he did not know whether to shake hands so he doffed his hat for a third and final time. “I was not left with any instructions as to whether I needed to discuss the contents with you so I shall take my leave. If, in the unlikely circumstances that you should wish to discuss anything further to me, then I shall be at my own embassy until four of the clock, whereupon I shall retire to the La Providencia Polo Club.

A pleasure to have met you.” His hand moved awkwardly so as to proffer it and so he masked this by pretending to look at his watch.

Anahuacan Embassy, New Hope

The television was always a background presence to Ueman Xonacatl. He justified it by saying that 24 hour news made his job easier. In the old days one might have to wait for an agent to call in before the latest developments could be known, or worse wait for the evening edition of the newspaper. TV made the process much simpler.

But it was also true to say that Xonacatl had never lost his love for television. He’d grown up in a poor village, out on the endless stretch of the Anahuacan plateau. He had first seen TV...well he couldn’t remember. It was for a coronation in the region and powers-that-be had decided to show it; maybe as a way of decrying the capitalist systems that would spend such money on such wasteful fripperies but mainly because it was interesting and a distraction from people’s ordinary lives. He couldn’t remember which monarch it was (was it Andreus?), crowded as they were into a neighbour’s house to watch it on a flickering and ancient television, but it had made a great impression on the young Ueman.

There was a knock upon the door, and Ueman fumbled for the remote control. “Enter,” he said after he had turned off the screen and quickly filed away some of the more classified documents into a locked drawer in his desk.

Ahuatzi Quequexquia entered. This was curious, the Ambassador had not even deigned to show Xonacatl to his office when he arrived, muttering as he did about not being consulted. It was a sign of how their relationship had changed.

“You er,” began Quequexquia, “You busy Xonacatl?”

‘Small talk?’ thought the VKS man, ‘Now this really is unusual.’ “Um no,” he replied, “What can I do you for?”

The ambassador pulled out a chair and sat down. He looked agitated. “I was thinking about what the People’s Commissar said….and….” he trailed off.

Xonacatl looked at him. “And?” he encouraged.

The Ambassador looked at him pathetically. “Did we mess up with the Nkosi killing? I thought we had done the right thing, we were told to go out and bat for Mbala and to take all necessary measures, and we got clearance and…”

Xonacatl laughed. “Oh no Quequexquia, you’ve got nothing to worry about. This is probably all new to you but it happens all the time in intelligence circles. You’re told to do something, no questions asked, so you do it and questions get asked. You’re informed that person x needs to succeed and that to do that you need to do something about person y. So you do and then people start wringing their hands and saying ‘well I didn’t mean that’ as though they thought that the gun they authorised for you and the fifty thousand rounds of ammunition was for a duck hunt.”

He smiled. “They’ll moan and groan about it but you’ve also proven yourself a man of decisive action, and that counts for something in this world. And if Abarran Mbala becomes President of the Co-Operative Republic of Zamimbia then they’ll pin a medal on our chests.”

The Ambassador wrung his own hands. “And if he doesn’t? Do we go down with him?”

“Oh no,” said the VKS man, “I mean, we can’t do everything. You can gather the men, train them how to use their guns and plot the most elaborate coup in the world but if the men you chose go off and get drunk at a whorehouse the night before then what can you do? But the plan, with the child soldiers? It was genius Quequexquia, absolute genius. All I had to do was get the van and poison the drugs..”

“What?”

“And it worked a charm. People appreciate that; your talents are wasted here.”

“What was that about the….” The Ambassador was interrupted by Xonacatl’s telephone.

“Xonacatl?” said the station chief as he picked up the phone. He looked across to the other man in his office. “Yes he’s here.” There was a pause. “Hang on.” He covered the receiver with his hand. “It’s Bheki Gumede on the telephone of the local reds, do you want to take it here?”

“Yes,” said Quequexquia, taking the phone off the station chief, “Put him through,” he told the switchboard. He waited for the click. “Good morning Comrade Gumede, this is Ahuatzi Quequexquia here. Thank you for telephoning, I was due to call you later today to invite you to come in; so that we could discuss the current situation in Zamimbia in socialist and fraternal friendship. When are you free?”

[Zamimbia]

Ministry of Economics, New Hope, Zamimbia

In many ways, the building occupied by the Ministry of Economics was symbolic of what was wrong with Zamimbia. Demonstrating the great principle that money in fungible, the government had used development assistance from Excalbia, Snefaldia and the other great powers appropriated after the last crisis to cover expenditures on small business development, the codification of intellectual property rights protection, and the promotion of trade and investment - all acceptable uses of those funds. However, rather than supplementing the government’s expenditures in those areas, they had been used to replace those expenditures. As a result, the Ministry had been able to procure a prime piece of property overlooking the harbour and what passed for the tourist district, and commission a sleek, modern office tower. Unfortunately, once the development money had been spent, there was far too little left in the budget to maintain the building. So, only three of the six elevators worked and two of those only stopped on the top floors, meaning that most Ministry employees sweated as they walked up the emergency stairs to their offices on the middle floors. Windows that were never meant to be open in a climate-controlled office tower had been forced open and lights had been left off to counter weak and unreliable air conditioning. Substandard wiring for the high speed LAN had forced unsightly retrofitted cables to be strung from the ceilings on several floors.

None of these deficiencies, however, were visible from the Minister’s suite on the twelfth floor. Visitors to the executive floor, who managed to avoid the middle floors of the building, could easily think they were in the posh offices of a wealthy private corporation in Knootoss or one of the other wealthy nations of the Western Atlantic. In perfect air conditioned comfort, Dr. Lawrence Wale’s executive assistant, a young woman with impeccable credentials and large wardrobe budget, worked at a modern workstation with a curved 27” screen. Two staff aides across the room worked on similarly modern and expensive office equipment.

Behind the ebony door or the Minister’s office, Dr. Wale sat behind his desk with a troubled expression. He did not consider himself a corrupt man. Certainly he accepted the occasional gift from the Aerionian mega-corps, but such was the nature of politics. His efforts on behalf of the mega-corps had, he assured himself, guaranteed important economic investment in Zamimbia and had ensured that an important pressure release valve - the factories of Zrepzunia - remained open to Zamimbian works who’s remittances supported many villages.

Now, however, chaos was at the gates. Nkosi was dead. Gambo was dead. Amupanda had seized control of the police to go with his control of the Army. Duna, who had recently been given to flights of xenophobic fantasy that would have rivaled Bongani was now hidden behind the gates of the Presidential Palace, all but invisible. Chaos was not good for business. And the calls from the mega-corps had already started.

Wale drummed his fingers on his desk. Although he decided that he needed to talk to the Aerionian Embassy, he had dismissed the idea of talking with the Ambassador; she was little more than a petulant child. No, he needed to speak with Veran. He picked up his phone to his assistant. “Ms. M’Benga? Please get me the Economic Attaché at the Aerionian Embassy. Mr. Veran. Thank you.”

* * *

Embassy of the Socialist People’s Fiefdom of Anahuac, New Hope

After a brief telephone conversation, Bheki Gumede rushed out of his office to the Anahuacan Embassy. Rush, however, might have been too strong a word. Mid-day traffic in New Hope was notoriously bad. It was so bad that when people in other countries complained about their traffic - as most people are want to do - their countrymen who had visited Zamimbia would frequently say, “Yes, it’s bad, but not as bad as New Hope…” Nonetheless, Gumede made his way as best as he could, urging his rather unproletarian late model mid-size sedan through the gaps left between overburdened trucks, repurposed (and frequently cobbled together), ancient school buses, pedestrians and the occasional horse.

Gumede finally arrived at the Embassy, about 40 minutes later than he had promised, and presented himself at the gate. “Gumede, ZPP Chairman, to see Ambassador Quequexquia at the Ambassador’s invitation,” he said as he tugged on his plaid sports coat.

