NationStates

Touloux, Terre des Gaules
February, 2018

He took a taxi from the airport. After climbing in and engaging in the passive transactions needed to get him to his destination, he passively watched as they progressed from the suburbs, to the near outskirts, where they glided past the gates of the fancy estates of traders and shipping mavens, and the seasonal homes of government officials in Paritte. With the odd, early morning dawn sun, he could view the passing environment and also his faint reflection in the window. It was a haggard and weary face that glowered back at him these days. He ran a hand through his mostly white hair speckled with fiery red, then replaced his brown derby cap, called a scally cap in some circles. He wore a tweed suit, a change from his usual olive green fatigue uniform and slouch hat. Wearing a foreign military uniform, especially a uniform of a mercenary, would draw unwanted attention, even a possible arrest by local authorities or Gaulic gendarmes, despite the special relationship the USG enjoyed with Gaul, and in Touloux where USGSC personnel and facilities inundated the fabric of the Gaulic port.

They had reached the actual city limits and there were no hills, Riviera palms, or other trees obstructing view of the not quite skyscrapers of downtown. He had an appointment in one of them. They were now moving past the condos and apartments of the young professionals, well beyond the enclaves of fresh faced families, and into the commercial center. Touloux was the major port of Terre des Gaules and the largest recruiting station for the USGSC.

There were actual times and places in the Republic of Gaul where it was acceptable to wear the uniform of the USG Regiments, these days labeled the Security Corporation. Where the relationship between the historic mercenary regiments and Neu Engollon, their registered home nation, diminished and became strained, that between the PMC and a former hostile enemy that had once vowed to destroy the Regiments had grown. It was ironic considering the Uli Schwyz had led the charge in defeating the Gauls during the Gaulic occupation of Neu Engollon led by Napoleon Bonaparte, valued general of Emperor Ney.

Gaul and the Uli Schwyz had usually found themselves on opposite sides in the following decades as Gaul pursued colonial expansion and the Neu Engollian mercenary regiment was often hired by those who were opposed to the Gaulic push to rebuild their empire.

Then, in the late 1870's, a deal was inked that would allow the Uli Schwyz to operate in the Republic. A recruiting station in Touloux grew over the decades to become the largest for the Uli Schwyz (USG). It remained the second largest until the one in Geneva had been shut down.
Additionally, USG personnel were given their own section of Touloux airport to operate, along with unregistered docking facilities in the port. Recruits, armaments, heavy ordnance, equipment and supplies steadily flowed to the Island from these points, either by chartered jets and transports, or cargo ships built for the high seas.

Forty years ago, they added to their portfolio of Touloux acquisitions the top floor of the Tour du Nuages building which overlooked the old port area, and one of the tallest pinnacles in Touloux at 218 meters, as a secondary operations center, to coordinate resupply with Panto Leto, the main USG owned island out in the south Madurin Sea. After the devastating Falkasian led raid on the Island during the Hutanjian War, Touloux had become the primary operations center for the Regiments.
Besides a large communications center, a server storage farm, offices, and several planning and conference rooms, they commanded two large helipads on the roof for easy access to the chambers below, as well as rapid evacuation to the airport and points elsewhere. Crews were on 24 hour standby, as well as a small, fast civilian helicopter and a larger VTOL transport aircraft that was simply painted black, rather than the typical camouflage livery and USG logo and roundel, deferring to Gaulic air security protocols and sensibilities.

The helipads were also the point of entry for the mysterious Board, the power behind the powerful General. They met several times a year in Touloux. In order to mask their identities from outside observation in these days of drones, reinforced Kevlar fabric collapsible tunnels were hauled right up to the doors of their arriving aircraft at the airport, and again upon their arrival on the roof pads.

Not Nelson, though. He had been informed he would be driven to a side entrance. He didn't take the slight from the Board if it was intended. Deep down, Tell was a humble man.

Despite precautions, a couple very well informed reporters awaited his departure from the car. They snapped pictures and while they didn't yell, (that was not the Gaulic journalistic way), their voices were insistent on getting his attention as he labored faster, propelling his cane and gimpy leg forward to cross the walkway to the door.

“Merci, mais non.”

They knew enough not to attempt to follow him into the building. Their reward would be black eyes or worse from the waiting facility security and the local authorities would not have a sympathetic ear for their side.

With a sigh, he slumped on the far wall as he watched his escort punch the top button on the lift.

They were all waiting for him in the large conference room at the Tour du Nuages. A group of mostly older, white males, with some exceptions. Three of them were actually related to him. The Tells, along with the Tofts, were the top powerful families in the Confederacy. A small side table held refreshments: pitchers and platters of pastries and charcuterie. Nelson could observe by the scraps left how long they had been in session. At least a couple hours.

A steward approached him and offered to serve him from the remaining refreshments.
"Just tea, please." He turned and hobbled in to take his rightful place at one end of the table, bookending from the other anchor spot that the Chairman occupied. He held in a grunt as he tried to ease into the chair. They jumped into it rather quickly.

"I hope your journey was smooth."

"Smooth enough, considering." They didn't need to rehash his debilitation resulting from the Hutanjian War for anyone in the room.

"Yes, well...Why don't you start out by tell us about the recent Guild operations, General?"

"What about them? I did very thorough reports before the major ones commenced. You get copies of the after action reports. I don't understand what further you need."

"Yes, well, let's start with funding. It seems like the USG is shouldering a disproportionate amount of the initiation fees."

"The complete opposite of that is true. All the other participating companies - Axalon, SSI, Bushido, Hawk, Salamander, Blackwood, and so on...are billed accordingly as sub-contractors, and they put in their fair share to offset whatever assets we initially contribute to cover all the Guild forces. They don't 'mooch' off us or take advantage of us, if that's what you're getting at."

"We were merely looking for an accounting, as you have done. There are still questions to be answered, though. Such as, If you really ran an accurate cost/profit ratio for...well, for instance, this Glisandia contract."

"Yes, the free lancers really inflated that budget."

"I know that the client, the Royal Glisandian Government, picked up the tab on those fees. Everything was accurately billed for. Also, we got an assist from the Guild, but that was solely a USG operation."
They’d gone over this before. He wasn't a damn accountant.
"So that's why you called me here? I would have brought my team of Intexa accountants from the Island if I knew this was the focus of this meeting." Nelson didn't believe it for a second. They were picking away, even though they had all the info in front of them. This was personal, but he knew that going in. They needed to get on with this shit.

"No, that was not necessary. We would have told you as such."

"You shoulder quite the burden, Nelson."

"You have no idea, but the statement is true."

"There can only be one General, Nelson."

"That's the famous dictum, yes. What are you getting at?"
Here they were at the meat of the matter.

"The track record is not good, Nelson. Churdistan...Hutanjia...The mass attrition of the Ravens Pride Regiment. The organization has felt the hits, but there's been little bounce back..."

"You bear the scars. You can't walk ably on your own, anymore. You're slipping. Forgetting details."

"I forget nothing. I'm not even 60 yet. And you can call me by my properly earned rank: General."

They rode over him.
"Yes, well...Your relative youth for a departing commander does make this harder."

There was a longer pause as he digested that. What he’d suspected was the elephant in the room finally reared its ugly head.
"So that's it then? You're forcing me out? I get to walk away when so many of my people did not."

"Not every Uli Schwyz General falls in battle, Tell."

"We're asking you to retire at the end of the year. Don't pretend like you weren't thinking about it already."

"I wanted to go on my time. My way."

"This is best for all involved. There's been too much messiness these last few years. We'd like to begin a new era. We think it's time to turnover a new leaf, as they say."

"Get in some fresh blood. A revitalization."

"Your time has now come."

"Better for who?" Nelson stood up from the table, resisting the urge to reach for his cane. He needed to exude strength here.

"The organization needs to put it all behind us. There's some tainting of outside influences, as well, that we're concerned about. You want to do what's best for the organization, don't you? For the Regiments?"

General Tell knew the writing was on the wall. If he was honest with himself, he'd known it for some time. Also, by 'tainting of outside influences', they meant his odd friendship with Admiral Yashin, a former Falkasian adversary. He wouldn't acknowledge that, though. It was a rough conversation that he'd had before with the Board.
"So this is about shitty PR for the company?” He’d held off on cursing in respect, but now...Fuck it. “Since when has that mattered in the past?”

“Like we said, it’s about needing to turn over a new leaf for everyone involved.”

“Like it or not, General, you are the focal point for the last few years of USG failures. No one is saying that you haven’t led your people ably, but you’ve led them into defeat one too many times.”
Why couldn’t he just fall on his sword gracefully? That was the question they weren’t outright asking, but they were all but flailing him with it.

Nelson sighed.
“This isn’t a less than profitable sports team here, gentlemen...and ladies. I did my job as well as could be expected under the circumstances. Our defeats were not because of tactical blunders. I am not the first General to preside over the Regiments with colossal defeats hanging over us.”

"You are absolutely right in that statement. You are also not the first General to be forced out, you must know? They don't all fall in battle or die at the top position of natural causes."

Nelson paused keeping his face steely and sipping from his tea. “I’m not going to fight this, but I want to work out a timetable to transition leadership.”

“We’re not going to sit here and debate your job performance any longer. You have through the next year. We were going to discuss a Board seat for you, but I don’t see that happening now.”

Nelson Tell didn’t believe that for a second. They hated him, and they already had their Tell representatives, with plenty probably lined up for the next generation. All cousins he didn't much care for, nor they for him.
“Like I'd want to even be part of your gaggle of vultures. I’m picking my successor commander.”

“Absolutely not!!”

“Absolutely SO!”

“What leg do you even have to stand on to think you can dictate anything to us?” A smirk on the Board member’s face told Nelson he knew exactly what underhanded dig he was making at his debilitation.

“You called me here to accept a fait accompli. I can’t do much about it, but I can make things quite messy for you in the process.”

“You shouldn’t threaten us. We have the power in this arrangement, General.”

“I have a power, as well. Without my fiercely loyal soldiers and staff, you have nothing. No service, no commodity, no money. Do well to remember that. Also, it is my right by tradition to designate my successor. If you deny that, you will have a lot to answer for, gentlemen...and ladies.”

“What you insinuate is mutiny.”

“This whole charade of a forced retirement is treasonous to the very name of the Uli Schwyz. It stomps on traditions. You are trying to justify a high ground that you cling to with fingertips. You’re robbing me of my chance for redemption.”

The Chairmen shushed the grumbling.
“Fine. We don't need to continue to hear you whine. Who did you have in mind?”

“Colonel Pieter Van Aardel.”

“The South African?!”

“Out of the question! You want to talk about trashing traditions!”

“General, there has never been a non-Neu Engollian in the command seat. There never should be. Our public will never accept it.”
Ironically, not even the whole board were native Neu Engollian. They were the biggest hypocrites.

“Why? Due to what logic? I will be honest, I did foresee this time coming, and I did my research. While there is a dictum about there always being only one General of the Regiments, there has never been one about that general being a native Neu Engollian, nor a male, nor even human, for that matter. Considering that I don’t want to appoint a gay, female extraterrestrial as my successor, I think we can agree that my transition plan is quite reasonable in contrast to the alternatives.”

“It is unspoken, but accepted that this is unacceptable.”

“You’re fucking rubbish. That is a contradictory, double speak answer with no merit...” He cleared his throat and rode on over the outrage, leveling down to a more conciliatory tone, despite wanting to pound on that bald, gollum looking mogul at the third chair.
“Sorry. Look...Piet...Colonel Van Aardel...has been my executive officer for many years, now. He knows everything I know. He led the raid on Mossview Park. He kept the Regiments from falling apart during the Cardwithian blitz. He brilliantly led the liberation of Panto Leto. He could lead world armies, let alone our Regiments, and I’m grateful to have him at my right hand side. Hell, I should be at his side.”

“We will have to consider this.”

“I’m not leaving until I get an affirmation.”

He had never seen such an angry room, even during the Kenega Accords that decided the peace in Hutanjia. He was pissing on their little victory kangaroo court and they knew it. They couldn't deny his last concord as a surviving General of the Uli-Schwyz, and they knew it. He drank more tea, even though his bladder was cursing him, as the silence drew on.

The Chairman took over once again.
“Fine...Colonel van Aardel as the next General. We will start the preparations.”

“This may be the only good decision you people have made in a long time.”

“You need to leave now, General, while you still have a shred of dignity.”

“I will hold my head high with pride in the Regiments and our accomplishments. You don’t know the meaning of true dignity, integrity or service.”
With that, he did his best to gracefully amble out, cane marking cadence silently on the carpet.

The last chapter had begun. At least as far as Nelson Tell was concerned.

September 29th, 1989
Somewhere in the Desert, Gragastavia

The desert holds it secrets. When the sun is setting on the sands, and the light glistens off of the dunes in just the right way, one can catch a glimpse of days long past…

Off in the distance, too far to be of concern, the grumble of artillery lit up the evening sky in fond imitation of the sun that had just dipped below the horizon. It would be dark soon, and already the heat of the day was vanishing into the cool nights that are the bane of an unprepared wayfarer. A light breeze ruffled their clothes as they stood atop the only building in the village that had not been destroyed in the fighting from the day before, looking out over the vast expanse of sand stretched out before them, desolate in all directions except for the unmistakable silhouette of a pack of wild camels that made their way through the nothingness. They were alone here.

One of them, a rifle slung over his shoulder, inhaled deeply from the stub of a cigarette that was clenched between his viselike fingers. He wore the unassuming khaki fatigues of an enlisted man, but his demeanor did not fit his appearance. When he took his final drag, he dropped the cigarette and stamped it with his foot without the nonchalance of the casual smoker. He had the breeding of an officer, or at the very least, was an aficionado of fine tobacco.

The second man, clearly a Falkasian by his uniform, as if his pale complexion was not as much of a dead giveaway, sat on the lip of the roof, looking at - or rather, through - the first. He, too, was armed, carrying a service pistol in a shoulder holster over his flak vest. His hands and face were coarse and chafed, doubtless from having been in the field for a considerable time, and he waited for the first man to finish his cigarette.

And then there was the third. His turban was massive, almost extending past his shoulders, and his beard was long, but neatly-kept, stretching down to the middle of his chest almost like a necktie. He had no weapon, but killed exclusively through the power of his presence. This was Harun Halabi.

He was the first to break the silence. One would think that there were no words to say after what had happened, but somehow, Halabi was always able to say the right thing. “We owe our victory to God alone.”

The other two were silent for a moment, but then the smoking man turned to face him. “And God’s will was done today.”

Halabi smiled, “We have saved Gragastavia.”

“I just don’t understand it,” the Falkasian said, shaking his head, “Why would they just... surrender like that?”

“They didn’t surrender, Piotr. They defected.”

“Whatever,” Piotr said, “What would compel someone, or even a group of people, to do that?”

Halabi was quiet, and he walked to the other side of the roof, looking out over the destroyed village. “I do not claim to understand what happens in the mind of God. I can only interpret the signs he gives us.” He looked down below him, his hand running through the strands of his beard. “I am sure God will forgive me for saying this, but there are few men I hate more than Muhammad Hassan.” He paused, his hand having reached his chin. “Among then is the Pretender Prince.”

Piotr’s face filled with confusion. “Why him?”

“Because he’s a Polatilian!” the smoker interjected.

“No, Sayyid, not quite.” Halabi smirked, though neither man could see because his back was turned to them. “Of course we all have our faults, but I will give King Friedrich credit where it is due. He is a just ruler. But Gragastavia is a Muslim nation, and it ought to be ruled by a Muslim.” His hand went from his chin to be grasped by the other behind his back. “Those men yesterday hate Hassan as much as I do, but they fight for him for two reasons. The first is because to them, we are the invader. King Friedrich is no more popular down here than Muhammad Hassan is. King Friedrich, though, does not hold an army by force of arms. Muhammad Hassan does. Is it any wonder that they would surrender and live than retreat and be killed for cowardice? Those men understand what Gragastavia is meant to be as much as any of us; they just needed to see why what they could be fighting for is a greater cause than what they are fighting for.” Halabi turned to face Sayyid and Piotr. “That is all I did. I told them the truth.”

They were silent again, as Sayyid and Piotr processed what Halabi had told them. Sayyid and Piotr looked at each other, Sayyid shook his head, and Piotr turned his head back to Halabi. “All right,” he said, “But why did you drag us all the way out here?”

“I must apologize for being covert about this, but secrecy was most important. One of Hassan’s lieutenants, an old friend from my university days, has told me that they are planning a coup against him. He wants me to speak with Colonel Al-Basri about a truce, which I will in due time.” Halabi’s eyes darted between the two other men, before he added something else. “He has also asked me to meet with him. If my friend is still the same person that I know him to be, he is going to ask me to lead the coup.”

Sayyid looked skeptical. He asked, simply, “Why you?”

“My shadow still looms large among the people down here. I have no doubt that that is why I was able to convince them to defect yesterday.”

“If he does offer, are you going to accept?” Piotr asked.

“Of course I will,” Halabi said, “What choice do I have? This is my opportunity to save my country. Here and now, I am doing nothing. At the head of his army, I might yet bring a quicker end to this war. What was it that Jesus said?” He thought for a moment. “‘Every kingdom divided against itself is brought to desolation.’”

Piotr sighed, “I still don’t see what that has to do with us.”

“I will speak with Colonel Al-Basri in the morning. The reason I have asked you here, though, is simple. It is entirely likely that if we win this war with me at the head, the president will put me in charge of the southern provinces until they can re-establish order. Order can never come, not as long as there is a Polatilian lording over us all. So, I want you to make a pledge to me, here, with the eyes of God upon us.”

Sayyid frowned and said, “What did you have in mind?”

“Sayyid, you are but a captain in the army now, but you fight with the strength of many men. When the time comes to rid ourselves of the king once and for all, I want you to promise me that you will fight on the side of the right. In return, you shall have a seat at the table when it is time for us to build the new Gragastavia.”

Sayyid’s mouth went dry, but he mustered up what saliva he could to swallow, then answered, “All right. Before God, I swear it.”

Halabi nodded, and turned to Piotr. “I know you do not believe in God, my friend. Nevertheless, God has a plan for all of us, and he saw it fit to make me privy to a glimpse of it.” Halabi stared square into Piotr’s eyes, as if he were dictating rather than predicting. “You are only a few years into your career, but you will rise to the top of the FSIS. When that time comes, I ask you to pledge to me your support. You are as much a Gragastavian as Sayyid or me, and you know what a truly Muslim Gragastavia would mean.”

Piotr had to keep his eyes from rolling back into his head as Halabi preached to him. “Fine, fine,” he said, “I pledge to you my support.”

“Thank you both,” Halabi said, placing his hand upon his chest and bowing slightly. “And thank you for coming out here. I believe it is about time for us to return now, and I am sure that my camel is getting anxious being tied for as long as it has outside. God bless you both. You will hear from me again very soon.”

“Before you go,” Sayyid said, “Who is your friend in Hassan’s army?”

Halabi smiled, as he made his way to the ladder, “No one you would know.”

12 May 1978
Zangtopo, Akanga Province


The boy sat in silence as they flew through the clouds. His eyes were locked outside the window, no longer interested in the little handheld electronic toy with green LED dashes that moved down a football field that his father had gotten at great expense, or the comic books in his bag. Water speckled the windows, and the DC-7 bounced up and down with the turbulence of the little storm they needed to plow through.
It was a short flight from Karalaga, as were most destinations they made, as they rarely flew out of the country.

Quickly enough, they burst through the layers of grey fluff and the scraggly desert was below. The engines throttled as the pilots prepared to land the older government prop plane on the strip. The airfield at Zangtopo only had one strip long enough to accommodate the plane, and they had been given little warning that he was coming. The pilots were good. The best that could be found in the Republic. They fought the bucking aircraft under control and leveled out in time to hit the airstrip, with only two bounces to spare. A convoy awaited them that included four rovers, all with mounted guns. After two attempted assassinations by unknown elements, Papa Gengi had insisted that they do away with the luxury cars with large Presidential flags mounted on the hood. The Army Major pointed to the second vehicle,
“Please enter at your convenience, Mr. President.”

“I see, then we will take the third rover.”

“I...ahem. Very well, Mr. President. At your insistence.”
Fazembe watched the Major closely as the soldiers were shouted at until they moved to the second rover. He guided his son into the vehicle and then they were off, kicking up a dust cloud as they headed Southeast, away from the town of Zangtopo, which lay in the opposite direction from the airfield.

---

“I see. Thank you for letting me know.” He paused, “Yes, I will pay you what I promised.”
He hung up the phone and turned to the rest of the men in the room,
“They just landed. They should be here in less than an hour, assuming they take Highway 5.”

“What...I don’t know what to do. What should I...I mean...We’re not ready! We won’t be ready for…”

“Calm yourself, Doctor Gozende. He may be the President, but he’s no nuclear physicist. He doesn’t need to know that we couldn’t possibly have an operational device for years.”

“But he’ll know when we tell him!”

“I’m sorry, who’s going to tell him?”

“Well...I mean, he’ll figure it out. Or techs working for those D57 goons will do that for him…”

Doctor Uhambezo waved him down, but didn’t comment verbally. He quickly crossed the room and closed the door to the office. It made the space even more cramped and claustrophobic with the 7 scientists crowded in to the Director’s office.
“You need to be careful and watch your tone. I think we’re all aware that we might have moles here at the facility.”

Belatedly, he realized there was still a chance they had one or more moles in the room. In such case, this would all be for naught as said D57 mole(s) would tell their higher ups, who in turn would tell President Garenga Fazembe that they had made no progress whatsoever and were wasting a good portion of the Republic’s budget without work to justify it, not to mention conspiring to withhold all that information from the President. If they hadn’t already. Heads would roll, literally. They would find new scientists, probably foreign as the domestic pool was pretty thin, and life at the related nuclear facilities, including Zangtopo East, would carry on. Even if such said mole wasn't currently in the room, which he thought more likely, they might very well be aware that the day to day operations at the facility seemed to not be at such a frenzied pace; in which case, the team would be screwed anyway. Perhaps there wasn't a mole after all, in that regard, at least not one that was able to decipher their research and how such work would and should be conducted. Uhambezo could only hope.

“Look, we just have to convince him that we’ve made progress...Which we have, right? We’ve done what we could with the limited resources and materials we’re given, despite horrific mistakes here and at Zangtopo West. None of that can be conveyed, though, other than that we’ve made positive forward progress. Understand?”

They were woefully short on production of PU-239, the fissionable weapons grade material needed for the devices. Zangtopo West's main function was to do exactly that, but there weren't enough colliders to do the job. It could be years before they were in the testing stage. Unless they could build more production facilities and get in a much higher mass amount of uranium to process.

There was a concern about not making any of the facilities too obvious in their nature, which meant keeping them small. Also, the heat and radiation signatures could be obvious to those with the right detection equipment. The cordon around Zangtopo West had varied over the years as it was debated whether they would blow its cover by having a secured radius at just the right distance to disallow radiation detection from the ground. Soon, more aerial overflights by the Gragastavians might make that a moot point, assuming they could put the evidence together.
It was uncertain if any of the powers with satellites had documented the area or even had tracks over northern Mubata. If they did, what they made of it and whether they passed that along to other nations who might act on it was a primary question.

As said before, errors in the technicalities of making the bomb itself and the way to contain the fusion had also set them back a bit. Working without foreign advisors had severely limited them, as well. Coupled with the short timeline before international reaction due to detection and they had such a short window to pull out success.

“Now, assuming that we do what we can to portray that, what if he’s brought along experts that haven’t been in the loop?”

“We can’t even deal with that right now. Besides, what other Mubatan experts are there on the subject than in this room and at the other facilities? It's not even an exaggeration that we have the monopoly here. If he has anyone, they are not Mubatan. In which case, there's nothing we can do about that, anyway…”

They were shut off from communication with their international colleagues in their respective specialized fields, both because of the ever omnipotent threat of D57, as well as the fact that Mubata was not considered conducive to progress by the Teremaran scientific community, and so they generally tended to ignore or cast suspicion on anything that came out of the Republic.
“...This isn’t up for academic debate, ladies and gentlemen. We need to literally save our own asses. We need to convince Papa Gengi that we’ve made progress. Again, is that clear? Dr. Mizundi? Dr. Gozende?”

“Yes, yes. Clear!”

“We’re scientists and they're not. All you have to do is make up a lot of fake mumbo jumbo…”

“How!?”

“Throw in words you know, technical terms...a lot of Physicist speak. Hell, make stuff up! It’s Fazembe. Do you think he will understand any of this? Just...keep it vague. Deluge them with tech speak until you start to see the vague fuzz take hold.”

They knew that look of the ‘fuzz’, when someone who was not technologically or scientifically inclined tried to comprehend the complex processes of their work. That look of utter confusion when the clouds started to infuse their brain. In Mubata, with such a low literacy rate, it was inevitable every day of their lives. As Dr. Uhambezo has said, quite possibly the whole of capable physicists in Mubata were grouped at this one compound and the related facilities.
That had its perks though, as they wouldn’t be easily fired for not being able to do their jobs. Who else was there left in Mubata to replace them?

The flip side was that even if Papa Gengi was not scientifically adept, he was clever and ruthless without a doubt. If he could sniff out a lie, even if he wasn’t exactly aware what the truth was, he would come down mercilessly on them, future of the program be damned. Their lives were indeed on the line, which might mean that they were very much walking dead. There were too many gaps in their knowledge and production limitations right now to make enough solid working devices for testing and they all knew it.

“Now, let’s clean this place up a bit, shall we? They’ll be here soon.”

---

They were silent in the car for a time as the boy continued to look out the window at the arid plains of middle Mubata. Then he spoke up.
“Papa?”

“Yes, Lini.”

“Who are we going to use the new-ker-lur bombs on?”

“Nuclear. Well, I guess hopefully, no one. It would get rather messy if we tried to use them. That is what is called the End Game. Mutually Assured Destruction.”

“Then why do we need them?”

“It’s called a deterrent, son. It’s like...playing chess. You have to bluff the other player that you might do something that you’d rather not do, like sacrifice your queen...Eh, maybe that’s not such a good example...” He couldn’t come up with a better analogy that was more in the context of their tribal warrior culture and on the level of a young boy, so he plowed ahead. “We have to convince our enemies that we would use nuclear weapons on them and risk retaliation, even though we don’t actually want to do so.”

“Why not just do it? Get rid of the Gragastavians, the Falkasians, and the Gauls and everyone before they can strike at us.”

“Then what? We’re surrounded by glowing, radiated territory that we can’t do anything with, even if we luckily survived such an exchange. Who would we trade with, then?”

“We have boats....and planes...”

“Who would accept them into their ports after we viciously vaporized our neighbors?...
You’re getting older, son. I really want you to understand what is truly happening and what is at stake, and why it is happening. Yes, if we were to be overwhelmed by one of our neighbors, we might have to use such weapons to turn the tide, but, otherwise...Listen, it’s about respect.”

“Respect, Papa?”

“Respect. Mubata has been kicked around and traded and used for centuries. We were enslaved by...well, almost everyone...for a long time in our history and are still exploited when it suits them. We’re black and we’re despised when we’re not useful to their means. We need to be respected and allowed to go our own way. Respected as equals. Not just in the region, but beyond. This program will ensure that.”

---

The convoy pulled up to a gate with no other buildings in site. Guards seemed to materialize from nowhere and approached the vehicles. The windows were rolled down and identification was shown.

The convoy was obviously expected and ushered in. President Fazembe was escorted in to the main facility building and the tour began in earnest after a small little buffet had been set up in the lobby. Prior to the official tour, Gengi let all the administrators fawn over him a bit, as they did their best to kiss his ass and make some sort of impression, or at least have their names remembered. In truth, he wasn’t all that impressed by government research facility administrators and as long as they didn’t annoy him or get on his bad side, they would keep their jobs and their heads. They should be happy with that.

He looked through the glass at some of the inner labs and some of the processing part of the facility, noting how busy they all seemed to be moving material around and filling up glass containers with substances, or sealing fissionable material up into large metal capsules.

If he and his government checkers knew how little time they spent doing this, it would be outwardly laughable. The protective suits they wore were of such cheap, flimsy material that they were of little practical protection. The scientists knew this and so, beyond this dog and pony show, they did as little around the actual radioactive material as possible in order to not receive fatal cumulative doses. The government didn’t understand this and on paper, the suits were supposed to last months, so not enough new ones were shipped to the facility to enable a regular work flow despite protests. That was just one small issue among many.

Papa Gengi turned to Dr. Uhambezo, the Director of the project.
“So, for the big question...How is progress? When will we have our first working bomb?”

He smiled.
“Well, we’re working diligently and as fast as we can, Mr. President. These things take time and it is a big undertaking, as you of course know. We have had some hold ups and are having to do some processes a little more, um...grassroots...than some of your large powers with a lot of...imperialist resources, have at their beck and call…”

“For instance, what are one of these hold ups?”

“Well, Mr. President…”

Dr. Uhambezo looked at Dr. Gozende, who to his horror, began to list off the lack of adequate equipment, materials and other near to truth issues facing the Zangtopo facilities.
“...Those parts I just mentioned have broken down too fast and can't keep up with the production schedule, and so some of our fission reactions have not gone as desired, giving us little plutonium to work with. What we need is HEU, or Highly Enriched Uranium, what we are getting is medium quality at best with the equipment we have that still functions.”