[The Resurgent Dream]

The Caldan government had taken entirely too long to make up its collective mind about the multilateral peacekeeping force. There was a strong impulse towards caution. Relations with Snefaldia were still tense after the stand-off over the arrested journalists, although the Snefaldians had backed off. The Foster government wanted to build on that relationship. The Caldans had also never quite seen eye to eye with South Epheron's Apartheid regime and there was always the worry of creating tension with Knootoss, a close ally and important partner in handling the worsening Atlantic situation. Still, stability and balance in the region had to be preserved and the Caldan Union had to maintain or regain credibility. Excalbia had to be supported and Anahuac could not too visibly dominate the peacekeeping mission. Correspondingly, even as Prime Minister Foster publicly expressed her sorrow on the death of Tuilika Nkosi, the Caldan ambassador quietly informed the Excalbians the multinational force could count on a division of the Royal Caldan Army under the command of Major General Léonard Depardieu, a flight of the Royal Caldan Air Force under Major Jack Collett, and a small Royal Caldan Navy picket under Captain Lord Lucas Marek aboard the HCMS Pharris. While the hour was late, the Caldans had been preparing 'just in case' since the Excalbians had first floated the idea and their contribution was ready to deploy as needed. Hoping that it wouldn't come to that, the Prime Minister and the foreign minister prepared to attend the conference.

[Snefaldia]

Cemetery of the National Heroes, Sargedain, Snefaldia

If one were to listen to the official line, there were no factions in the government of Snefaldia. Political parties, factions, and "blocs" had been outlawed under the new Supreme Council as unnecessarily divisive, splitting the Snefaldian people and pitting them against each other. Unity was, after all, better!

Reality was much different, and despite the opaque nature of the Snefaldian state, political scientists abroad had identified several key divisions among the top leadership of the Supreme Council. The neoconservatives, led by Markes Vinselmo-Ryme, favor traditional Snefaldian values, open society, free trade and markets, and involvement abroad. Domestic industries should be supported or state-owned, and great emphasis is placed on a national Snefaldian identity and loyalty to the nation, and therefore the state. The ultraconservatives, mostly Sringi military officers, led by Ëgêd Bœrkil and Šan Paršatar, are doctrinaire supporters of traditional Snefaldian religion and especially Aatem Nal, deeply distrust foreigners and foreign religions, and promote traditional social roles and a regulated, orderly society; they largely have no economic policy and are motivated by an opposition to "Heradism," the Fabian-type democratic gradualism of the 1990s and early 2000s.

The third group are the pragmatic technocrats, without a clear leader, who are largely comprised of old-line civil servants and bureaucrats who served first under the Tuhran Bel in the 1980s and 90s, and then under the Chancelleries of Mugallu and Dirh through the 2000s. Above all, they favor stability and peace; they have no opinion on social or economic policy insofar as it relates to political theory; if it leads to positive outcomes for the state and society, then so be it.

Ta'us Rata'a is largely considered to belong to the third camp, the pragmatists. A devout member of Aatem Nal, Lord Admiral and head of the Navy with a distinguished service record, and now the leader of the legislature, he became the third leg of the tripod of the Council after the ouster of Pairi Hantili and the end of his personalist rule. For outside observers, watching Ta'us's public appearances, who he was meeting with, and which initiatives he was taking up in the Bel were key to understanding where who he would support and which policy line the Snefaldian government would take.

The Lord Admiral's public appearance and speech at one of the daily offering ceremonies in Snefaldia's national cemetery was taken as one of those indicators of where the government might be heading. The Cemetery of the National Heroes was a massive complex on the northern outskirts of Sargedain, what had once been nothing but forests and fields when it was founded to honor the revolutionary martyrs who had died establishing the Republic of Snefaldia; it was now slowly being engulfed by the neighborhoods of the ever-expanding capital. Usually, the top leadership of the Supreme Council visited twice per year: on the National Day commemorating the foundation of the Republic and the modern state, and on New Year's Day. The usual service was the attendance of a recitation of of prayers, offering of incense and flowers at the Shrine of Sonel Tåsoll, the great precursor to national unity, and the raising of the national flag at the Mausoleum of Marto Quilmar, the great Republican leader and first Chancellor of the Republic.

There were daily rituals, of course, held by the priests of the traditional Snefaldian polytheism and ancestor worship; the expenses for incense and flower offerings ran into the millions of ducats every year. Usually, though, top officials didn't attend these daily ceremonies unless there was a special event for a family member or relative. Admiral Ta'us was an incredibly notable exception, especially because of his devotion to Aatem Nal and complete lack of interest in the traditional faith; his solitary visit, absent other leaders, was even more important.

He offered a wreath and sticks of incense at Tåsoll's shrine, and at Quilmar's mausoleum he left the same, along with the added bottle of pomegranate wine (the independence hero's favorite) that had become a standard sacrifice, and toasting beverage, at patriotic events. After his offering, in uniform, and on camera, he departed from the typical schedule and made a visit to a newer section of the cemetery, the Cenotaph, the monument to all soldiers who had returned only in spirit from their wars, and the nearby grave of General Enentarzid. There too he left a wreath, and burned incense, and made his prepared remarks to the camera, prompted by the tame reporters all Snefaldian officials were followed by.

"I have been moved recently by the great devotion of the brave soldiers of the Snefaldian Armed Forces, their patriotic zeal, and their willingness to lay down their lives in defense of the nation and the pursuit of her ideals. I can never forget those patriotic martyrs who have made the ultimate sacrifice of their lives for Snefaldia and her people, and so I am here to pay my respects to the founders of our nation and those who died in its service. As any schoolchild knows, this cenotaph commemorates the glorious dead who have yet to return to Snefaldia, who fell in foreign fields and were buried there, far away from the native soil of their homeland. I have been moved, also, by recents events in the world to think on the sacrifice and devotion of General Enentarzid, the commander of the Fifth Army Group during the Ananhuac War of 1962, who refused to retreat when his positions were overrun by enemy forces and committed suicide, rather than endure captivity. His actions in the face of superior forces, refusing to abandon his men and taking ultimate responsibility for the failure of his defense, is an example of devotion all Snefaldians should aspire to."

"But it is not merely this devotion that stirs my heart. Enentarzid's mortal remains were only given their proper shrine after they and those of his staff were returned by the government of Anahuac in 1995, along with several hundred martyrs who are now buried in these hallowed grounds. But 8563 Snefaldian servicemen remain manning their posts where they fell; thousands of the remains of our countrymen remain in the hands of the state of Anahuac. They could be returned at any moment, if the government of Anahuac is willing to do so, and even more than that they could permit Snefaldian teams to enter the demilitarized zone and begin excavations to recover the other sacred remains not yet identified."

"It is Snefaldian custom and practice to respect the honored dead, as we believe any civilized people should do. Until the mortal remains of our patriotic martyrs are returned and given proper honors here, there can be no possibility of stabilizing relations between the state of Anahuac and Snefaldia. I know I speak for every Snefaldian when I say it is our heartfelt wish the Anahuacan government endeavor to help right this historic injustice."

The cameras stopped rolling, the Admiral departed, and life went on as normal. The Lord Admiral's speech was carried on all the major news channels that evening, and repeated in excerpts during the next week. The message to Itztlan was unmistakeable.

[Zamimbia]

OOC: Joint post with Aerion.

Imperial Embassy of Aerion in New Hope
New Hope
Zamimbia

‘Economic Attaché’ Veran Ketyen was an Aerionian-Epheronian who held only the diplomatic rank of Second Secretary but was, in fact, the Secret Intelligence Service station chief in Zamimbia. He was handsome, in his thirties, and ruthlessly charming though one may detect a sense of danger or shadiness from him.