“I see.” He turned to one of his aides that had accompanied him, “Make a note of that. We need to import better quality items of those he mentioned. What else?”

The scientists inwardly winced and outwardly their anxious, nervous glances at each other increased.
Uhambezo replied in haste, panic creeping in to his voice,
“Well, uh...we aren’t really seeming to be able to work with the production facility and the refining facility as well as we would like, uh…”
He regretted it and tried not to wince as he said it. The other scientists glared at him. He was throwing their colleagues over at the other facilities under the bus, indirectly, in order to buy more time for them.
Even little Lini Fazembe, their next leader, seemed to be scowling at him. Not that the boy could possibly be following what was going on.

“Hmmm. I see. Well, we will have to do something about that. I do know that we need to keep some distance between the facility for security reasons, but perhaps there are some measures we can take to strengthen the communication. Gentlemen...You are one of the shining hopes of this Republic, I hope you know that a lot is resting on the work you are doing here. A lot of money that is needed elsewhere is being diverted here, with painstaking secret shuffling of funds by our accountants back in Karalaga. Also, as you are aware, we cannot keep such facilities a secret indefinitely. Word will eventually leak out and when it does, we better be prepared to defend ourselves with the most powerful weapon a nation can have in its arsenal. Every potential enemy and even some former friends will be ready to strike to ensure that the blacks..us...can not strike them first...

So, we need to see results, and we need to see them soon if we are to be the great power of the region that I know we can be. Our future rests in your hands. I want to be able to test a bomb by the end of this year, 1978. I want us to have an arsenal of at least 30 nuclear weapons by 1980. We're working on the delivery methods with some of our other engineers as you know, so all we need you to do is have the warheads ready.”

"Mr. President, we will re-dedicate ourselves to the task. You have our word. Please forgive us as we didn't mean to give the impression that we hadn't made progress, because we have...Leaps and bounds, as you know from the reports that we've been sending to the capital. We are so close, but we just need a bit more time."

"Very well. You have just a bit more time. Make it count, Director."

"Yes, thank you, Mr. President."
He bowed and grabbed at the President's hand, who in turn suffered the indignity of having those he deemed beneath him fawn over him.

With that, Fazembe gave a signal with his finger and the entourage from the capital prepared to exit the facility. They left as swiftly as they had arrived, but in their wake, the scientists struggled to ponder what tomorrow would bring and who would be sitting in a D57 interrogation cell in the next few months if they could not deliver the weapons as promised.

The middle children, the twins, frolicked in the orange glare of the strong Apriconian sun. Renastur Locran's lips barley moved as he quietly chanted his prayers of penance. He was outside in the new spring air and stood over the young children of the Apriconia Crown Prince, Chester Whitetail. The twin’s boney limbs disappeared in and out of view, obscured by the line of Apricot tress that bordered the dirt back road of the Crown Prince’s estate.

The youngest child, Thomas, a boy about six, rummaged around in the small ditch with a stick while the family’s two sheep dogs scampered around him. Felix, the second eldest at 15 sat cross-legged on the ground next to Locran, quietly reading away at a tome of a previous Arch Renastur.

Locran noticed the procession of horses first, but it was Felix who was able to distinguish the riders before Locran’s aging eyes did, “The Skopos Knights.” The adolescent said with excitement.

The younger boy Thomas was more forthcoming with his own excitement, and began to scream and jump up and down, “The Skopos Knights are coming! They’re coming!”

As the column came closer Locran was now able to pickout finer details himself. It was indeed the royal guard of the King that approached them. The Renastur could see the shape and angles of the wood-stone styled composite armour that the Skpopos Knights dawned. The peaks of the helm then came into view and Locran began to make out the features of Ser Alison. Even though carbines were slung over their shoulders the Knights still wore their great and infamous long swords at the hip. (For an explanation of “Knights” in Apriconia, see the FB)

Although the arrival of the Skopoos Knights was not an unusual site or occurrence for the Crown Prince’s children, it was still a moment of wonder. The Skopos Knights were after all the herald heroic order of the nation. Each member and piece of weaponry carried a long history which captivated the minds of many Apriconians. Chester’s son Felix was one of these minds and already Locran had taken him as a student in Apriconian history, as was one of the duties of the personal Renastur to a royal family.

“I don’t see Grandad with them.” Felix told Locran. The Renastur sought out the Orange crown of King Cadmus but it was true. The scene was missing the orange gleam that should have been caused by the strong afternoon sun.

Locran looked over to the young squire of Prince Chester who stood attentively nearby, “Squire, take the children and gather their other siblings. Take them behind the house to the garden and keep them their.” He paused at that part, “I’ll meet you there shortly.”

“Shouldn’t someone alert the household first?” the squire, Braydon asked, “that’s a royal procession if I’ve ever seen one.”

“No. I’ll do that soon enough.” Then the Renastur paused and held his gaze with the brown-haired young man, “Do your duty diligently.”

Braydon nodded and then motioned for the children to follow him. The others protested briefly, calling out for explanation but after some insistence from Locran the four children began off with the Squire. Locran had noted Felix’s willingness to go with Brayden. Locran was aware of a friendship there. But he noticed the boy’s eyes locked onto the procession as he followed his siblings up the road.

“Felix!” Locran called out, “Stay with me.” When the boy had returned to his side the elder Renastur told him, “This will mean something to you I’m sure if it’s important or not. May as well stay around and help.” The two figures then waited along the dirt road as the procession approached. As it came closer Felix began to list out the other names of the knights and courtiers. Most of the King’s inner circle of advisers and confidents were present. The hulking shape of the King’s large stagecoach brought up the rear.

“Do you think Grandad took the coach today?” Felix asked.

“Your Grandfather likes to ride himself. The coach isn’t unheard of though.”

“Is he not feeling well?” Felix asked, his voice layered with concern.

“I don’t know. As far as I know there’s been no word from the Palace today. At least none that your father’s shared” Locran replied, his eyes fixed to the approaching mass of horses and people.

The private home of Prince Chester was about two hours outside the capital city of Apriconia, Praoeon. Although government officials had easy access to cars and vehicles, more traditional affairs often involved horseback over engine.

Locran decided he had enough of waiting and decided to approach the procession himself. “Wait here.” He told Felix.

As Locran approached the head of the column Ser Allison called out to him in greeting. The Captain of the Skopos Knights voice boomed with the strength and power, “Renastur Locran. I’d ask you approach my side. I have words to impart with you.”

Locran did as was asked and approached the side of Ser Allison’s horse. The Knight bent down and muttered a few sentences close to the Renastur’s ear before pulling away. “Right.” Locran said as he stepped away from the Captain and returned to Felix. “Go to the back of the house and wait for you siblings.” He instructed the teenager, “I will be around shortly to collect you and your siblings. But you must wait until I come around.”

“What is it, Locran?” the boy asked.

“Ser Allison must speak to your father.”

“Is it Grandad?”

“Felix, go.”

“Is he dead?”

“Child!” the Renastur exclaimed, frustration had crossed his face. “Do not give me this today. Go to your siblings.” Then he paused before saying, “A tree dies, and another begins. As it has always been in these lands.” Felix set off running down the road.

Locran felt the hooves of Ser Allison’s horse come up behind him, “You will be the King’s Renastur. A strong placement for you to hold.”

“I will be a Renastur.” Replied Locran as he started towards the house, “But yes, my assignment is now to a King.”

OOC: I like to do TL;DR for my posts because they are long. TL;DR, King Cadmus is dead and his son Chester will now ascend to the throne.

Felix made his lungs work and burn as he through himself down the dirt backroad on his father’s estate. Locran’s words to him did not mean his Grandfather was dead. But the often-spoken line by the Renastur about dramatic change indicated just that, that there had been a dramatic change in the lives of his family. His head whizzed with thoughts and concerns. He interrogated what could possibly be wrong if not his Grandfather. Could it maybe be his mother? She was away with two of Felix’s sisters and most of her staff at a business conference in a nearby town. They had taken a car that morning and therefore it would just be Felix’s Father and his small staff at the countryside manor. Felix soon approached the waist height white picket fence that ringed the elaborate back garden of his home. He had managed to calm his head but only in time to overhear his brothers Ren and Isaiah as they bickered with Braydon.

“We should go meet the procession at the front door at least.” Bellowed Felix’s younger brother Isaiah who was eleven. Isaiah and Rem had been off ‘hunting’ in the family’s orchards. If one could call it hunting. One of them would score a crow occasionally, but otherwise they just gallivanted around pretending to be more than they were.

“We want to know what’s going on!” Felix herd his older brother demand to Braydon.

“And you will soon, Ren. We haven’t even waited long enough for the procession to getup the driveway.”

“If you plan on arguing with me, Squire Farrow, I will insist you use my title when invoking my name!”

Braydon’s eyes rolled, “Prince Ren, I respectfully implore you to exercise the of patience needed right now. Patience fitting of a future King.”

It was a characteristic of the squire that Felix enjoyed. He spared no caution in putting the still minor Prince in his place when it was needed. Maybe Felix’s enjoyment was heightened by his own frequent battles with his older brother. Just when he thought Rem was about to explode at Braydon, the Squire caught site of Felix approaching the gate and his shift in focus spun Rem’s attention.

“Felix!” Rem exclaimed, eyes wide, “What’s going on? do you know?”

“Locran didn’t say. Just sent me to wait with all of you before he collects us. We’re to wait in the garden. Ser Allison needs to speak to Dad.” Felix said calmly as he entered the garden.

“Did you see Grandad? Is he with them? Jane and Adrian said they couldn’t see him.” Rem said as he looked at the two twins.

“I didn’t see him. His coach was with them though.” Felix replied. He was doing well keeping a clam tone and walked over next to Braydon who nodded at him in greeting.

“We should go meet them.” Rem said.

“Locran said to wait here.” Felix asserted to his brother. He was almost surprised by the firmness in his own voice. It was something he struggled to do at other points with not only Rem but his younger brother Isaiah.

“Since when do we care a whole lot about what old Locran tells us to do?” Argued Rem.

“You saw the look Locran gave Braydon when he sent us off. Locran said it might be nothing, but he needs us to do this now.” Fexlix rebutted with the same uncharacteristic confidence. He saw his brothers face change to neutral, disarmed. A small smile crept across Braydon’s face.

Rem sighed, “Fine. A few minutes more won’t kill.” Then he paused and asked, “how many Skopos knights were with them?”

“Uh I don’t know exactly.” Felix answered. The confidence had begun to falter at the question. “several. The size of Grandad’s personal detail at least.”

“So he’s definitely with them.” Rem concluded, “They wouldn’t be here without him.”

“Can we please stop trying to figure this out?” asked Jane, who anxiously gripped the sides of her dark green pants, “We could run around in circles all day with it.”

They didn’t have to wait long though. The backdoor of the house swung open and Renastur Locran appeared. A chorus of questions came from the children but Locran quieted them with a wave of his hand, “All of you come inside, and please, do so quietly for the peace of things.”

The children were silenced by the weight that carried with the Renastur’s last words and they quickly filed through the backdoor into the family room. Whether they meant to or not, the five children organized themselves into a horizontal line in front of Locran as he spoke. Braydon stood attentively behind Felix.

“The news that Ser Allison has brought us today is grave. I’m sorry, my dearest. Your Grandfather passed away in the early hours of this morning of cardiac arrest.”
A room taught with tension and silence a moment before was suddenly filled with the wails of emotion. The older children consoled and held the younger. Tears and cries filled the room and for a few minutes the Renastur, a preacher of mental control and emotional stoicism allowed the children to grieve as they’re bodies reacted. Just as he had done moments ago informing the now King Chester of his father’s death. The new King was now collected himself in his personal study to receive Ser Allison who would formally inform the King of the passing of the crown and reaffirm the Skopos Order’s Oath of Loyalty to the King and all his future successors.

Change POV

Chester drew a long breath, paused and then exhaled. He let his breath draw across the grain of his teeth. He looked up at the high arch of the entrance to Castle Cott. It was an ancient name, but still fitting. Apriconians, were direct descendants of the Cotts. The Cotts being the first paramount’s of the land, infamously known in the legends for instituting Jus Primae Noctis, which was extended to all members of the Cott family.

The Cotts, like numerous other royal families, had eventually fallen from their high status. King Kidd Cott was the last of the name. Killed during childhood. The Cotts though had left Cott Castle in their place and for the following centuries, with a few exceptions, it had been used as the primary seat of Apricon.

The castle was a series of towers connected by dome like buildings and hallways. It rested on the top of a small hill and a large orange cobblestone path lined the way to the main gate. A ring of wall and battlements encircled the complex and although they offered little practical purpose in modern warfare, the impending structured still suited the needs to protect a head of state. The elevated and walled position offered the Skopos Knights a privileged position to watch outside and in.

The ancient order was present as always. Nearly all its numbers would now be descending on the capital to pay respects to the old King and new. There were six-to-eight score who would stay away. Some of them MIA, others gone rouge. Chester knew a few Knights would probably pledge to hunt down these dishonourable individuals, the rogues. Many would die attempting to do so but the act was like something akin to trophy hunting in the Order. Nothing like an owl scorned, so it went in Apriconia.

As Chester starred up at the open expanse of the high sealings inside the castle, a sense of the sublime fell. He realized all of this was his. Not just the castle, but all the responsibility and power that came with the title, King of Apriconia. He did not expect to be King so early on in his life, although he was well into middle age. When Chester had woke that morning, he had given no thought to his father’s mortality and the day’s events had been beyond his imagination.

He tried to reflect on the events of the previous hours, in a moment of reflection. His immediate memories of them felt hazy. He was still filled with grief but composed. After a few hours in private conversation and prayer with Locran, he felt ready to take on the duties of King. The new King had emerged from his study, embraced his seven children and addressed his household staff as King before he mounted his horse and set off with Ser Allison who had not left Chester’s side since.

As he entered the throne room of Castle Cott he dismissed Ser Allison so he could spend time alone with the corpse of his father. His father’s body appeared serene and alive, just as Chester had last seen him days prior before heading back to his private estate. The body had been carefully embalmed and prepared for burial by stewards of the Church of Stone, a treatment that all the King’s before had received. A bed of apricot seeds had been laid carefully at the bottom of the coffin, and recently pruned flowers of the sacred tree had been laid around his father, the now late King Cadmus.

Cadmus was adorned in the regal burial clothes. They were cloaks, orange in hue, and the crescent of House Whitetail was embroidered over his heart. The oval dome of the Nation’s crown gleamed in the late sun that cast through the long windows of the throne room. For a period, Chester stood and breathed. He brought to bare the tools that religious instruction had given him throughout his life. Think of the tree. The way it bends and grows before eventually dying, leaving after its new life and offspring.