Veran sat in the referentura or secure room of the embassy set aside for intelligence activities looking over reports and encoded messages from the field in paper format when the call was transferred through. The embassy staff notified him of who was calling, and he answered. He spoke in the lingua diplomatica fluently. “Hello Minister. How are you? Are you safe? Viscount Kartea was just asking about your whereabouts.” Viscount Feran Kartea was of course the Commissioner for External Relations of Zrepzunia, and had been a classmate of the Minister during his overseas university studies in Aerion.

“Ah,” Dr. Lawrence Wale said over the phone, “so nice of Feran to worry. Please assure him that I am well. Or as well as one can be at the moment.” The Economics Minister’s voice lowered and took on a serious tone. “I have… retained the services of additional security men through a… private concern operating out of the Sovereign States. After Gambo’s assassination it isdifficult to retain confidence in our security services.

“I am calling today to discuss… Aerion’s economic interests in the Republic. I am hearing from many of the mega-corps. They are getting anxious about the situation. As am I.” There was a pause on the line. “One cannot be too careful with communications these days, so perhaps it would be best for us to meet in person?”

Veran stated, “Of course. You should employee one of our security services. I am certain I could find you a discount, and a secure vehicle. You know we utilize the latest technology.” He continued, “Shall I come there or do you want to come to the embassy?”

“I will come to you,” Wale said. “And I would be happy to change companies; we’ll discuss that when I come.”

* * *

Some 40 minutes later, after negotiating New Hope’s notorious traffic, the Minister’s black SUV, accompanied by two black sedans, arrived at the Aerionian Embassy. Wale exited his vehicle and turned to tell his driver and security detail to wait for him. Then, he walked up to the gates of the Embassy.

The Imperial Embassy of Aerion in New Hope was relatively small for an Aerionian embassy. It was a two floor relatively simple stone Neoclassical building at the back of a round driveway, and though appearing like a small mansion, it had less space than most embassies. The front gates that barred entrance to the driveway featured the Imperial Coat of Arms of Aerion and were flanked by two Imperial Gendarmerie Diplomatic Security Service personnel. There was a gatehouse with an additional Imperial Gendarmerie DS soldier dressed in combat uniform rather than the more formal uniform of the gate soldiers. Other Gendarmerie personnel were inside. They wore distinctive black and burgundy uniforms with high-collars, silver buttons, plain white aiguillettes on the left side, and narrow kelpis trimmed in burgundy. The flag of Aerion flew from a tall flagpole at the grassy center of the rounded driveway. Below the flag of Aerion flew the flag of Zrepzunia as the Imperial Embassy also had personnel representing the Viceroyalty of Zrepzunia.

Inside the large rounded foyer was a chequered black and white marble floor, a curved receptionist desk at the back and a large chandelier. The Imperial Government's coat of arms were inlaid into the floor in gold. A large portrait of the Padshah Empress enthroned stared out from one wall, and a statue of the goddess Abeshala occupied a corner. It was not as palatial as some Imperial Embassies, but it certainly appeared expensive. Carved doors lead off the main foyer, and a curved grand staircase ascended to the second floor. The Embassy was particularly cooled with quality filtered air condition which contrasted with most buildings in Zamimbia.

The attractive Epheronian-Aerionian receptionist would have lead the Minister down without his security toward one of the well-appointed corridors with chequered floor to the end of a hall, down a flight of stairs to the basement level corridor that was still finely decorated, and through an air-lock like double sliding door. Veran would be waiting there to greet the Minister warmly, and a senior Imperial Gendarmerie officer beside the door would wait with a polished silver box to take the Minister's cellphone among other items.

This secured conference room was more austere than the finely appointed Neoclassical styled conference room the Minister would have been in before upstairs. Inside the secured conference room met all acoustic insulation standards cover all sides of the room, including the floor and ceiling. For additional security, there was a glass box in the middle of the room, and inside this acoustic dampening, glass box was a rounded metal conference table with cushioned seats around it. The room was near the Embassy's panic room and SCIF. Few expenses had been spared to equip such a small embassy for a small nation, but Aerionian interests in Zamimbia as a nation in it's sphere of influence was high.

Dr. Wale followed the receptionist into the basement. He greeted Veran and deposited his mobile in the silver box before following the man into the glass-walled meeting room.

“Thank you for seeing me so soon, Mr. Ketyen,” the Minister said as he took his seat. He was a man of modest height with dark, almost chocolate brown, skin and thinning hair. He wore an expensive, tailor-made suit cut in the latest style and wore gold-framed glasses. Everything about his attire spoke of wealth, but his expression conveyed only anxiety.

“The situation is getting rather out of control here,” Wale said, pulling on the French cuffs of his shirt. “No one knows what is happening. Everyone guesses that Amupanda is tightening the noose, and that either Snefaldia or Anahuac are involved in at least one of the deaths…” He placed his hands flat on the table. “No matter who is doing what, it is causing… uncertainty, which disturbing your megacorps. And threatening your investment here, not to mention my own position, if not my safety.”

Veran nodded, steepling his hands, “Of course. So I have heard from my agents So you know nothing else about Amupanda’s plan or any other rumors? Nothing?” He asked almost exasperated. Imperial City was inquiring every other hour at this point and he was exhausted from preparing reports or missives. He cleared his throat, leaning forward, “Of course I care about your safety, and you know this. As does Count Kartea. We have accomodations available as well as an escape plan to Zrepzunia or even Aerion for your and your family but of course my bosses in Imperial City want you to stay here as long as possible to see what we can do about this ongoing….situation. I hear from my bosses in Imperial City you had quiet the fun time in your college days and they have some great records.” He paused to let that settle in.

Wale started to speak, but paused. He rested his left index finger against the corner of his mouth and waited for Veran to continue.

Veran added, “You can discreetly send your children to Zrepzunia if needed and we will enroll them in private boarding school in Zrep City but it may put you too obviously in our corner. Otherwise, we could send them to the Grand Duchy of Mont de la Lune through front companies rather than showing our hands specifically. Likewise, I know an excellent company that has protective details who are former special ops from across the Western Atlantic based in Mont de la Lune. We have strong connections there and can provided for free though to cover the connection of course we will pass you some money to pay them.”

The Minister drew in a sharp breath and let it out slowly. He folded his hands on the table. “I see,” he said slowly. Wale felt as if he were descending into a pit with no escape. It was clear that he was in too deep to walk away from the Aerionians, but what would it cost him to continue in their service? It was a question he did not want to contemplate too much. “I appreciate your and your government’s continued support and generosity,” he said after a moment.

“I would appreciate getting my family to safety. Mont de la Lune would be a safe choice for many reasons. It will take a day or two for my wife to make the arrangements to take the children and go. I would also welcome your security company’s men; I don’t fully trust this company from the Confederation.”

Wale paused again, as if remembering something. “There is something that I’ve heard about Amupanda. He and his wife made an… unexpected trip to Providencia. Now, I hear that his daughter is there. If that’s true, there’s only one reason: they’re meeting with their bankers. There’s no other reason for them to go to that country.” The Minister kneaded his hands together. “So, the question is why? Is he plotting his own escape? Other than that, I suspect you know more about what Amupanda and the Snefaldians and the Anahuacans are up to that I do.” He paused again. “So, what is it that Grand Empire wants to do about the situation and what is it that you want me to do?”

Veran nodded, “Very well.” He pulled up a metallic briefcase from beside the desk and put it on the desk. Inside was a large amount of the local currency equivalent to 300,000 Aerionian Gold Leaves or the currency of a Great Power, visas to Aerion for his wife and children, and a folder with information on the security company as well as a contact who would have already been briefed about the situation.”

Veran then smiled. "Well, let us get to business. He proceeded to give instructions, "I need all of your economic intelligence including potential secret deals with Snefaldia or any of the other Great Powers. Anything that would be of use to us. I would also want a list of all officials that you consider open to bribery in your Ministry and any Ministry as well as the Army. Do you know any influential officers who we could buy off? We may spend several hundred thousand Aerionian gold leaves or more if they are general officers with clout. Any deals we have signed with the megacorps let's expedite those, and try to get all of the resources out of the country as quickly as possible. Get in good with Amupanda if you can. Find out if we have any leverage of influence. Since it is in your normal sphere of responsibilities there are various corporate interests and Aerionian megacorps who are particularly interested in ensuring business proceeds smoothly, who are nervous about political instability and left-wing politicians like Mbala."

He paused, steepling his hands once again as if thought. "Do not tell anyone this, but we are going to take out Mbala if necessary."

He stared at the Minister to await his response to the instructions.

Wale’s face betrayed a hint of alarm when Veran pulled out the briefcase. He gave a slight smile when it was opened to reveal its contents. “Excellent,” he muttered.

The Minister fixed his eyes on the Aerionian intelligence officer as he began to give him his instructions. His eyes widened when Veran mentioned the possibility of taking out Mbala. Although he understood intellectually that once the blood began to flow it would be difficult to stop it and that Aerion might have good reason to remove his colleague from the Council, he was not, by nature, a violent man. He preferred numbers and accounts to bullets and guns, even if he knew that both were equally necessary.

Wale nodded slowly as he considered his instructions. “Getting you a list of politicians and bureaucrats who can be bought will be easy. As will rushing forward our contracts with the megacorps. Buying off the military will be more difficult. Duna and Amupanda purged the officer corps after Mabuza was overthrown and most have a personal loyalty to one or other. Nonetheless, I shall do my best to probe my contacts for leads.” He rubbed his chin. “Getting close to Amupanda is starting to get difficult. Rumour is that he is nearly as secluded as Duna. Riding only in armoured caravans; keeping to his office, his residence and the Presidential Palace. Now, his deputy, General Moses Gowan is another story. He is becoming more public. Most assume he is now essentially the public face of Amupanda. I hear that he even met with the Snefaldian Ambassador. I’m sure that I can get to know him. Maybe introduce him to you, if you would like? I don’t think he’s amenable to a bribe, word is he’s very, very close to Amupanda, but he does like to talk, from what I hear. He might be a useful source.”

Veran responded, “I can meet with General Moses Gowan under the guise of the business interests of Aerion. Setup that meeting.” He nodded, “Oh and Wale, exercise discretion about getting your family to Le Mont de la Lune. We will provide housing through front companies but we don’t want the entire WA to think we are housing your family.”

[Excalbia]

Skralins Islands

Until the Iesian Civil War, nearly a decade ago, the Skralins Islands had been little more than a cartographer’s curiosity - a little bit of Excalbian territory in the middle of the tropical ocean. Its naval station, similarly, was little more than a relic of the bygone age when Imperial Navy warships had needed a coaling station to support Excalbia’s imperial flirtation with Epheron and the Cyretian Maghreb.

There had been little to recommend the Islands themselves to the modern world. A collection of small islands, only the largest of which supported anything approaching civilization, and several large, narrow atols, the Skralins Islands supported a minimal population and had little in the way of an economy, apart from fishing, tourism and the naval station. The largest island, its original name largely forgotten and now known as New Kurzeme, supported a few indigenous fishing villages linked by one road - creatively named the Ring Road - that circumnavigated the island between its sandy beaches and rugged, rocky and mostly treeless interior. Modern development consisted of a port, designed to accommodate commercial fishing vessels and the occasional cruise ship, a small airport with a single runway, and a settlement with the rather overblown name of New Kurzeme City.

The settlement consisted of a several houses, four churches, a few bed-and-breakfast inns, a three-story hotel, a strip mall, a grocery store, two gas stations, a couple of small restaurants and a large, two-story building that housed both City Hall and His Imperial Majesty’s Territorial Government. The other islands lacked the population density of even the surrounding fishing villages, consisting as they did of little more than huts, modest homes and small convenience stores. It was said that the Imperial Governor could meet every full-time resident over the course of day, if it were necessary. And if a sea plane were available to visit the other islands.

The Iesian War, however, had brought change. Not so much to New Kurzeme as to the atol that hosted the Naval Station. At the outset of the war, the Imperial Army Corps of Engineers and several Imperial Naval Constructions Battalions had descended on the station. Port facilities were improved to allow it accomodate all but the largest Imperial Naval vessels. The runway had been lengthened and, after fill had been used to connect the station’s atol to another nearby, additional runways and aviation facilities had been built. New buildings, including quarters, commissaries, offices and a hospital had been built. Ferry service to New Kurzeme had been expanded due to the need for more civilian workers at the base, resulting in several more houses and even a complex of two-story apartment buildings being added to the so-called capital city. Even the island’s civilian port had been upgraded to allow it to be commandeered, if need arose, for large military vessels.

After the Iesian War, the last conflict in Zamimbia - not the current one - and various confrontations with Knootoss had kept the Naval Station busy and business in the Skralins Islands booming. Then, conflict had faded and the tempo of life had slowed, returning to normal.

Now, with the latest crisis in Zamimbia, things were picking up again. First, the 17th Carrier Battle Group had arrived on station and with it an increase in aircraft and personnel. Then, Admiral Jekob Pluvitis had arrived, moving the 2nd Fleet flag to the station and assuming command. For the first in its history the blue and white Naval Ensign with the four gold stars of a full admiral flew over the station next to the Imperial flag.

A few days ago, for observers on New Kurzeme, things were kicked up a notch as large transport planes began arriving in waves and transport ships filled almost every docking slip. Soon, word was out that the Imperial Army’s V Corps had arrived. Or at least its headquarters elements and lead units had.

They were, in fact, the first elements of a new multilateral force that was organizing to deploy to Zamimbia. Three full Excalbian divisions, one each of airborne infantry, special environment operators and armour - the latter two still being in-bound by ship - would comprise the core of the force. The Caldans had committed to a division, an air force flight and a naval picket. Kasakia and Laneria were each sending a battalion, and Finara and Gantara had pledged a company each. While Admiral Pluvitis remained the senior officer on station and the overall area commander, the multinational force’s ground units had been placed under the command of Lieutenant General Patrick Garrett, V Corps’ commander.

As the Excalbian troops readied the base for new arrivals, Admiral Pluvitis and Lieutenant General Garrett, along with their staffs, await the arrival of their foreign counterparts.

[Uncle Noel]

Oxwitik, Anahuac

Not much life stirred in Oxwitik at this time of night. There was a certain tendency amongst blinkered metropolitans to assume that all life similar to their own; but whilst their great cities never slept, smaller provincial towns certainly did.

Officially the name of the town was Cuanhnahuac; but that was the Nahua name, and here on the borders of Mallen country that was the language of the overlords on the great plateau that twinkled in the moonlight beyond the next hill. Ask for directions to Cuanhnahuac and the traveller would to be greeted with cold stares and a sudden inability to understand the question.

It was primarily a market town though agriculture had taken a second place in recent decades as locals extracted what profits they could from the great military columns passed through the town as their wound their way from the plateau to the military bases and checkpoints higher in the mountains. But even these convoys rarely travelled at night, unless there was an emergency, and so Oxwitik was the sort of place where police might stop a car in the early hours of the morning simply because it was out when most people were asleep.

On this particular night, however, a great explosion shook the window panes of the town causing terrified inhabitants either to cower under the bed or emerge, half-asleep, into the streets to see what the commotion was. Inevitably the first thought was that this was the Snelfaldian invasion that had been talked about for so long, but no further explosions came and so the brave, or the foolish, inched their way to the centre of the town and the flickering flame that lit up the surrounding walls.

It was a gas main; everyone could see that now as sirens could be heard in the distance. A jet of flames, no taller than a man, shot up from the road near the town’s main temple. Residents returned to their beds, though not before testing their heating and cookers to make sure that whatever had exploded was not the pipes that supplied them.