Chester could not have said how much time had passed before he noticed a presence enter the room behind him. Very few persons in the Kingdom would have risked disturbing the King as he grieved in the presence of his father, but Chester was hardly surprised to notice the image of his long childhood friend, Macreas Vasilidis. Macreas was dressed in his formal Renastur dress as he approached Chester. The two had attended the same private academy in the capital throughout their teens. The same academy was still littered with the aristocratic elite of Apriconia. Macreas family was of nobility, but besides their prosperous orchard fields, their family, like many, had fallen in privilege and prestige over the last half a century. Few signs of the old nobility still remained in Apriconia. The Vasilidis’ of old nobility were part of a new mix-class of Apriconians that had emerged over the past half century with King Kallak’s reforms (Chester’s Grandfather).

“Chester.” Macreas had begun, his voice cracked, “Your father.” He said consolingly as he embraced his friend.

Chester disregarded the informality. Family was another matter in the life of a King, and for Chester Macreas was family. Even though the two had seen less and less of each other over the years as Macreas had been sent galivanting around Apriconia at the will of the Church while Chester became more and more involved in the activities of the court.

Macreas eventually broke his embrace but his hands kept a tight grip around Chester’s shoulders, “Our King.” The Renastur said as he looked upon the corpse of the dead King. Macreas had spent some winter holidays as a kid with the Whitetail family, at the countryside estate that Chester had called home is whole life. Macreas had come to form a close relationship with King Cadmus, one that had turned into a kind of mentorship.

“He was always so proud of you. Both of you.” Macreas said, invoking the now late Princess Zenovia. Chester’s younger sister, who passed away shy of adulthood from a disease that maybe in another country could have been prevented.

“I can only hope to fill his shoes.” Chester replied as he held his gaze to his father’s body.

“You will. The Whitetail stock is strong. Eight kids Chester! How are they doing with all of this?”

“The younger are shaken.”

“Rem?”

“Locran has told me he’s rising to the title of Crown Prince.”

“Good boy.” Macreas said assuredly. Yet he could still see the doubt in his friend’s eyes. “Chester, the Kingdom is in good hands. You will match your father’s reputation I am sure, and he’s left practically an army of good servants and courtiers to direct your principle.”

Chester was silent for a moment. “They’ve ruled out any kind of foul play. Cardiac arrest. Let’s hope I’m not taken by the same fate.”

“May the Planter forbid.” Added Macreas.

The two remained silent for a moment before Chester spoke, “I’ll be holding a cabinet meeting tomorrow. A small informal meeting. Just to establish decorum and such.”

“I admire your determination, Chester. But please take a few days for yourself. Be with your family.” Macreas replied.

“I need to show swiftness.”

“There is such a thing as too swift.”

“Not now. There are issues that need to be discussed.”

“What does Marietta think?”

Chester paused before responding, “Queen Marietta.”

“Of course.” Macreas acknowledged, “What is the Queen’s advice?”

“I have yet to see her. It’s been a day.”

“Chester!” Macreas scolded, “Go be with your family.”

“Will I go spend time with my family when the Plucotts spill over the economic zone because of brigands in the south? People they think are aligned with the Crown?”
It was Macrea’s turn to pause.

“I need to hold a council meeting now. Make it seem like there’s a tight control over everything.”

“It’s sound logic, your majesty. But the Plucotts are in no position to make a move now. The nation is in mourning. Your family name is still popular among many in the South. As the man who brought them freedom. They will spare you at least a few weeks of pause before acting sooner. Besides, we’re not completely sure they aren’t connected to the crown.”

Chester quieted, “I’ll postpone the Council meeting till the day after tomorrow.”

“Better. Have you given thoughts to the immediate future of some of your Father’s ambitions?”

“Little besides that the desalination project will continue as planned. If the funding is finalized. Mr. Baz was scheduled to be in town next week. I’m afraid that’s a meeting I can’t afford to miss.”

“I wouldn’t suggest it there. I’m sure things will go well. Even the Church is behind that project. We’re well aware that if another draught like 43’ takes place again the state of the nation would be threatened by the current precarious state of the economy. The Church itself may not survive. How about the other planned reforms that you’ll need to act on.”

“I know I know.” Chester said with a wave of his hand.

“GMOs, the South, diversification.” Macreas listed off, “you may continue to have the Arch Renastur’s support on these matters. But the Council and his Selector have become increasingly conservative and if I may speak frankly,” Macreas than lowered his voice, “reactionary.” Silence fell over the hall again. “He wants to meet with you sooner than later.”

“The Arch Renastur?”

“Yes. He plans on continuing his standard of support for the Whitetail family.”

“So you have some connection to him, even when he’s help up in that tower of his in isolation.”

“Come now, Chester. You know nothing is as it’s supposed to be in this country. There are matters of state which not even the Skopos Knights are supposed to be privy to, yet as the saying goes, they know everything.”

“You should be here with me, Macreas. At court. Your talents are far too wasted running around as a school yard administrator.” Said Chester, referencing Macreas current position as an educational agent for the Church of Stone. The Church, in addition to the Apricot industry was responsible for the running of Apriconia’s educational institutions which were funded through tithings and partial public funding.

Macreas smiled as the old argument came up again, “You know I’m a servant, Chester. I go where Master Donavan wants me.” He said, mentioning the head administrator of Education within the nation. In Apriconia religious leaders held significant clout within certain institutions. Within the hierarchy of the church those above were referred to as ‘Master’. Master Donavan Demallis was head of Education and therefore a member of cabinet. “Not even you could control that with a decree.” Macreas concluded.

Chester nodded, knowing the argument was headed in the same direction as always and he saw purpose to move on. “I think that’s enough heavy discussion for today. Especially in the presence of him.” He motioned towards the casket. “My wife and my children will be arriving tomorrow noon and I want to see their living situation is in good order. I think I’ll leave you for today.”

“Of course.” Said Macreas as bowed his head in recognition, “Give Queen Marietta my best.” And the Renastur turned to leave the room.

23 June 2022
Halqat, Gragastavia

“And you’re telling me that in Falkasia they still call falafel ‘falafel’?”

“Of course they do. What else would they call it?”

“I thought they might have a different word for it.”

“No, it’s… just falafel.”

“What a strange country.”

The driver, a middle-aged man named Karim, cut the wheel, turning the car onto Al-Hamra Street. Al-Hamra Street sat parallel to Al-Hamra Avenue and Al-Hamra Boulevard, but it was the telltale sign of a newcomer to the city if they asked for Al-Hamra Road, which was located clear on the other side of town. Careening down the asphalt blistering in the desert sun, Karim weaved around a camel caravan and dodged a wayward tuktuk while careful to keep pace with the line of traffic ahead. Though early evenings in Halqat were usually quiet, their itinerary took them through town right as the muezzin at the local mosque trilled a rhythmic tune summoning the populace to prayers.

Two cigarettes smoldered in the ashtray inset in the center console just before the prindle. Smoke vented through a cracked rear window, but the odor never faded since the tobacco scent inundated the upholstery and covered every surface in a thin layer of soot. The car slowed to a halt at a stoplight and the light changed, a veritable circus of camels, goats, and chickens crossing in front while beige cars and obnoxious mopeds dashed on either side. Karim plucked a cigarette from the ashtray and inhaled deeply, snorting smoke from his nostrils like a dragon. The passenger, Fahd, also grabbed his cigarette by reflex and gasped a small drag. The light changed again and Karim laid into the horn until the car ahead released the brake. Hot on his bumper, Karim returned his cigarette to the ashtray and whipped around the laggard.

“What was the address again?” Karim asked.

“330 West Al-Hamra.”

“Boulevard or Avenue?”

“Avenue.”

“Shit,” Karim spat. He flipped the turn signal and yanked the car around, a cacophony of insults and blaring horns harmlessly bouncing off the metal. Slamming the accelerator, the car sped forward, nearly sideswiping a tabbouleh vendor’s cart, and rushed through the intersection again, a split second before the light turned red.

“Your blinker’s still on,” Fahd commented, tapping ash from his cigarette.

Karim pried the arm down and the ticking silenced. The sandstone and stucco buildings blazed past, each one indistinguishable from the next as the car gained speed. They crossed one intersection and another, the traffic thinning all the while, and Karim dragged the car onto Al-Hamra Avenue. He craned his neck, watching the building numbers slowly ascend with each block. They started in the low 200s and advanced from there. At 212 West Al-Hamra sat Halqat Grocery, the site of a famous robbery in 1976 in which the owners were indicted in conspiracy to commit insurance fraud. At 256 West Al-Hamra sat a low-rise apartment complex, where in 2007 a young postman delivered a package bound for 256 West Al-Hamra Road to the wrong address. At 304 West Al-Hamra, nothing interesting happened in the 100 years the address bore the number. Prior to that, as far as Karim knew, nothing interesting happened there either.

And then they set eyes on the fabled address: 330 West Al-Hamra Avenue (not Boulevard).

The beige structure blended with the identical beige structures flanking it, 328 West Al-Hamra and 332 West Al-Hamra respectively. 330 West Al-Hamra was distinct, however, because that was where Karim and Fahd were bound. Karim pulled ahead a few meters from an empty parking space adjacent to the curb and deftly navigated the car behind a white sedan. They flipped the sun visors up and grabbed their cigarettes. Karim tugged the keys from the ignition and slipped them into his trouser pocket as he stepped out. Compared to the blazing oven inside, the heat was a welcome relief—the car’s air conditioner died three or four years ago under mysterious circumstances—and he stepped onto the curb.

Fahd knocked on the wooden door. They heard shuffling inside and hushed commands. Karim rested his arm across the top of the doorway, their eyes meeting briefly as they heard the lock fumble. The door swung open and an impatient arm waved them inside. Stepping through the corridor, they turned into the living room, the gentle hum of a box fan greeting them with an icy breeze. Three dilapidated sofas sank into green shag carpeting centered around a flickering TV set straight out of the midcentury. Centered on the sofa staring at the television nested a beast more stomach than man. It belched a curmudgeonly burp smelling of the cheapest beer and as it heard the two men approach. The grease coating his face flickered with the grayscale glimmers on the electronic screen.

“You got it?” the beast murmured.

“Yes, sir, we have it,” Fahd said.

“Give it here, then.” The beast reached its hand out, the musk stifling Fahd and Karim. Simultaneously, they inhaled from their cigarettes to cover the stench.

Fahd produced an oblong lump wrapped in aluminum foil. “Fresh from the king, sir,” he said, setting the bundle into the beast’s hand before beating a hasty retreat.

The beast tried to peel the foil back, but his fingers were as thick as sausages. He tore the paper instead and his face lit up as he recognized the telltale aroma. Cradling the bundle like it were a baby, his neck creaked as he turned back to Fahd and Karim. “You did good,” he said. “I’d like to be alone now, thank you.”

“Our payment, sir,” Karim said.

“Oh, very well. You did come all this way.” The beast scoffed. “All you need to do is add half a cup of onion powder to the falafel mix before you fry it.”

Karim and Fahd locked eyes. “Onion powder?” they mouthed at the same time.

Sinking his teeth into the sandwich, the beast slobbered on the pita bread. Lips smacking, he devoured bite after bite as tzatziki sauce collected in the corners of his mouth. Karim and Fahd, deciding their time was better spent elsewhere, slowly backpedaled to the door and headed again into the sun. Karim tapped ash onto the sidewalk and then stopped dead in his tracks.

“Fuck!” he shouted. “I forgot to pay the parking meter!”

A red piece of paper adorned the windshield. Karim sprinted to it, tearing the slip from the wiper blade. Fahd meandered closer, thumbs tucked in his belt, and he blew a smoky breath downwind.

“Last time we go to Shawarma King for him. Onion powder? Really?” he sighed, drawing some fresh smoke into his lungs.

“How much is the ticket?”

“A hundred riyals.”

“Like hell it is,” Fahd chuckled. Reaching into his pocket, metal clinking as he flicked the lid off his cigarette lighter. He rolled the flint and flame glittered on the wick. Karim snorted and held the ticket into the flame until the corner caught. Dropping the incinerating ticket on the sidewalk, he strutted to the driver side while Fahd clambered in the other door. The car roared to life as soon as Karim turned the ignition and, after wrestling the gear shifter into drive, he wrangled the vehicle into the street and into the sunset.

“Don’t sweat it, Karim. That’s not even your license plate, remember?”

Teningur
Arkyelstad, Capital District
Yellow Star Republic

Director General Gerta Hildgursdottir arrived at the Teningur, the former RLO (YSR Secret Police & Intel) HQ that was now the government administrative center for the Republic, as she always did, about mid-morning. No one could say she was late, because as supreme leader of the YSR, she set the schedule, not them. The first and last RLO staffer to suggest that she missed a meeting due to her lateness, soon after her ascension to power, had disappeared a week or so later, never to be heard from again.

Sometimes it was after a bender that she breezed in, hiding a hangover the best she could (As time had advanced, that had become tougher to do), but more often it was due to a morning shopping spree, various boutique totes in hand. The YSR was not particularly blessed with many high culture shops, but those it did boast could be found in Arkjelstad in the Sjuomarka or Fiskamarka districts, or at the Sjómannamarkaður in Tankjel, the second largest YSR city.

She sighed as she plunked down her loot in one of the chaise longues that were scattered around her suite in the penthouse of the Teningur. Grabbing up her coffee again, she moved to a window that overlooked Rikisstromkatu, a major avenue that cut through the capital; with a view of some of the old homes and institutes beyond that, and then the harbor itself. A fair amount of traffic was starting to fill in the Rikisstrom. The view was almost perfect on a fairly clear day, but the super thick, blast proof windows still gave the view a little bit of distortion.

Were she to look out the back way of the suite, she would see the remnants of the Öldungahring next door, that used to be the administrative center where the pre-coup, pre-RLO Politburo governed from almost ten years since. It had been blasted to pieces during the coup that brought Hildgursdottir to power, and it was too unstable for habitation now.

At points that they had some funds in the chaotic post-war times, she had authorized a restoration, but the third time funds were sought from the budget, she had declined. Instead, she had told them to knock down what remained of the top third of the old building, despite grumblings about its historical significance. (No one would voice such misgivings out loud in the RLO-governed era of the YSR.)

First, it gave her a view of the Lyng River further to the West, but secondly, it remained as a reminder to all those who would oppose Hildgursdottir as to what their fate would be.

An aide paged her from the intercom.
“Director General?”

She was in a good mood, so she chose not to bark back. Her aides had learned not to disturb her unless it was fairly important. She strolled over to the control panel with the intercom.
“Yes? What is it?”

“Yes, Director General, I was supposed to remind you that you have an upcoming appointment with Vladimir Kazyenko.”

They had had some preliminary discussions, but this was to be the big one. The one that would set the tone for future relations between the two nations with a long, complicated history. She had been aware for days now that she needed to prepare for this moment. She had woken up this morning mentally preparing, and only half her mind had been on shopping. It had actually been more of a welcome break to take her mind off this.

She was as prepared as she was going to be.
“Right, how long do we have?”

“About 12 minutes from now, Madame Director General.”

“Alright Comrade Amundssen, I will get set up.”

She took off her knee high boots and left them by the door, leaving her in stockinged feet. She got to her desk and put her coffee to the side, away from tipping onto any electronics. She also went ahead and grabbed a bottled water for herself out of a pack on a counter. She was not a fan of cold water.

She then proceeded to pull up her notes on her computer. One monitor would fully be given over to the video connection to Kazyenko. She had a little in-picture box that showed her own image. She adjusted the camera, then smoothed at some parts of her graying blonde hair that had gotten windblown. Then she waited.

A voice came through the video chat function called Spjall, a proprietary software used by the YSR government that was reverse engineered from stolen Neu Engollian coding. They didn’t trust any foreign company software to be directly installed on Yellowsian government computers, but Spjall had been designed to work with other foreign communication software, such as the one the Falkasians used.
“Alright, Director General, we have dialed and gotten through to Kazyenko’s staff on the line. They are connecting him through now…”

“Good morning Director…… General?” a voice came through from the other side. No video accompanied it. “Thank you for taking the time to discuss things with me. I trust that things have been going… uhh… swimmingly to our north?”

Kazyenko grit his teeth on the other end. How terribly uncomfortable this whole thing was; especially for a man who, generally, was immune to any emotion which might even remotely border on “uncomfortable.” Historically speaking, the Yellow Star Republic was the “big baddie’ to the north. Schoolchildren were told fairy tales about not associating with them, and the sort one might expect. But too, most were folkloric holdovers from the communist era, and equally, were well-intentioned for the time but overly anachronistic in present. Times change, and so too do bedfellows.

“Can you hear me?” he inquired again.

Gerta hid the irritation from her voice. Irritation not at Kazyenko, but at the difficulty of syncing communication in times like this.

“Yes, Premier Kazyenko. I hear you. ‘Swimmingly’? Not sure about that. Perhaps the colloquialism doesn’t translate.” She let out a deeper throated chuckle that one might not expect from a woman of her rather petite size.

They were both communicating in Common [English], as neither spoke the others’ language fluently. While Yelskja and Falkasian were somewhat related and both borrowed from Nordic and Slavic languages - They were also just different enough to cause confusion.

“What I would like is if we could continue our previous discussions about an agreement. I’d like for us to come to some kind of accord that our two nations could both benefit from.”

“As in…. joining MALET?” Kazyenko immediately inquired. “Or am I being too premature here?”

There had been talk recently about the Yellowsians being folded into the broader MALET sphere of influence. Which, all things considered, might have appeared exceedingly odd from the outside looking in. Falkasia and Yellowsia, sharing a common northern/southern border, hadn’t exactly had the most peaceful or friendly of relationships across antiquity. In fact, on many occasions the two nations had been outright enemies, both during and pre-dating the shared communist era. Although “shared,” might not quite apply, as for all intents and purposes, the Yellowsians were STILL in such a phase.

“Ahem…well, yes, Premier. That issue in particular. I know there’s a lot of history, but I don’t think it is insurmountable. In recent years, I think that our nations have come closer together in goals, or at least not opposed…” She was determined not to be the one to bring up the YSR’s membership in the ISC, which might be a sore point.
“...We share a lot of the same, hmm, shall we say adversaries?…not enemies, per se. We both have as an ally, the formidable the Cardwith Islands. I think that ideological differences are just a triviality when it comes to the practical benefits of a partnership. Don’t you?”

“I would agree,” Vladimir pragmatically conceded. “Ideologies only amount for so much, especially when faced with the expansion of the TSO. I’ve never been one for alliances or power blocs, but the resistance to join us put up by some of the Tavlyrians is… not to be taken lightly. The Wishtonian chains aside, it's only a matter of time before the TSO find an excuse to become actively involved in South Gragastavia, and other states along the southern coast. A beachhead is exactly that… and not something we can allow. Perhaps call it Domino Theory, but should one nation side with the TSO, it’ll open the door more broadly to a regional takeover. Imperialism, in whatever form it may come to exist, is anathema to the Falkasian identity. I believe, again, in spite of ideological differences, you share a similar philosophy?”

“Yes I do. I would be the first to admit that the Politburo master plan to attack Glisandia and Jumnia was pure folly, and it made us come off as the imperialists you decry...”

Vladimir quickly muted himself to scoff.

“...It was very difficult to disentangle from that mess, but we got out without a total collapse. However, it's no secret that it left us horribly weakened. It also left a very ripe base for the Teremaran Security Organization in the fact that it swung a lot of the Northern Tavlyrian states towards them. Greater Orcadia, Glisandia, and Jumnia are all now firmly in that TSO camp, and I fear Beaufort will follow. We still hold out hope for Osatana, who we maintain tenuous relations with…but still, Gaul has forces in Glisandia even now, and their lackeys in the TSO have built major facilities there…”

She took a sip of water as she pondered her next statement, “...You mentioned them not getting a beach head in Southern Tavlyria. I would argue that already exists in the form of the Gaul base there in their territory of Marveille that they refuse to give back to the Qasifyan people. As we saw a decade ago, they can pump forces through there whenever they want, as they did to invade Qasifya, and times before that, in the last decades, to threaten Mubata and Gragastavia. That will always be a threat until it is shutdown. I guess my point is that we are already under siege here on Tavlyria from the North and South, and we must circle the wagons. Our nations need to come together instead of working at cross purposes to thwart TSO plans to take over the rest of Tavlyria.”

She leaned in closer to the camera. “Let me put it bluntly, Vladimir. If we fall, then the TSO is right there on your northern border. I know you don’t want that.”

He shook his head, still cognizant that it was a motion only discernible to him without the camera on. A look of grim understanding cast across his face.

“No, I certainly do not. Détente is one thing, and I like to believe none of the TSO member states would be stupid enough to pick a fight. But, the international community is a different matter altogether. Not everyone seems to conform to the same level of rationality we might expect, especially when nations are run by… shall we say… children? A false flag operation, regardless of whether it be the religious freaks to your north, or the religious freaks to our south…” he paused. “Let me correct myself. The religious freaks to Gragastavia’s south, is all it’ll take to light the powder keg.”

To his right lay a folder, exposed first to Gerta’s dossier with an evident FSIS stamp. Filtering through, he arrived at a lower envelope and after confirming the label, withdrew it and opened it on his lap.

“Universal Defense… I’m sure you’re familiar? They have quite an interest in Qasifya. Well, let me clarify… their subsidiary Universal Minerals does. But where the body goes, so too does the head. That Gaul base you mentioned is quite the stain on their corporate expansionist vision, and I’m usually on the receiving end of some not-too-subtle posturing to figure out a way to remove it. I know, Gerta, that corporations aren’t really your forte… please understand I do not mean offense; rather just making an observation, but they do have their perks. Especially when that corporation manages a fairly sizeable mercenary force. And, that force happens to be a member of The Guild… which in a certain sense might preclude the engagement of the armed forces of various TSO member states. That is… if you follow the thread of where I’m going here?”

It was Gerta’s turn to scoff. She was also annoyed that she was on full display for Vladimir, but he refused to return the favor with his visage through their video link. Instead she got to look at a very touched up, dated official stock photo of Vladimir. She was sure he looked quite advanced from this snapshot in time, even though his appearances in public were rare.

She clicked the camera function off, as the mood immediately struck her.
“Oops. My camera is acting up.”

She also had mixed feelings about his pedantic statements about her capability. She was amused that the FSIS wasn’t so competent in that they neglected to put in her file that her first field assignment with the RLO, which was actually corporate espionage along with extensive training to immerse her in the business world. It meant their infiltration into the RLO didn’t go that deep.

But generally, being so undervalued, if not underestimated, that she might have gotten to this point by outwitting all her foes both in the RLO and the Socialist Party to take power, but still not thinking she had the savvy to understand such complexities?

Still…she didn’t quite actually understand the point that he was making about the PMC Guild.

“I understand ducking culpability with corporate cover, Vlad. Reminder that we’re not in the dark ages here in the YSR, and we also have many assets out in the Teremaran corporate world…What I don’t understand is ‘might preclude the engagement of the armed forces of various TSO member states’. I don’t follow that. You’re saying the TSO are enacting policy through mercenary proxies and you have the capability to do the same? Or that they won’t interfere in Guild business due to their connections? Also, aren’t your Varangian Guard pets in the PMC Guild? Who exactly is pulling whose strings there?”

It was Vladimir’s turn to smile. He allowed a slight edge to enter his intonation, making it evident there was more he understood than the words let on.

“What I am getting at, Gerta, quite bluntly, is the latter. I am not proposing direct action. I am simply proposing an opening move of a combined Yellowsia-Falkasia-Gragastavia MALET organization. My rationale here is, again bluntly, to demonstrate how MALET may be used to countermand and offset TSO influence on Tavlyria. The Guard are… not a problem… they are ’well-managed;, even if their tactics are oftentimes… ’disturbing.’ I’m sure you understand, with your background, the necessity of achieving certain outcomes regardless of the cost. This being said, and the foregoing, I offer this clarity to you so that you might make an informed decision about joining up with MALET. I am willing, if you are as well, to put aside ideological differences in the name and vein of homeland defense. The eastern Tavlyrian peoples share a common lineage, despite our superficial differences, and it’d be best to protect those interests.”

Gerta grabbed for her coffee, then stopped short, instead going for the bottled water and taking a sip. She waited a pause more as she swished the water around in her mouth. Finally she swallowed. She had been wanting to come to a resolution with this herself, so why was she hesitant now that Kazyenko had progressed closer to the line as she wanted? She had dangled the YSR seeking membership in MALET, he had dangled the waiting space in MALET for the YSR to jump into.

“Yes, you do have a point, Vladimir. We have a shared history and a reason to look out for each other, but we’ve done quite the opposite at times....Getting over past transgressions can be difficult. I think that it’s debatable here, who has more power, but…should there be another betrayal between us, both our nations would be hurt…a lot, and probably Gragastavia in the process. I’m talking well beyond the scale of our little war back in the 60’s, but you know that.”

The bottle plastic crinkled in her hand.

“I am not trying to throw threats out here. After all the progress we’ve made to get here, I wouldn’t jeopardize all the work. That being said, The Republic needs reassurances. Possibly some concessions. Being the bulwark that holds off the TSO hordes from the north, we could maybe use some guarantees that our efforts would be well appreciated.”

Vladimir raised an eyebrow on his end, otherwise completely invisible.

“Like what?” He asked, equal parts curious and incredulous.

Hildgursdottir smirked. Kazyenko was on the hook.
“Well…for one, favorable trade deals. Very favorable. I understand that Gragastavia is your number one trade partner, or pretty close to it. We’d like to be right up there at #2, or at least bumped way higher up on the list than we’re at now. …On that track, anyway.
Along with that, put in the good word with Universal Defense for us. We need to rebuild our military. UD has a lot of what we can use, but we may need to defer the bill a bit. Again…bulwark. Gotta build it up, Vlad.”

She paused again, trying to work out how to speak the next term.

“Also, during the War, when the TSO Coalition was on our doorstep, controlling the skies, and hitting our cities, we had some pilots that, um…took our aircraft to you for, uh… safekeeping away from the warzone. Those that didn’t get shot down by your overzealous air defense, of course. Very top-of-the-line MiG-29M’s. We’d like them back. The pilots, too. All will be forgiven for their momentary lapse of reason when abandoning their posts.”

She had no such intention. They would be shot for treason. It had been the worst defection in the history of the socialist Republic since its founding a hundred years prior. The YSR needed a reversal on that.

“Also…Tech. You have what we need to do some deep drilling for resources. We have the minerals, natural gas, and oil deposits. You have the tech and skilled crews. I’m sure something can be arranged there. We have a bit of oil down there, but not enough in reserve to get us through in the meantime until we can tap it. So…
Lastly, a pipeline. This is one we’ll have to work out with Al-Hussein, as well. I propose a pipeline from Gragastavia, through Falkasia, into the YSR. Oil to supplement what we don’t have and won’t be able to produce.”

She hated to admit it, but they were in dire straits when it came to oil. They were cut off from Madurin, and no oil producers in Tavlyria or Wishtonia were giving them any deals. They had a small trickle coming up from Wishtonia and from far to the East of Tavlyria. Gerta personally had to desperately bargain deals to get small batches from small suppliers. They were barely subsisting, and if they were attacked and found themselves in the middle of another war, their reserves would go quick. Kazyenko was likely aware of this.

On the other side of the phone, Vlad thumped his fingers on the polished veneer of his desk. He swiveled in his chair, casting a gaze out the enormous floor-to-ceiling windows that covered the outward facing wall of his penthouse office. The glass itself was, naturally, heavily reinforced and equally as thick but only minimally tinted the natural light streaming in. He pondered the request. A few would be easy, even advantageous. Hardly concessions at all. But a few others would require haggling.

“Thank you for your terms, Gerta.” He began in an even tone, swiveling back to face his screen. “I believe we have some room to negotiate here. Your requests, generally, are acceptable. Shall we start at the top?”

He paused, withdrawing a small steno pad and pen from the top drawer of his desk.

“The MiGs… easy. We can have them disassembled and shipped back over the border. Most have been mothballed, while a few have been turned into museum pieces or scrapped. We can reimburse the depreciated value to you for those we can’t return, either in cash or in-kind credit with Universal Defense. Likewise, we can lift the arms embargo and authorize Universal Defense to conduct Tier Two transactions with your military procurement arm. That being said though, I cannot guarantee discounts. You’d have to work those on your own with the sales representative they assign.”

He scribbled the few points down onto the notepad, drawing arrows and subscripts as necessary to connect items.

“We can defer to Universal Defense as well for the infrastructural improvements you’re alluding to. I’m sure that, with enough incentives from my administration and your’s, they’d be inclined to set up exploration and extraction operations. As we discussed prior, Universal Minerals is always eager for new claims. I can tap their executive board, although I suspect once we lift the arms embargo the rest should follow naturally. Again, the brass tacks you’ll need to negotiate yourselves with them, but I’d expect they’d need some form of royalty payments and property guarantees in exchange for rebuilding and maintaining the infrastructure.”

Again, more scribbles.

“Pivoting now… to the harder points. No pipelines, at least not for free. Best I can do is tankers. And plenty of them. New Universal Consolidated-built deepwater harbors will allow for more regular deliveries of crude oil, gasoline and diesel via seabound tanker as well, both from our facilities here in Falkasia and I’m sure further south from Gragastavia. This offer depends upon terminating all funding to the GLO however…”

He paused, allowing his voice to trail off. He hoped that Gerta would catch the subtle addition and read into it about how much he truly was aware of the RLO’s involvement in anti-Falkasian operations.