Whatever it was must have been bad, for workers from the municipal gas board not only had to erect workings in the road but also in the nearby temple grounds. As the residents of Oxwitik tutted and complained about the inconvenience to their daily life few would have noticed that the remedial works also seemed to enclose the graves of some of those snefaldian soldiers that had been buried in the temple grounds for want of any better ideas of what to do with them (Mallen having moved onto cremation some eight hundred years ago). Most would not have realised that no gas pipes went anywhere near the temple, and those that did know were sufficiently aware that so elaborate a deception served as a reminder that they ought to keep their opinions to themselves.

So why? Why go to all the bother of distracting your own citizenry so that the mouldering remains of some of the hapless infantry of Snefaldia could be exhumed? Pride mostly. It had been so much easier in the old days when control of the radio and television stations was all that was required. Thirty years ago the utterances of the Lord Admiral would never have been made known to the citizens of the fiefdom, protected as they were by the sword and shield of the People’s Commissariat of Communications. But now the internet meant that even a refusal to teach Bagura was no impediment to news from the junta seeping in.

And so when questions were asked on the heavily monitored social media of Anahuac as to whether the bodies of the Snefaldian soldiery would be repatriated the answer, of course, was no. Why should they? Who did these Snefaldian dogs think they were making so impudent a demand upon the proud workers and peasants of Anahuac? And as they blustered, so the government drew up plans to quietly exhume the remains dotted in cemeteries across the Mallen country, their denunciations all the more fervent because they were grounded on falsehood.

Offices of the People’s Commissariat for Foreign Affairs

Schlesinger stroked his beard. “I wasn’t even aware there was a war in 1962” he said after a pause. Acahualli nodded. “Me neither,” she said in agreement.

Gainas looked up from the letter he was writing on the desk before him. “Well war is a typically exaggerated Snefaldian remark; it was more of a border skirmish really.”

He leaned back, an old man lost in memories. “You have to remember that Spode had not been dead three years and the succession was not as clear cut as it was in 1980. Reikenau was still tussling with Ulphilas for overall control. You see, Reikenau was a military man and many in the party were not sure whether a general was really the best man for the job; what if he turned the fiefdom into a military dictatorship, what if he was going to do a Napoleon and remake the country in his own image. You have to remember, comrades, that it was concerns such as these that forced Trotsky out in favour of Stalin, so people were not being unreasonable.” Thus spoke one of Ulphilas’ firmest supporters in those long-forgotten battles.

Schlesinger was confused. “What’s that got to do with the ‘62 war?” he asked.

Gainas almost tutted. “Everything!” he said, “Absolutely everything. What does any good Roman General do when he wants to be Emperor? He goes to battle, preferably against the oldest foe, and returns to laurels and power.” Gainas sniffed. “We’ve not moved as much as we like to think over these last two thousand years. I can’t even remember how it was justified, or whether he even attempted it, he just took what forces he could and threw them against the Snefaldian lines. Just for his political advantage.” The old man shrugged. “Maybe he thought he would get his victory and then return home as the hero of the hour. I don’t think any of us expected the whole Snefaldian Fifth Army to crumble like a house of cards.”

Acahualli looked up from the speech she was writing for Gainas. “So what happened then?” she asked, “If it was such a great victory then why did the border not move?”

Gainas laughed without humour. “Because we were as unprepared for victory as the Great Bull was for defeat. It’s hard to fight in that mountainous terrain, supply lines became stretched and it was only a matter of time before there was a counter-attack.”

The People’s Commissar gave his young advisors a hard stare. “Besides,” he grunted, “It had already served his purpose. Reikenau rushed back to Itztlan, there was an emergency meeting of the Central Committee.” He sadly shook his head. “By the end of the week Ulphilas was no longer Chairman of the Council of People’s Commissars, within two months he was out of the Politiburo and by the end of the year he was overseeing fishing quotas in Revet. He found God in the end, so I’m told, and wrote a series of space adventures for children which had a hidden Christian message.”

“Oohhhh.” said Schlesinger, “THAT Ulphilas, I hadn’t realised.” The two others in the room looked at him, and then at the kippah on his head. “What?” he asked, “I still enjoyed The Lion and the Witch and the Wardrobe even if Aslan is supposed to be like Jesus. They’re still good books.”

Gainas did not seem convinced. “How are the exhumations going?” he asked, returning the conversation to the present. Schlesinger rustled through his notes. “We’ve got, at the last count, 7424, we’ve just collecting the last from a military cemetery near Freistag.”

Gainas raised his eyebrows. “Freistag? That’s far from the Mallen Lands.”

There was more rustling. “They were….,” Schlesinger went pale, “Well I won’t go into too much detail but it looks like they were initially mistaken for our soldiers. They, well, they weren’t in the best of condition shall we say.”

“Right,” said Gainas, “In which case I will postdate this letter then and send it once everything is complete.”

Eventually

To His Eminence, The Lord High Chancellor.

Sir,

It was, perhaps, too much wishful thinking on my part to have hoped that a proffered hand would not have been met with a collection tin but there we are; such is the world in which we live.

You will have noted, no doubt, from the conspicuous silence on our part that the transplanting of your soldiery from our graves to yours has not been met with public fanfare. If there had then no doubt Your Eminence’s own security services would have shown you images of my own corpse suspended from a telegraph pole. As I noted in my earlier correspondence, discretion is the deposit for this proposed meeting; though you may claim the bodies of your fallen from the location detailed below I would be grateful if, for a minimum of eight months, you keep such a transfer secret. Mr Rata'a has already, in his public utterances, made mention of 1995. That was a long time ago, and the promise that the Reijihan Herad administration promised have not matieralised. It serves us no political advantage to be seen to capitulate to your government’s demands.

The prize which you seek is in a refrigerated container in Victoria harbour marked with a fictional shipping company registered to Pewfist. A map is enclosed herewith, the passcode is 102517.

With regards to Mr Rata'a’s other request, to enter the demilitarized zone in order to poke about for the bones of the dead, the answer is no, not at all. Any intrusion into the demilitarized will be considered a hostile act, let me make that very clear to your eminence. We, in future, consider such an act possible if accompanied by a neutral third party [in the margin of the letter Gainas had written ‘Excalbia?’ in red ink in a scratchy hand] and only after the conclusion of the current Zamimbia crisis.

I look forward to your eminence’s comments which I hope, this time, will not come via international news media.

Yours sincerely,

Tulga Gainas

Anahuacan Embassy, New Hope

“So, er,” Quequexquia looked startled for a moment, as though he had been daydreaming for some considerable time and had only just realised that he needed to do something, “What was I doing?”

Evermud Waum, the recently appointed Deputy Chief of Mission, raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Comrade,” he wasn’t sure whether ‘comrade’ or ‘mister’ was appropriate in these circumstances but it was too late so he ploughed on, “Gumede is here to see us,” replied the deputy. “I think he’s been waiting for about twenty minutes.”

“Has he?” Quequexquia looked about his desk, “Well, er, send him in.” Waum nodded and walked across to the door whilst the ambassador straightened his jacket and tie. What he been doing? The fate of Zamimbia, or his career, rested on swift action, not sitting around. Waum returned.

“Mister Gumede ambassador.” Quequexquia moved around his desk to shake the other man’s hand. “Apologies for the slight wait,” he said, “But welcome Mister Gumede, welcome. Please do take a seat, can I get you any refreshments?”

He waited for the other man to speak before giving a nod to Waum. “Thank you for coming today Mister Gumede, and at such short notice. As you know, Zamimbia is in a state of….flux, yes flux, and it’s important for those of us of an ideological affinity support each other whenever possible. Tell me, sir, the problem with recent events is that all things are seen through the prism of the Provisional Government and, I am afraid to say, the military high command. Or sections of the high command I should say. So I would be grateful, as a one socialist brother to another, for your thoughts on the current situation?”

[Snefaldia]

A letter from the Snefaldian Chancellor worked its way back to the Anahuacan government through a surprising array of back-channels, at one point even passing into the hands of a janitor in the Sabari embassy in Brasland before ultimately landing on the desk of Tulga Gainas.

Sir,

My government has received your recent note and shall, with all haste, take charge of the precious cargo prepared by your side. His Excellency the Lord Chancellor views this as a gesture of goodwill on the part of your government, to which we shall reciprocate. However, we cannot acquiesce to the terms of your original letter. It will no doubt be clear that it would be fully inappropriate for the Lord Chancellor to meet a lower-ranking representative of a foreign power such as yours in a third-party state.

Should you be amenable, I shall, with my Lord Chancellor's permission, make myself available as Minister of Foreign Affairs at a date to be determined in the United Kingdom of Providencia y San Andres. Henceforth, we shall provide communications to your side through the care of the diplomatic officers of the Khanate of Sabaristan, who have agreed to act as an intermediary between our two states.

Yours,

Severín vèl Ortóvenë
Minister of Foreign Affairs

[Zamimbia]

Anahuacan Embassy, New Hope

Bheki Gumede entered the Ambassador’s office with a slight bow. He accepted the Ambassador’s hand and shook it, tapping lightly on his chest with his other hand. He then offered his hand to the other gentleman and repeated the gesture. “Thank you for seeing me, Your Excellency,” the ZPP leader said as he took his seat. “I would appreciate a glass of soda water, if I might.”

He turned to face Waum as he spoke and nodded as he listened. “Yes, of course,” he began, tugging again on the sleeves of his plaid jacket, “things are very chaotic at the moment. The assassination of Nkosi and Gambo have thrown things up in the air a bit, I would say. Everything thought that Nkosi was about to make a play to form an alliance with the Snefaldians to bring the Nalu back to predominance. Now, no one knows what her side will do.”

Gumede shook his head. “Everyone speculates about what Amupanda is about, but no one knows. Not even his soldiers. Many are Buta in the army and I talk to them.” He shrugged. “They and their officers keep expecting the order to move against the Provisional Government, but it never comes.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “There are rumours that Amupanda is in the Presidential Palace every day with President Duna. But no one knows what goes on. General Gowon is left in charge at the Defence Ministry most days.”

He leaned back in his chair. “Now Mbala is trying to take up the mantle of Buta leadership. And claim the loyalty of the ZPP. But we are not just a Buta party.” The short man seemed to straighten in his chair and hold his head a bit higher. “You know that we were twice in power. Once in the 70s, after the Revolution, and once in the 90s through the ballot box. Both times an alliance between the military, the Muslims, the Jahrian bureaucrats and the Nalu elites overthrew us.”

Shrinking back into his chair and shrugging, Gumede continued. “So, maybe it is not a bad thing that Mbala is late to our cause; the ZPP and its history is something of a mixed bag with some Zamimbians. Perhaps Mbala can be a fresh face. Provided he does not run afoul of the army. And truly embraces our cause. But first, we all must determine what it is Amupanda wants to do. He is the lynchpin.”

New Excalbia

“Welcome to New Excalbia, Your Excellency,” Lady Ashley Gordon-Robb said with a smile and slight bow.

“Thank you, Your Excellency,” Ricards Abiwole, Zamimbia’s newly appointed Foreign Minister replied with a bow of his own. Part Excalbian, part Ajuban and part Zamimbian, Abiwole was keenly aware of the peculiar ironies of him standing in front of the Excalbian Imperial Chancellor and representing his country at an international conference that was likely to determine its fate for a generation.

“I appreciate your willingness to host this conference,” Abiwole continued, folding his arms behind his back. “President Duna regrets that he is unable to attend; however, he has given me brought parameters to work with and full authority to speak for Zamimbia.”

“That will be most helpful,” the Excalbian Chancellor nodded. “And we are pleased to be able to bring all the interested parties together.” She turned and gestured to the main hall of the conference centre. “You are the first to arrive, Minister. Apart from Sir Dawuda Okpanache, the Ajuban Chancellor, who is my co-host.” She looked into the dimly lit interior of the hall. “I believe that he is already inside checking on arrangements. I’m certain he will be pleased to greet you.”

Abiwole bowed again slightly. “Thank you, again, Your Excellency.”

As the Zamimbian walked into the hall, Lady Ashley looked at her watch at waited for the next delegation head to arrive.

[Ajuba]

Private Residence of Field Marshal Amupanda

“Ah,” Field Marshal Lwazi Amupanda said rising from one of the many sofas filling his salon, “Colonel Shehu, a pleasure to meet you again.”

The Ajuban military attaché, dressed in khakis and a casual sports coat, bowed slightly then shook the Field Marshal's hand. “Thank you for finally seeing me, Sir,” Colonel Adamu Shehu said flatly.

“I apologize,” Amupanda said smiling, “but I have been busy. Here,” he gestured to a sofa, “take your seat.”

Shehu sat at one end the sofa and Amupanda returned to his place on the other end. “Tea? Or perhaps a Scotch?”

“No, thank you, Sir,” the Colonel replied.

“Very well,” Amupanda picked up own glass and sat back in the chair. “So, what can I do for you, Colonel?”

“I have been wanting to discuss with you something that will be proposed at the Conference getting under way.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” the Colonel turned slightly to look directly at Amupanda. “My government, along with the Excalbian Government, is going to call for an international peacekeeping force to made available for Zamimbia. If needed.”

Amupanda smiled. “I hear that ships are already arriving with troops in the Skralins Islands…”

Shehu raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, come, Colonel,” Amupanda chuckled, “the Skralins Islands are not so remote that no commercial ships have noticed a parade of Excalbian Imperial Naval transports coming into port. And at least some Zamimbians are employed on those ships.”

Shehu nodded.

“So, Colonel,” Amupanda took a sip of his drink, “what is these peacekeeping force for? Are you expecting a civil war?”

“Perhaps,” Shehu said flatly. “To be honest. Or an invasion. Either South Epheron or Snefaldia. Or even, remotely, Aerion, might see a weakened Zamimbia as either an opportunity or a calamity in the making. In either case, it might be taken as an invitation to military intervention.”

“So, it only makes sense, then,” Amupanda drained his glass, “that the Very Holy Excalbian Empire lead its Ajuban, Caldan, certainly, and Knootian,” he looked at the Colonel’s face, “maybe, and Pantocratorian,” another look, “possibly, allies to intervene first to prevent someone else from intervening later.”

Shehu’s face betrayed no reaction to the Field Marshal’s comments. “I can understand that perception, Sir. However, the reality is that, if we and the Excalbians and the others come, we will prefer to do so at Zamimbia’s invitation and with her consent. And we will leave. As we have before. If the SEDF or the Snefaldian Army or someone else crosses your borders ‘to restore order’ there is no guarantee that they will leave.”

“You speak too bluntly and honestly for a diplomat, my friend.” Amupanda set his glass on the table.

“I am, in the end, a military man. Like you, Field Marshal. That is why I asked to be the one to speak with you about this. Officer to officer.”

Amupanda smiled. “Very well, then, Colonel. Here is your response for your government and your Excalbian partners: if the Conference comes to an agreement, and if the peacekeepers are part of the agreement, then, the government and the military will welcome them. If there is no agreement,” Amupanda shrugged, “it depends. If we are invaded, then, of course, we will welcome your peacekeepers. If no one else crosses our borders first, then neither should they. Is that clear enough for your people, Colonel?”

“It is, Sir.”

“Good.” Amupanda stood. “Good evening, then, Colonel.”

[Providencia y San Andres]

Isla Hermos, Providencia y San Andres

Although most people, even Providencians, tend to think of the United Kingdom of Providencia y San Andres (or Reino Unido de Providencia y San Andrés) as just the Victoria Island (or Isla Victoria), it is actually composed of several islands strung between Marlund to the east and Snefaldia to the west. Many are little more than rocky outcrops, unfit for human habitation; one was even once leased to a foreign navy for target practice. A few a large enough to support a fishing village or, in two or three cases, one of those all-inclusive resorts who dangle white sand beaches, lavish food and drink, and tanned, toned bodies in front of the Western Atlantic’s upper-middle class in the dead of winter to lure them into expensive “once in a lifetime vacations”.