“As for the pilots, repatriation isn’t something we can do. Not because we don’t want to do right by your administration, but because we simply don’t know where they are. Once the war ended, they were released from detention. It’s really that simple. As military professionals, it was their responsibility to report back to their superiors for summary justice once released. Wouldn’t you agree? Whether they did or not is beyond our ability to control. Our military intelligence isn’t in the business of tracking our citizens, or even foreign deserters for that matter. Least of which the small handful who ended up on our side of the border wall.”

This final point was likely going to boil the kettle over. He knew full well what the pilots’ fate would be, despite the half-baked assurances of Gerta. He cared little about having the blood on his hands. Instead, his motives were much more pragmatic.

Gerta squeezed the water bottle tightly so it really crinkled. She mouthed the word ‘Fuck!’ It was the most she would give to outward frustration. He damn well knew where they were. Likely, they had ended up in FSIS funded housing as they had been leisurely debriefed over the years.

The repatriation of the pilots was something she had been counting on and promising to her cabinet when discussing this large step into the MALET camp. They had wanted a show trial of the traitors. Something to squash the little grassroots rebel stories that had grown up around their cowardly betrayal in order to survive.

They didn’t want to perpetuate the idea that when times got tough, their heroic, highly trained pilots could abandon their nation and comrades and flee to Falkasia.
That one day, that flight, had put the final nails in the coffin of the YSRAF during the War. Pilots had chosen courts-martial and worse over taking to the skies to ward off the Coalition attacks and it had sped up the end

The jab about funding the GLO was fair. The RLO had given them considerable funding over time in order to destabilize Gragastavia and Falkasia at a time when they had seen the MALET nations as rivaling the Western nations for a threat. It had been convenient to use the terror networks of the GLO, QLA, and other organizations like Mubata’s MFM and San Rosito’s ELPR to asymmetrically knock both the East and West off their pedestals to give the YSR a fighting chance. The RLO had balked at supporting the GGA, later called the Holy Domain, partly because the HD had been so ruthless to RLO officers if they caught them during the war in Glisandia. There was no easy way to give help to a group that constantly nipped at the giving hand.

While funding for the GLO, and now South Gragastavia, had slacked off, they had still kept them as an ace in the hole, should relations with MALET take a turn for the worst again. Still, in order to progress, one had to let things go sometimes.

She knew the Falkasians, or Kazyenko, anyway, would be more than receptive to a partnership on extracting resources. That was an easy offer and win for both of them. The nixing of a pipeline was understandable, but still something she would advocate for, possibly in a separate summit with Al-Hussein to keep up the pressure from another direction and hope to get her way eventually.

“Good to hear on the MiGs. Disassemble them if you must, but I was thinking of flying them here intact, unless they are in that bad of shape. No matter…
We will set up the negotiations for the resources and let your teams scout and work with our scientists. There’s a lot of work to be done there, but the payoff for all involved will be well worth it…
We will allow the harbor work to get the oil barges in. I think we can come to decent terms with this…
I think we still could use your influence with UD in maybe nudging them towards granting us very favorable terms…
Consider any ties with the GLO terminated. I’m not going to ask you to give up your FSIS illegals to us, but I would suggest you recall them soonest. If we catch them at this point, it could jeopardize a lot, I think you’ll agree. We will do the same with any RLO assets we may have down there. We should further discuss cooperation between the two agencies, maybe set up a summit between the two directors.
I understand your points on both the pipeline and our pilots, but I’d like to revisit that later. Let’s not shut the door on either issue just yet.”

The Falkasian Premier went over his notepad again, scribbling further notes or laying tick marks where terms were agreeable. Coming to the bottom of the list, and afforded himself a brief smile.

“Your terms are amenable, Director-General,” he announced. “I believe we have a deal. Now… that being said, how soon can we consider your engagement within MALET?”

“Good to hear it. I look forward to hammering out the rest. So…Do we have to sign some final formal papers? A charter, perhaps? By engagement, what exactly are we talking here? Are there any upcoming military exercises? Are you talking just economically?”

The Falkasian Premier clasped his hands together. “The Charter, yes. And a formal press release. I’ll have the Ministry of Defense send along the proper documents. If you feel you’d like to make theater of it, we can host a formal summit either here in Ekaterine, or perhaps…Arkyelstad? If we want to make a real scene of it, we could do it in Ikov, along the border. Maybe we both walk and sign along the divide?”

He chuckled to himself, realizing the magnitude of what he was suggesting… and the absurdity of it all, were his own father still alive to witness it.

“Thoughts?” he asked.

Gerta could hear the mirth in Kazyenko’s voice. She hoped it wasn’t because he was secretly mocking her and the YSR, but she didn’t really care. She had basically gotten everything she wanted for the Republic out of the deal, so let him amuse himself. She could give a fucking fish.

He could play up a victory to his media however he wished. The only media from the Yellowsian side to be invited would be the RLO media division that served government propaganda purposes. She would perfectly shape her message before it hit the YSR public bandwidth.

At the mention of Ikov, she was sent off onto another plane temporarily. A past where her father, who had fought in the cataclysmic war against the Falkasians, had come back from the Battle of Ikov, both emotionally and physically scarred…and missing a foot.

He had put on a brave face and swung her around on that first entrance. As the youngest, she had been the first he squeezed tight, and she treasured that. He doted on her all that year, when he had the time, which was infrequent. With a meager pension and hard work at many menial jobs that burnt through three wooden prosthetics, he had managed to move them out of the family homestead. While she missed her grandparents, aunts, uncles, and the rest of the family packed into that little hovel, she didn’t mind only having to share a bedroom with her sisters instead of all the cousins, as well.

She was too young to realize that anything was off, but as the years wore on and he got worse, a part of her began to register, as did with her mother and siblings, the darkness in the new house was, in fact, the cloud that had followed him from the battlefield. A bottle of akavit and a service pistol he failed to turn in had ended his internal misery on a fateful night in her teens.

She shook off the reverie of a strained childhood and a deep rabbithole.
“Ikov. Yes…let’s do that. We should set up the formalities in Ikov. I like it. Our people and yours will arrange the details. I have to cut this short to attend to the never ending business of the Republic. We should talk again soon, Vlad, if not sooner, then in Ikov.”

“Understood.” he responded, not wanting to keep her on the line further. “Until we chat again…”

“Until then, Premier Kazyenko.” She curtly responded.
The connection was severed with a couple clicks.

And he smiled. Aside from making peace with a long-time enemy, which depending upon who one asked, might be a good or bad thing, things had gone off far better than planned. Falkasia now had a northern bulwark, with only the western reaches being in potential contention. The YSR weren’t much of a threat to begin with in the modern day, even if bolstered with new Universal Defense hardware, and no doubt the executives on the board would be eager to cash in on a new, otherwise closed-off, market.

He reached over to the intercom on his desk.

“Yes, Premier?” a youthful, feminine voice beckoned from the other side.

“Notify the cabinet. We’re meeting in an hour…”

“Yes, Premier.” the voice acknowledged

[co-RP with Falkasia]

There is a distinct chance that I may have had barbecue sauce in my beard when all this happened.

We stumbled on an empty house while on patrol—or rather, a vacant house—and we found a chicken on the table that was still warm by the time we got there. Figuring it would be quite a shame to let the chicken go to waste, an unspoken poll was taken and we agreed to help ourselves. There were probably some insurgents nearby that caused the house’s inhabitants to flee as fast as they did, but at that point, we had not heard from any other patrols about possible hostiles in our area. Our hunger overtook our senses and we availed ourselves of the opportunity.

Ivanov threw down his pack on the floor and began digging through its contents. Being a bit of a glutton in his past life, before he came here, he had his mother send him a steady supply of barbecue sauce. This particular one was from a hole-in-the-wall restaurant in Al-Duhaba. He put the sauce on practically everything he ate with what we felt was no regard for the compatibility of flavors. Cheese and barbecue sauce, fruit salad and barbecue sauce, tabbouleh and barbecue sauce: anything was fair game for Ivanov. I will give him credit where credit is due, though. The bullshit you get in the field rations that they call food tasted a hell of a lot better when covered in the stuff.

It was a fine barbecue sauce, at any rate. The predominant flavor was hickory, but it was both sweet and spicy and left an intoxicating pep in your mouth that enticed you to eat more. I suspect its primary ingredient is FalkoCola (which is a Gragastavian trademark, incidentally), but I can’t say for sure. Eaten with meat, the barbecue sauce brings out the fundamental meatiness of the meat, and enhances the textures by interspersing with the individual fibers of the flesh as you chew. The chicken was not quite hot, as I said, but given that we had been eating out of retort pouches and tin cans for what was probably the past three weeks, eating something fresh was a welcome change.

While Ivanov was fumbling with his pack, Shostakovich drew his bayonet and cut the chicken into four sections. Him and I took each took a leg quarter, while Ivanov and Voronin took a breast and a wing. After slathering it with the barbecue sauce, we scarfed on the meat. Shostakovich nearly ate the bones, too. We tried to clean our faces as best we could once we had finished, but our beards—or scruff, in Ivanov’s case—made that near impossible without having extra water. So much the better, though. When we were out in the field, we left our razors back at base. No sense in carrying the extra weight. If you weren’t drinking your water or maybe using it to keep your important bits clean, you were wasting it.

We washed down the chicken with a quick gulp from our canteens and we each poured a little water into a bowl that we had borrowed from the lady of the house so we could wash at least some of the grease and sauce off. We got our kit together after that and stepped back out into the heat. You just never get used to that blast that hits you as soon as you open the door, even when you leave a house that isn’t air-conditioned. I wiped the sweat from the corners of my eyes and put my sunglasses on as we headed down the dusty road.

We were about eight kilometers north of Maqhab, pulled back temporarily to cycle fresher troops to the front. Maqhab was the site of some of the heaviest fighting of the war, which pitted the full brunt of our forces against those of the South Gragastavians. Whereas other veterans I’ve spoken to only ever faced the insurgents that seem to be the common caricature defining the conflict, the fighting in Maqhab was against much more than typical irregulars. They called themselves the Freedom Army and they had the guns, equipment, and training to back it up. Normal insurgents would scatter as soon as you started shooting back. The Freedom Army opened up and didn’t stop until either you or they were dead. Between 2017 when the fighting began in earnest and the end of the war, the city must have changed hands at least a dozen times. It’s a wonder that I made it out alive when I look back on it, but the scar on my leg and the shrapnel lodged between my ribs and my left lung tell a different story.

Command heard about a possible FA assault into our area of operations and sent our company to investigate. Once we got off the truck, Lieutenant Aliyev, our platoon commander, separated us into a couple fire teams and told us not to come back until we had each bagged an enemy soldier. Fuckwit was far too busy polishing his pips and brownnosing the brass than he was to actually lead one of the fire teams, so he stayed behind with his radioman. Voronin, having seniority on all of us by two months, was an infinitely better leader than Aliyev could ever be and stepped up to the plate to lead our group. The medics stuffed what they could into a body bag after a grenade got the better of him during a raid on a supply dump in the market district.

Shostakovich and Ivanov were attached to each other at the hip. I never understood it, but machine gunners and their loaders have an inseparable bond apparently. I’d have believed they were twins if it weren’t for that the fact that they looked nothing alike. Ivanov was a little weasel with bright blue eyes while Shostakovich was so built he could put a grizzly bear to shame. They could have entire conversations without a single word. Just as soon as Shostakovich needed a reload, Ivanov was already feeding a fresh belt into the receiver. That was to Ivanov’s benefit, though, because Shostakovich was a greedy son of a bitch. He could never wait more than two seconds for something, and that proved to be his downfall when we insisted he needed to wait to let the iodine tablet purify the water. He ignored our warnings, drank his fill from the oasis, and died of dysentery about a week later. I’m in Al-Huyafir as I write this and I can still smell his shit on my hands.

We walked for three hours, seeing nothing but camels, sand, and stucco buildings that should have been absorbed by the desert fifty years ago. Each of us carried at least two gallons of water, split between whatever containers we scrounged, though that never seemed to last more than the first couple hours of a patrol. Spending any amount of time outside during the day just saps the water straight out of your body. I always felt like I was sweating, but my skin was usually bone dry: the water evaporates as soon as it comes out of your pores. Covering as much of your skin as you could helped and I knew some guys that would ditch their helmets entirely and just wear a headscarf like the insurgents did. I tried it, but the sweat ended up dripping into my eyes and I assumed I was much better off with a piece of metal on my head than a piece of fabric, anyway.

Standing orders said to wear body armor at all times, too. That was more often than not taken as a suggestion as soon as we were far enough from anyone more senior than a captain. Lieutenant Aliyev tried to enforce it when he first took command of our platoon, but he quickly realized the same thing we did. If we knew we were going into combat and it was available, we’d take the body armor every time. If we were going on patrol, we’d make a judgement as to whether contact was likely. If it was, then we would assess how long we would have to walk compared to how long we would get to sit in a helicopter or a truck. In most cases, the weight did not justify the protection. The heat was a fact of life. If we got shot without body armor, at least we would die all at once. If we wore the vests, we died a little every minute.

At about 16:30, we linked up with another fire team led by Sergeant Dieteroyevovich, though we usually called him Diet. By some miracle, the report reached him before it reached Aliyev. We headed east in search of what our intel man said was an FA stockpile. Forward spotters sighted a caravan carrying munitions to it and an artillery strike was already inbound. After the shells landed, we were to secure the stockpile and eliminate any remaining insurgents. The stockpile was four kilometers away and we got moving immediately, making no mention of the chicken. I think Diet knew something was up, if because Ivanov kept licking his lips and the grease around his mouth glistened whenever the light caught the patch.

Explosions sounded in the distance and then whizzing shells cut through the sky. The shockwave hit us not long after, though it was a gentle breeze because of how far we were from the point of impact. The bombardment continued for a good five or six minutes. Most of the fighting had been in Maqhab proper, which limited artillery’s effectiveness due to the risk of friendly fire. I imagine the gun crews were bored and when the chance finally came to bring the hammer down, they were chomping at the bit. We pressed on all the while, the gust becoming stronger with each step until the artillery fell silent. What little relief the breeze brought vanished as fast as it came and I wiped the corners of my eyes with my glove as we ascended a ridge overlooking the stockpile.

It was a small compound with three sandstone buildings enclosed by a perimeter wall. Or at least it was, before the bombardment. One of the buildings—a small tool shed judging from the smashed wheelbarrow—somehow survived, but the other two were smoldering rubble. The wall was a patchwork of beige bricks, scattered like a child’s building blocks. The desert, lone and level sands surrounding the compound and stretching as far as the eye could see, was the same as it ever was, pockmarked with craters indistinguishable from the dunes. Diet had Shostakovich and Ivanov set up the machine gun behind a boulder at the top of the ridge while the rest of us crept down and flanked around. They had good visibility of the entire compound and could open up on any relief parties that might have heard the barrage.