Then, there is Isla Hermosa. Far larger than any of the other “minor” islands in the United Kingdom, Isla Hermosa sports several villages - one even large enough to be considered a “departmental capital”. Yet, it is only a fraction of the size of Victoria Island and has only a fraction of the big island’s population.

Colonised by the Spanish a few years after the Providencia and San Andres colonies on Victoria Island, Isla Hermosa was a separate Captaincy General under the Viceroyalty of Providencia until Independence. Any notions of separate statehood was quickly squashed by the new United Kingdom a short distance away.

This colonial history had left Isla Hermosa with two capitals - the old colonial capital, centered around the Spanish colonial Palacio Hermosa, and a new town constructed after the Independence by the Providencian government. With no capital, the old governor’s palace fell into disrepair and was not restored until the Royal Family took an interest in it as a private retreat in the early 20th century. After falling out of a new generation’s royal tastes, it was transferred to the government in the 1960s and opened as an exclusive resort and conference center in the late 1970s.

Rarely used to its maximum capacity, the Palacio Hermosa had nonetheless been maintained as state of the art. Large suites were designed to accommodate up to 40 VIP guests with several small and medium sized conference rooms - including one with a simultaneous translation booth - were kept at their disposal. A private dock and private heliport - along with a contingent of the National Civil Police (the PNC or Policia Nacional Civil) - ensured the utmost privacy and discretion for its elite clientele.

To the few common people who lived in the village nearby - the former colonial capital - it was obvious, however, that something special was about to happen at the Palacio. The few guests who had been resident, had been moved out on short notice and relocated - at government expense - to private resorts elsewhere on the island. The PNC contingent had been doubled and joined by others in unmarked uniforms. Although speculation ran wild, none of the locals worked at the Palacio, so no one knew what was going on, even as the first helicopters began to arrive.

[Excalbia]

La Providencia, Providencia y San Andres

In keeping with the low-key nature of his mission, the Reverend Jacob Donnelly arrived in the Providencia y San Andres aboard a regularly scheduled Excalbian Air flight. He did use his frequent flier miles to upgrade his government-purchased economy class ticket to economy plus. Nonetheless, it had a been a long trip and even with the extra legroom, Donnelly felt the weariness that comes from being cramped in an airline seat for the best part of the day.

Although his mission was considered secret, and its nature was not known even to the Excalbian Embassy in La Providencia, the Chargé d’Affaires had known that the Emperor’s personal foreign policy advisor was coming. And that, by itself, was enough to get the Chargé to the airport to receive the reverend.

Paul Thayer was neither very old nor very senior in the Foreign Service, but then La Providencia was a small post. Technically, Thayer was the Deputy Chief of Mission for the three officer post; however, since the Ambassador accredited to Royal Court of the United Kingdom of Providencia and San Andres was actually resident elsewhere (at her real post of assignment), Thayer was known colloquially within the Foreign Service as a Permanent Chargé - the head of the Mission in all but name.

As Donnelly walked out of the jetway and into the terminal, he was greeted by Thayer and the Chargé’s local driver. The younger man bowed slightly to Donnelly, then offered his hand.

“Paul Thayer, Chargé. Welcome to La Providencia, Reverend.” The career diplomat then gestured to his driver. “Fernando can take your carry-on, if you’d like.”

“Thank you, Mr. Thayer,” Donnelly said, shaking the man’s hand. He turned to the driver and bowed slightly. “Fernando, a pleasure.”

The driver smiled and bowed. “Your bag, Reverend?”

Donnelly handed him his large backpack, though he kept the smaller briefcase in his hand. “Thank you.” Turning back to the Chargé, he continued. “I wasn’t expecting a welcoming committee.”

Thayer smiled. “Well, we’re not a whole committee.” He gestured down the hallway towards the sign for immigration and customs. “But,” he continued as the small party began walking, “I did want to personally welcome you and see how we could be of service… We haven’t heard much about the reason for your trip.”

“No, I don’t imagine you have,” Donnelly said with tight smile. “And I’m afraid I’ll need to keep you in the dark a bit longer. I will say that I’ll need your help contacting this person,” Donnelly withdrew a slip of paper from his coat pocket and handed it Thayer, “at the Foreign Minister to arrange transport over to the… Palacio Hermosa.”

Thayer took the folded piece of yellow paper and looked at it. He held the name of the Providencian Chief of Protocol, a man he knew well. He looked over a the slightly stupped gray-haired Donnelly. “Very well, sir. We can take care of this as soon as we get you settled at your hotel.”

“Thank you, Paul.” Donnelly gave a warmer smile. “And call me Jacob.”

[Snefaldia]

Palacio Hermosa, Isla Hermos, Providencia y San Andres

Severín vèl Ortóvenë arrived secretly in Providencia with a small cadre, taking a ferry over from the mainland to avoid all the unnecessary attention his visit might bring. His delegation was also insignificant; only a few assistants and translators accompanied him from Snefaldia, and he was met by Ambassador at Large Wemiya Tarku at the Palacio. Her mission in the United Kingdom had been extended after the receipt of the Anahuacan letter to help prepare, and she was also in attendance. To Dahamunzu's consternation, she had been chosen as a diversion for the event, and was back in La Providencia to attend several meetings, a gallery opening, and ensure her photo was in the paper.

The Snefaldian Foreign Minister was apprehensive of the entire affair, and he had been since it had been brought to him. The circumstances of Gainas' letter, the cloak-and-dagger with the Snefaldian remains, and now meeting on an island better known for money laundering and gambling than diplomatic summits? Not to mention who the opposing party was, a communist state that had no official relations with Snefaldia and was actively hostile to her interests.

But, the Chancellor had insisted, privately. He hadn't even informed most of the rest of the Supreme Council; Boerkil's conservative faction would have attempted to scuttle any summit, secret or not. For that, vèl Ortóvenë was pleased Admiral Ta'us had orchestrated the return of the war dead, which had been a sore spot amongst the right wing patriots for years; no matter if things went good or bad, the Chancellor could point to the return of Snefaldian soldiers as a bright spot and remain the hero.

What he was most interest in was divining what, exactly the Anahuacans were after with promoting this meeting at all. It could possibly be a sign of weakness, of irresolution in the face of the Zamimbian Question that was now in danger of spiraling out of control. Or, it could be genuine. Signs of discontent or dissatisfaction with the current leadership, maybe? To the Minister, Anahuac had always seemed like a half-hearted communist state anyway, more wedded to a philosophy out of a sense of tradition than any lingering revolutionary fervor. Maybe the time was ripe to exploit divisions within the hierarchy.

In any case, the discussion would take place, and he'd be there with his translators and Tarku at his side. The result could well mean a new order between Snefaldia and Anahuac. Or? Well, that option was best left uncontemplated. For now, at least.

[Uncle Noel]

Anahuacan Embassy, New Hope

“Amupanda,” scoffed Quequexquia dismissively, “What good is a general who can’t...”

“Tell me Mister Gumede,” interrupted Waum; there was a brief uncivil look between the two Anahuacans. “Field Marshal Amupanda has been the topic of much discussion in our country, not all of it helpful,” again the Ambassador shot the Deputy Chief of Mission a fiery look, which was fully rebutted with one of his own, “With regards to his motives. We know, for example, of a recent trip to San Andres, which suggests more a man preparing for an exit than a man preparing for power.”