The pointman entered the compound first and we followed him one by one, spreading across the side closest to the ridge. Voronin shined a flashlight into the shed, finding exactly what he expected, and then we combed the rubble, heading toward the main building. I stepped over a corpse I almost did not recognize as human if not for the boots and shredded camouflage trousers. Everything below the knees was intact; everything above was a bloody pulp. A couple scraps of what I assume was a shirt intermixed in the red paste and the grainy grime that caked the entire compound. The thought crossed my mind immediately after that I should have been wearing a mask of some sort with how much dust was floating in the air, but I didn’t bring any spare clothes with me, apart from some socks. Under my bunk back at base was my gas mask bag, which I mostly used as a toiletry bag now. We were issued gas mask bags as soon as our regiment arrived in Maqhab, but we never received the actual masks for whatever reason.

Climbing through the debris of the main building yielded no resistance. There were another couple of dead FA soldiers, some still cutting distinct outlines and others resembling fresh offal. In the corner, a radio clung to life, chirping the incoherent ramblings of Broadcast Liberation, made even more disjointed by the static drifting in and out. The pointman helped himself to the batteries and Diet stepped outside, whistling for Shostakovich’s and Ivanov’s attention. He waved for them to come down and join us in the compound. Meanwhile, the rest of us searched the ruined building for whatever was worth taking. Another soldier beat me to the watch attached to a severed arm, but he offered me a handful of riyals he found in the compound’s courtyard.

Voronin, however, had his eyes on a much bigger prize. He peeled chunks of stone and broken furniture away, digging deeper until he reached the floor. Brushing away the dust, his hands groped until they found a trapdoor. He called to me and I readied my rifle as he unlatched the hatch. Casting it open, he shined his flashlight inside and I scanned for any FAs that might have survived the blast. No signs of movement. Voronin shined the light onto the cellar floor and, since it was a short fall, I jumped in. My rifle flew to my shoulder, but the basement was devoid of life. I was about ready to give up and return to the surface, but Voronin hopped in right after me. His light slithered around the room, moving from shelf to shelf, all stacked with burlap sacks. It lingered on the far corner, however, and we tiptoed closer. Eight blue plastic barrels awaited us, drenched with condensation. The spigots invited us to take a taste.

Voronin peeled his gloves off and tucked them into his pocket. He drained a few drops onto his hand, sniffed it, and then licked his palm. His eyes lit up as if he had just tasted the nectar of the gods or taken a hit of cocaine. “It’s fucking orange juice,” he whispered.

“You don’t think it’s tainted? Or spiked?” I asked.

“You’d think they’d poison themselves?” he answered, filling one of his empty canteens.

He made a good point and I sampled the contents of another barrel. It was sweet, it was cold, and it was orangey. I had no room to complain. We filled all our empty canteens to the top and took a healthy drink to quench our thirsts before Voronin shuffled to the ladder.

“Hey guys!” he shouted. “There’s orange juice down here!”

The next thing I remember was a traffic jam at the ladder that resulted in a tumble as everyone scrambled into the basement. Ivanov and Shostakovich were among the first back on their feet and they guzzled until they were about to burst. If there wasn’t a line waiting behind him, I would have expected Shostakovich to suck on the spigot.

Ivanov, ever the connoisseur, poured some barbecue sauce in his orange juice.

Kuinua Milima, Tenipako,
Pwanatajiri Province, Mubata

The bell would not stop and to incorporate it into his dreams was a nightmare path that he wished not to travel again. He reached out and brushed the phone to the ground. It rattled across the pitted clay floor. He'd learned the hard way that he needed to get a durable rubber casing for it. He'd also learned that as much as he despised the old fashioned brass bell tone, it was the only one that would wake him from a hungover stupor, which was his state maybe half the week. Much as he'd love to replace his broken smartphone, they were hard to come by with the waves of embargoes that pummeled the Republic. He'd had to settle for a department issued Schwyz Logiztik F4 flip phone instead of one of their nicer GXP models. Who still used flip phones?

When he finally stumbled out of bed, his first thought, as always, was to get that first cigarette flowing into his lungs, but habits and necessity took over. He paddled over to the scarred and chipped sink in his small efficiency. With sleepy half closed eyes, he reached for the rust stained bowl off the shelf and pulled it to be centered under the tap. With the other hand that was just gaining control over its nerves, he managed to firmly grasp the handle and tug it loose from the 'off' position. He loosened it further, yet only a few off color drops trickled out. Then they stopped, leaving just a thin, brown film in his cracked ceramic bowl. No tap water today.

He put the bowl aside then reached for one of several crinkly, well used, disposable water bottles. Tilting it, the cloudy quality was immediately obvious as the dawn rays lit it up. He placed it back upright and grappled for the next one in line.
Eureka! It was clear! When living in Tenipako, one had their drinking water and their water for washing and everything else. It was important to stock up on both as there was no guarantee that they would have a flowing supply that day. When you had a flow, you filled up quick as there was no telling how long it would last. For decent quality drinking water, which didn't come out of the pipes, he went to Yamza, the best water broker in the area. For a moderate fee, he could fill up his 60 ml drinkers from Yamza's jerry jugs.
He took a swig and held it in his mouth, letting it swish around and take away the cotton mouth. It would be nice if it was cold, but his small refrigerator could only hold so much and he had essentials in there like produce and beer.

He went about the rest of his morning getting ready for work. The last of his drinking water bottle went towards brushing his teeth. He threw on a moderately worn maroon track suit with the crown logo of a Falkasian sportswear company, prominently displayed on the left breast. The last step after tucking away his keys, would be to retrieve his wallet, badge, chains, and backup pistol with hideaway holster from their hiding spot. Thievery was common all over the largest coastal city of Mubata, but especially in this downtrodden part, so close to the northeastern slums. Even when it came to a known cop, it wasn't beyond the desperation of some to try their luck while he was most likely to be sleeping it off - either to rip him off or bump him off. It could earn the first one through the door a bullet in the head, but so could turning up empty handed to their criminal master. For another night, he hadn’t been intruded on.

He pried with a table knife, chiseling it in to fit in-between two floorboards near his bed. Finally, he loosened the one board enough that he could get his fingers around it, then pulled, revealing the items underneath. He quickly placed them out on the floor, then replaced the board, squashing in the dirt and dust that had come out during the process, the best he could. It wasn’t perfect, but in the dark, it would work. He swished the dirt around to hide the evidence of the special properties of that board. The fact that it was near where he put his feet every day helped to disguise its dual purpose.

The hideaway was a Schwerpunkt SCP9. It was a very decent gun that he could get with the money allotted to him by his department, plus a little extra out of pocket.
He’d turned around and shoveled it to his black market source to scrounge the piece up. The very same black market he worked so hard to dismantle. The irony wasn’t lost on him.

Finally, he retrieved his service pistol, a CZ 75, that was tucked under his pillow. He strapped the holster around his shoulder, over a sleeveless black tank. He put on his gold chains, also retrieved from the hide, then put his track jacket back into place. With one last look around, he shut the door, putting the key into the lock, as ineffectual as that might be.

He walked down the stairs and out his apartment door, making sure to put on sunglasses first. Then he was out into the blinding sun and heat of a new day. The shock of it was momentary. As he walked down the block, he took it all in. Several other men, some he knew passingly as working in the fields opposing, or at the very least, avoiding his profession. All wore similar track suits as him. It was the joke of the neighborhood, and had become the defiant symbol that one of the most downtrodden and neglected of areas in Tenipako, Kuinua Milima, meant Elevated Hills, when the people living there felt nothing even close to such a status.

He nodded to the man he paid a hefty weekly sum to watch his car, and climbed into the beat up old Fiat. Within another eight minutes, he was pulling into the parking lot of his station house, where the car would be relatively safe until he was on his way to track down his leads for the day.

The duty sergeant nodded and pointed up in lieu of any actual words.

Taji cocked his head,
“Soooo...that’s it? No ‘Hey dickhead!”

“Cap wants you in his office. Hours ago...Dickhead.”

“Ah...That’s...not actually better.”

Sergeant Gwuzani only shook his head and returned to his paperwork. It had been a busy night and the cells were filled with the usual suspects. Taji headed up the stairs, but his mood to take them two at a time was shot now with dread, so he took each stair methodically. None of the rest of the squad would look at him as he crested the top of the stairs and headed into their wing, so he continued to stoically march towards the end office.

He saw two heads silhouetted through the Captain’s windows. He wondered if his fudgy expense reports had finally caught up with him, then he was sure of it. It all added up. It all came down to this. He wouldn’t lose his job for mistakenly busting a higher political friend of the Fazembes, as some of his colleagues had. He wouldn’t lose his job due to an unjustified shooting because, well...He nor his fellow detectives ever had. It wasn’t a real concern in Eastern Tenipako. It would all come down to shoddy paperwork.

He had reached the door. He took a deep breath, then, with the determination of a younger man not wanting to forestall the inevitable, he knocked.

“Jhezoka?” The gruff voice of the Captain.

“Yeah?”

“Enter.”

Taji entered and stood two steps in the door.

“Sit, idiot.”

“Yes, Cap.”

Taji sat, looking at the stranger who occupied the other chair on the visitor side of the Captain’s desk. The man was a bit older, probably in his late 30’s, but possibly in his early 40’s. He wore a fairly fashionable and comfortable suit and everything about him screamed Karalaga, the capital, to Taji. Somehow, Taji knew he was there for him.

Taji was probably the cleanest cop in the District, but maybe that was the point. They were trying to finally get rid of the do gooder. The cop who refused to be on the take.

Question was, why bring in a Fed heavy to do the job? Why didn’t they just assign him a partner who would conveniently ‘accidentally’ shoot him in the back?

“What did I do this time, Cap’n?”

“Okay. So you’re not in trouble...This time. Just calm yourself. This is…”

“Detective Hali Awdazeya, Gendarmerie, 1st Capital Division. A pleasure.”

Taji hesitantly reached his hand out, taking that of Detective Awdazeya’s.
“All mine….So, what brings you down?”

Awdazeya leaned back, smirking.

The Captain took back over.
“You’re being reassigned. Detective Awdazeya will be your new partner now.”

“What?! To the Gendarmes?!”

“No. To the Teremaran Police Organization. That’s right. Both of you are now under Terpol.”

Taji didn’t know what to say to that, so he didn’t say anything. He really knew nothing about how Terpol operated, other than when he put in requests to access their files, his own higher ups blocked his requests. The Fed cop seemed to be well aware of his change in status and was patiently awaiting Taji to process it all.

Awdazeya took that moment as Taji was dumbfounded to elucidate.
“We’re going to be investigating Jomfa Uguta. We believe he might have connections to a lot of the large criminal drug and money laundering operations that have been plaguing the whole region.”

“Like all of Teremara?”

“Yes.”

“Bullshit!”

“Excuse me?”

“Uguta doesn’t have that kind of network. I’ve investigated his people many times. At best, you try to interdict his network, you....might, might cut off his Gragastavian connections to bootlegged pop CDs and Brazilian fashion wear. Maybe find some old Falkasian guns in a crate on one of his trucks. You’re dreaming if you think it goes beyond that and you’re out of your depth.”

The older detective from Karalaga smiled a little wider.
“I didn’t say he has the network, I’m saying we believe he’s an outer spoke in someone else’s network. Follow along, kid.”

“Fu-”

The Captain waved them on.
“Take it out of my office. It’s not in my wheelhouse any more and I don't want to know another stupid fucking thing about it. So long, Jhezoka. Have fun flopping on your face. Now your shit is someone else’s problem.”

The two detectives walked out and hit the street, heading into the parking lot, where
Awdezaya finally felt comfortable to talk.
“Listen, young blood, I understand you think you have this all figured out, but your little backyard here isn’t the only game in the crime world.”

“Did you really just fuckin’ condescend to me, motherfucker?!”

“Excuse me?”

“Look, this is Tenipako, Gramps…” He pulled a cigarette out of a pack in a pocket of his track jacket.
”...The biggest port in the country, and a major stop in the Tavlyrian chain. No offense and I get that you think you got it all figured out up there at the capital, but, uh…”
He pulled out a beat up metal lighter and put the flame to the local smoke.

“Check it, young blood - I started in Tenipako back when you were kickin around the football at yay high…” Awdezaya held out his hand to his hip.
“...So you think you know this shit? We all did our duty tracking the cartels and watching the docks. I did my time and I got upped the chain without getting a bullet in my head from the…big bad boogey men.” His eyes widened at that in mock terror, but it was in fact no joke. Not to Taji anyway.
“...Uguta is bad news. All that bootleg shit you’re talking about is surface shit, that’s what he wants us to look at. There’s a deeper game and you’re not looking at it.”

“You have got to be fuckin’ kidding me! You were some big shit here back in the day and you never heard of the Mshale?”

“Oh, I know ‘em, Dawg. We knocked 'em down good. So far back that there’s no way they are major players in the game no more. Mshale don’t make the moves these days without Uguta’s say so.”

“You’re telling me Jafari Yzaforu takes his cues from Jomfa Uguta?” Taji was still incredulous to even be having this conversation.
“You are fuckin’ high.”

“Look. We need to investigate the evidence right, not just the criminals? Like proper police. The evidence will lead us to the true perpetrators, ya?”

“Yah. It should and it does every time...The Mshale.”

“Well, if that’s where it leads us, then so be it. You will be right, young blood.”

“I know I’m right, but we’ll put it through the paces. Proper book work like you say just to prove what we've known all along.”

The older detective nodded.
“Here’s what I really need to tell you, young gent. We have a whole team of Terpol agents rolling in here in two days and we have to be ready to host them and maybe show them we know how to do some real solid looking police work. Can you get your shit in gear for that?”

Taji was taking a long pull from his almost finished cigarette before speaking,
“Terpol agents, eh? Could be interesting.”

“Listen...You have to dial back the reaction.” The sarcasm was dripping. “Remember, the whole Teremaran connections thing? They want to follow those leads. All the arrangements and details are taken care of from back in Karalaga and the Justice office here. You just need to smile your pretty face and try not to fuck things up too much.”

“Man, fuck you!”

“Fuck you back. Can you handle this?

“Handle what? Babysitting a bunch of white Madurinites too scared to go into Qasifya, so they come here thinking it will be better?”

“The wageni * swoopin’ down on us! Being all over our business and going over your fine police work with a fine tooth comb.”

“They’re not going to give two shits.”

“They might. And we...you...need to be ready. Have all your reports in order, be ready to look over all of them again and know that everyone else is going to pick it over. Get focused on the right target. Jomfa Uguta.”