He leaned back and crossed his legs. Everyone at the embassy knew that he was Gainas’ man, sent my Itztlan to keep the Zamimbian mission under greater scrutiny. He passed a hand through his blond hair. “The fact is, Mister Gumede, Field Marshal Amupunda is doing an excellent job at hiding his true intentions are. All we can do is guess. But this, sir, is your country, and whilst you might not know the Field Marshal personally you might be able to shed some light on the situation. Your own thinking on this ‘lynchpin’ as you call it would be most helpful.”

Quequexquia grumbled but felt, for the sake of propriety, that he ought to say something. “As for Mr Mbala, he had proven quite efficacious to this point, however we have concerns that too obvious a link to Buta leadership might prove destablising. We have been happy to promote this this far but there are limits.”

Waum nodded. “The Ambassador is right; without a broader coalition we risk upsetting the delicate communal balance of Zamimbia. Plus there are dialectical issues at stake. I regret that our country did not do enough to help your party more firmly establish the revolution on those two previous occasions. I am sure I speak for the Ambassador when I say that this is not a mistake we intend to make for a third time. The cause, Mr Gumede, is certainly greater than any of us, and certainly more than Mr Mbala.”

The ferry between Victoria and Isla Hermos

Tulga Gainas stared out over the handrail and at the water beyond. He had always been fascinated by the sea, it was in his blood. All boys of his generation, and ethnicity, were drilled with stories of the great Valdrician fleets that once brought back riches from Asleur to Yarlov, of skilled admirals and cunning captains. He had once fancied himself a sailor; but a conversion to left wing politics, and the war, had put paid to that.

Schlesinger returned, carrying two cardboard cups, looking for all the world like a carer returning to his elderly charge. “Here you are,” he said, passing Gainas a cup, “This is what passes for coffee, so I’m told.”

Gainas grunted, which was he closest he would come to thanks, and sipped. It was still much to hot.

“This isn’t bad,” he said after a moment, “I mean it’s not great but it’s not terrible.”

Schlesinger shrugged. “It was Bauto who warned me, he said it wasn’t fit for cleaning drains.”

“Bauto?” huffed Gainas, “That dandy? Who does he think he is, Poirot?”

The Anahuacan Ambassador, like his Snefaldian counterpart, had been instrumental in setting up the meeting, not least by the hiring of a car in this secretary’s name. There was no point arriving at the Palacio Hermosa in some rumbling old thing that was only found in the Fiefdom. The car chosen was adequate for the task though that had not prevented the VKS staff at the embassy from completely dismantling it to check for listening or tracking devices, a point they would decline to tell the car hire company once it was returned.

They sat in silence as the ferry chugged along, oblivious to the hustle and bustle of people going about their commutes. They were just two foreigners, speaking a strange language, no doubt here to discuss whatever assets the old man had squirreled away.

“Do you have your briefing notes?” asked Gainas suddenly. Schlesinger tapped the satchel that he wore across his shoulder. “It’s all here,” he said.

The old man nodded. “Good,” he said, and he fell back into silent contemplation. Eventually the ferry arrived at its destination. A concern look came on Schlesinger’s face. “Do you want me to get the chair?” he asked. Gainas gave a determined shake of the head. “I can walk perfectly fine,” he said, “I just need you to help me up.”

He couldn’t of course; his infirmity was the result of age as opposed to any paralytic illness. At some point, no one knew when because the Foreign Minister refused to discuss it, his old legs lost the strength to be able to carry him. To ‘walk’, as he would call it, required his legs to be fit into tight braces and for the arm of someone younger, for this trip Schlesinger, to help hold him up.

They maneuvered, slowly and to the exasperation of the crew who wished as quick a turnaround as possible, to the car. For the last leg (pun intended) the driver from the embassy assisted.

Gainas said nothing as the car left the ship and made its way towards Palacio. He hoped he was making the right decision in all of this. He reminded himself that, if this was all a mistake, all they had lost was a few mouldering remains. He had not foreseen that the Snefaldians would be so keen for so backward an offering. Like any good atheist, Gainas had not the least interest in what happened to his earthly remains once they had carried out their designated purpose. Does one peel a passing bell when a tool breaks? He hoped that he had not fundamentally misjudged his opponents.

Eventually the car arrived at the Palacio. “We’re here,” explained the driver in passable Spanish, “For the conference.” He flashed a card. ‘Jarndyce and Jarndyce Shipping Incorporated’ it said, ‘Registered, Pewfist’. It was the company that had hired the Palacio, though this was only for the benefit of those who might, either now or at a later date, be tempted to find out what was going on.

[Zamimbia]

Anahuacan Embassy, New Hope

“Amupanda,” scoffed Quequexquia dismissively, “What good is a general who can’t...”

“Tell me Mister Gumede,” interrupted Waum; there was a brief uncivil look between the two Anahuacans. “Field Marshal Amupanda has been the topic of much discussion in our country, not all of it helpful,” again the Ambassador shot the Deputy Chief of Mission a fiery look, which was fully rebutted with one of his own, “With regards to his motives. We know, for example, of a recent trip to San Andres, which suggests more a man preparing for an exit than a man preparing for power.”

He leaned back and crossed his legs. Everyone at the embassy knew that he was Gainas’ man, sent my Itztlan to keep the Zamimbian mission under greater scrutiny. He passed a hand through his blond hair. “The fact is, Mister Gumede, Field Marshal Amupunda is doing an excellent job at hiding his true intentions are. All we can do is guess. But this, sir, is your country, and whilst you might not know the Field Marshal personally you might be able to shed some light on the situation. Your own thinking on this ‘lynchpin’ as you call it would be most helpful.”

Quequexquia grumbled but felt, for the sake of propriety, that he ought to say something. “As for Mr Mbala, he had proven quite efficacious to this point, however we have concerns that too obvious a link to Buta leadership might prove destablising. We have been happy to promote this this far but there are limits.”

Waum nodded. “The Ambassador is right; without a broader coalition we risk upsetting the delicate communal balance of Zamimbia. Plus there are dialectical issues at stake. I regret that our country did not do enough to help your party more firmly establish the revolution on those two previous occasions. I am sure I speak for the Ambassador when I say that this is not a mistake we intend to make for a third time. The cause, Mr Gumede, is certainly greater than any of us, and certainly more than Mr Mbala.”

Anahuacan Embassy, New Hope
Gumede shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Amupanda’s agenda is the subject of much speculation,” he began, turning to face Waum. “Everyone has an opinion; even the old me at the barbershops have their ideas.” He shook his head slightly. “My own idea is that he is playing, as they say, the long game. He is loyal to Duna, but Duna, I believe, has become enfeebled somehow. Some say he has had a stroke. Others say he has gone senile early. In any case, it is clear that he can no longer function. Amupanda is hiding this. He is trying to maneuver others to finish Duna’s policies.”

The party leader roughly rubbed his hands together and looked from Waum to the Ambassador and back. “Many have talked about his trip out of the country. Some say that he took some of the money that Oladeli stole and kept it for himself. Many think he is preparing his exit. But I do not agree. If he were, why would he be working so hard to prop up Duna?”

Slowly starting to relax - and clearly enjoying the audience, Gumede leaned back into the chair. “This is why Amupanda is the lynchpin. Frankly, everyone else seems to be pursuing his agenda while thinking that they are pursuing their own. If we are to succeed, we either need to co-opt Amupanda’s agenda or find a way to expose and discredit it.”

The party leader nodded as the two Anahuacans outlined their concerns over Mbala and expressed their willingness to part ways with him. “I would certainly welcome the opportunity to put our own leadership at the forefront of the movement to replace the Provisional Council. Unfortunately, the ZPP remains… the scapegoat for many problems of the past in several parts of the country. Mbala is,as they say, a fresh face and has the advantage of not having such baggage. He has formed an alliance with the Hansa in Sakoto. They are, unfortunately, trapped in mindless tradition, but they will significantly increase support for Mbala. If he also has our party’s backing, then he has a good chance of ascending to the presidency - and bringing our party back to power with him. As long as we resolve the… situation with Amupanda.”