“Whatever. Sounds like a Capital or Madurinite solution to a problem they don't understand or even know if it exists. Point a lot of fingers and hope you're even close to the real shit.
Why did the Gendarmes even pick me for this assignment?”
The mention of reports and paperwork told him that the Chief had not told Awdezaya how horrible Taji was at following through on his paperwork. Problem with paperwork in Taji’s mind was that it only gave the mob moles an exact barometer of how close you were to busting their true bosses.

“They didn’t. Your Captain didn’t either, and he seems to have such a high regard for you…” The older detective laid the sarcasm on thick there,
“...but he had to grudgingly admit you knew the most about Uguta, so you were the natural choice. Anyway, we don’t have a lot of time. I want to see everything you have on Uguta.”

Taji nodded. Now they had gotten down to the real reason Awdazeya was here.

[Note: Wageni are foreigners.]

---

Port of Tenipako, Tenipako
Pwanatajiri Province, Mubata

He woke up as the rays began to poke through his curtains. He stretched and looked over his bedroom. It was as if she read his mind. She bustled in wearing one of her flowing intricate patterned dresses, a tray in her hands that held two coffees, with a creamer jug and sugar bowl was placed on the sideboard. She brought him one of the mugs.

While a man of his station could certainly afford to have several helpers around his house, he chose not to have any beyond those that were his family. His wife was the one bearing the mug straight to his hands. Between the two of them, they handled all that needed to be handled, but for a maid that showed up once a week to clean. When their children were younger, they pitched in around the house. For him to spend money on employees, it was for ones that were really needed in his day to day operations outside the house, which were plentiful.

“Here you go, my dearest husband!”

“Oh, thank you, my lovely wife!”

They exchanged a kiss as he rose up and she followed him. They headed out to the veranda, looking out over a port that was in full swing.and had been for at least a couple hours previous, when the sun had yet to rise from over the hills behind. A lot of the business being conducted down on those docks, he had some hand in.

“What could I ask for anything else?”

“You could maybe convince your lazy children to give me some more grandchildren before I’m too old to pick them up.”

He laughed. They had five children. Three boys and two girls, who were all grown up now but for their youngest, who was seventeen. Two of the boys and one girl were even married, but only one had yet produced children out of their marriages. So they had two little grand boys.
“Give it time, dear wife. Give it time.”

It was then that he noticed one of his men running down the street and waving and pointing.
“Well now. What’s this about?”

His wife, sensing some serious business, remained quiet.
From out of the shadows, several others walked quickly to cut the runner off. The security for The King of The Docks wasn’t overt, but one would be making a huge mistake if they thought it was nonexistent. The runner exchanged heated words with the bodyguards and was waved through.

He was stepping inside the lobby downstairs, just as Jomfa’s cell rang. He had it in hand and, checked the number - It was Sizo - and had clicked it on within a second.
“Yes.”

“Jomfa! We sent Tofe to get you! Come quickly please! You’re needed at the Blue House! Trouble!” He meant the main boat house, but they stuck to some modicum of code in case unwanted ears were listening in.

“I will be there.” The most troubling thing was that Sizo wouldn’t go into more detail over the phone. It had to be quite serious. Why he had sent a runner and then called ahead anyway was also odd, but stressful situations didn't always bring out the most logical choices.
It was then that Tofe burst through the double doors.
“Sir! I-I’m sorry...You need to come with...with me to…”

“I know. Sizo called. Lead the way.”

Soon enough they were at the blue main boat house, where a lot of their operations were staged from. Jomfa knew right away it was bad. One of his people was up on a table and there was bloody footprints and trails everywhere. The men around the table were also covered in the blood of the man on the table.

“What the fuck happened?”

One of the men answered,
“They ambushed us. We were getting a truck of hot stereos in from Gyata and they shot it up.”

He walked up to the table and was looking down at his nephew, Murati, oldest son of his brother Jamba. Despite bandages and some signs of attempts to save him, it was obvious that Murati was expired.
He reached out and held the outstretched arm of his 22 year old nephew, gently pushing it back in to the table.

“Who ambushed you?”

“I have one guess, Sir.” Sizo waved everyone else off, but they stayed put, mesmerized by their fallen comrade.

“Why?! Why would Jafari shoot up a truck of stereos? Since when do the Mshale give a fuck about electronics?” There was a possibility that it had been some new players trying to force a claim on the hot electronics trade. Or simply some bandits trying to get a prize truck load.

“I don’t know. We think it was a message. They’ve been breathing down on us lately on our usual routes.” They’d had peace for a year now, with each side respecting their zones and little overlap of their business lines, but it may be that the Mshale were ready to make their move to take over the whole city. It was only a matter of time for the truce to hold.

“Why am I just finding out about this now? Nevermind...” Jomfa ran a hand over his head.
“I will try to reach out to some people and suss out if Jafari really was behind this. In the meantime, we need to not be caught out again. This may be it. We may be at war, if it is the Mshale that did this.” They’d taken one of his favorite nephews. There was no question they would be hitting Jafari back, if it was indeed him.

“I will mobilize the men.”

“Good.”
Jomfa Uguta shook his head.
“I need to make some phone calls. The first one to Jamba.”

Hrafjanga
Skatyngen Mountain Range near the Falkasian border
Yellow Star Republic
Winter 2022

They had made the journey down from Fellsjon, the largest city, if you could call it that, nearest the Falkasian border. It was just around the Bay from Hrafjanga. While maybe not quite up to Gerta’s standards, there were reasonable accommodations enough there, and she had had no choice. They spent the night while preparing for the next day.

There had been a general announcement weeks ago that the Summit would happen, but an exact date and location had not been announced due to security reasons. Finally, it had been released that it would take place right on the border in Ikov, but still not a date. The preparations were obvious to any decent operating intelligence agency.

The 23rd Border Guards Division, the regular unit that manned this border, but also their best, was on high alert. The 57th and 61st JaegerFlok (YSR Special Operational Groups) had been mobilized to reinforce the 23rd. The 155th and 158th Squadrons of the YSRAF were also on heavy patrol, and even some elements of the 2nd Fleet had gotten closer to the coast to provide a naval perimeter.

The final layer was the massive amount of RLO officers assigned as a cordon for Director General Hildgursdottir and her entourage. While they were on friendly terms now with Falkasia, and Glisandia and Jumnia were too far away to make trouble, there were other factions to consider, especially internally within the Republic. Not to mention they weren’t sure if all Falkasians were on board with their Premier’s decision, both in Ekaterine and in the rural provinces. Then there were your typical terrorist groups like the GLO, QLA, and Jutuomi Ovttastuvvan Álbmot (Jutuomi Peoples Union) the main organization of Jutuomi terrorists, to consider.

For quite a few months now, support had been totally cut off to them, and all Southern Tavlyrian terror groups (except for the Marxist MFM in Mubata), at least from their former friends in the RLO. But the RLO had been one of the few agencies left to support most of these groups at all (other than the JOA), and that might have caused some anguish, if not bitter vengeful feelings about being cut loose, even though support had already been dwindling, especially after the Northern Tavlyrian War and the YSR’s economic troubles since.

If Gerta was honest, it had been way overdue. The GLO, especially certain splinter factions from the main, had been a vicious dog on a chain that was eager to tear that hand off holding the chain. The returns on their investment were minimal - Southern Gragastavia, a failing state that they had trouble even trying to establish formal ties with, let alone conduct coherent trade. It had been old policy to keep up the support that no longer served a beneficial purpose. It only delayed normalized relations with Falkasia and Gragastavia, and was it not better to keep such nations as friends instead of antagonize them while the Republic was trying to recover from the War?

Finally the day had arrived and after the stop in Fellsjon, they drove to Hrafjanga, a small peasant village with a large Jutuomi ethnic population in the foothills of the Skatyngens. Hrafjanga had now been completely taken over to become the staging base for RLO security over the last week. The locals were none too happy about it and many had to relocate as they were temporarily forced out of their homes. Loyal Yelskja party members were not affected, while their Jutuomi neighbors had to send elders and children off to relatives in nearby villages, rather than cram into a dwindling supply of housing left for them.

None of this was on the radar of Gerta, nor would she have cared, had she known.
The next stop would be over the border in Ikov.

“This is ridiculous, Svarik!”

The RLO Director perked up, feigning attention.
“Uh…the Summit, Director General?”

“No, that was always a good idea, but…doing it now, in this cold…it’s just…ridiculous. Even Yellowsians bundle up in this weather, and we’re like polar bears. But the damn Skatyngen wind currents are known to freeze a deer in its tracks.”

“Yes, Comrade Director General. It’s less than ideal, the timing, but it needed to be sooner, rather than later. Delaying until spring, well…not politically advisable.”

“Yes, but why didn’t I push for it to be indoors? Like in comfortable settings like back home, or even in…yeeesh…Ekaterine?”

“Well, I mean, the bulk of discussions will be in a heated indoor room, I believe…or tent. I don’t remember which the Falkasians said. You will only have to be outside briefly for those photo op handshakes over the border. Then back inside to coffee, blasting heaters, and the warmth of funky body odor in close quarters.”

“You make it sound so inviting, Svarik. But seriously, we’ll be in parkas and scarves outside…What kind of photo opportunity is that?! No one’s going to really see our faces very well.”

“Comrade Director General. You said yourself that we’re polar bears. You can dress down for a few minutes while they snap some pics, can’t you? At least pop the hood down and ditch the scarf?”

“Ugh. Don’t remind me, Svarik.”

“I won’t. We’re looking at 40 minutes to crossing the border, Director General.”

She didn’t speak anymore, but let out a loud sigh, pulling her fur trim parka closer around herself. She played mindless Western game apps on her phone while they waited to get organized for the crossing, occasionally checking her messages for anything actually crucial. The Director of Foreign Affairs, Orvar Gudthorsson, sat in the same vehicle, but he didn’t speak. He didn’t dare interrupt her as he knew she was mentally preparing for the meet.

RLO and border troops were on high alert, not for the Falkasians, but for anything the JOA (Jutuomi separatists) might try to pull today, had they gotten wind of the operation from their displaced relatives. Also, the non-Jutuomi resistance might have gotten wind second hand from their contacts in that ethnic community. The two groups worked together often enough, because the enemy of their enemy…

---

Ikov, Ikovskaya
Falkasia

“They’re crossing the border now…” a voice announced. “Sedan; black; official markings. All set.”

“Confirmed. Routing to local authorities,” came the reply.

Two silhouettes were backlit by a bank of television monitors, displaying real-time satellite imagery of the ground in visual, infra-red, and false-colored thermal spectrums. At the center of each screen was the vehicle, making good speed over what was otherwise nearly unimproved roads originally built a century prior.

“Local authorities are on-site. They confirm visual.”

One of the screens flickered, replacing an overhead satellite view with that of ground level. A smaller terrestrial camera now tracked the vehicle along the terrain, bobbing up and down as the car traversed the winding, rough-hewn trail towards them. A small laser dot superimposed upon the image helped the viewer understand what was being tracked as the camera rotated.

“Border Guard is prepared to receive. Gates open in ten….”

The sedan began to slow as it approached the border crossing. The camera, equally, zoomed further out so as to maintain focus on its quarry. Two smartly dressed soldiers, Border Guardsmen, quickly darted into view and removed a small barricade to allow the sedan to pass. As it cleared the gauntlet and the camera pivoted 180 degrees, two motorcycles joined up to form an escort in front of the limousine. Both had fully-active flashing green lights; telltale to Falkasian Military Police. A third U-1 Utility Vehicle brought up the rear to close out the convoy. Although trouble wasn’t expected, the truck’s roof-mounted up-armored machine gun was directed rear-ward, away from the convoy.. The intent was not to provoke the Yellowsians, but rather to protect them.

“Package is clear. Transitioning control…”

“Transitioning control…” the second voice chimed in unison.

---

Gerta’s phone began to ring. She picked it up immediately.

“Premier Kazyenko, is that you?”

“Welcome to Falkasia, Director-General.” Vladimir said on the other end. His voice was quite chipper, as if his words were smiling.

“Yes, someone, somewhere in my family, is probably rolling in their grave at the thought. Are we going to do this photo op thing or not, Vlad?” Gerta spun off her tongue in her usual blasé manner.

Vlad continued his smirk. He was, to put it lightly, sadistically enjoying this.

“We will. Once you get a bit past the wall, the escort will take you to a frontier outpost from the base in Ikov. You’ll see flags, a carpet, the whole deal… and myself to greet you.

He paused, clearing his throat as he stood up. A cool breeze blew in through a slightly cracked window in the prefab panel blockhouse they’d be using as a meeting room. His icy blue eyes stared back at it.

“Here’s the plan… We’ll take pictures as if we’re on the border, then duck back inside for refreshments before getting serious. I know we sent over a full itinerary, but I wanted to ensure there’d be no surprises. Sound good?”

“Yes, fine. That works for me. I know you sent over an itinerary…” She hadn’t read it and had decided it would be more fun to throw sharp objects at her aide who had tried to read it off to her that day. “...but I wanted to make sure we were still on that schedule. As you say, ‘no surprises’. I’ll see you at the ‘faux’ border then.”
She was already getting a slight headache from it all. She hoped the ‘refreshments’ that Kazyenko had referred to were strong.

Upon arrival, Falkasian security waved the caravan through and directed it. Her RLO security escorted her out to the photo op site once she carefully stepped out of the vehicle. She was bundled up in her parka, and where she usually wore just stockings, even in cool weather, she had opted for pants this time around that looked fashionable, but still had an insulation layer in them.

Foreign Affairs Director Gudthorsson stood nearby, getting an update from one of his aides. He was similarly dressed in a parka and wool pants, but also with a mink fur hat and fur lined gloves at the ready in his pocket, but not yet on his hands.
Being Yellowsian, they could bear the chill for a bit, but the timer was ticking.

Her people that had arrived in their caravan had began setting up camera tripods, and her style specialist checked on her, giving her a small hand mirror to check her reflection. She nodded and handed it back. She hadn’t overglammed, but still didn’t want to look like a frumpy idiot, either. She looked around at the Falkasians already there. They were setting up and making preparations like her people were doing.

Where the fuck was Kazyenko?

She looked at the blockhouse building, as if she sensed his presence.

“Over here!’ Kazyenko called, power-walking out from the blockhouse. He waved, although the chill in the air made it hard to see the gesture.

He trudged over, bundled too in several sweaters, jackets, and overcoats in a failing attempt to keep him warm. His face was tinged pink from the cold, and his nose was beginning to run glossy in the pale light.

“Glad you made it.” He came to a halt next to her. “Ok… I’m freezing. I’m sure you’re freezing. Let’s get this done.”

Instead of shaking and shivering like her lower quarters, Gerta's head nodded, for the most part. “Fuck, yes!”

An aide came over with a tape measure, placed it gently above the snow, and began to measure out unequal distance on both sides. Another aide began to quickly plow a small trench, exposing a rather extravagant red line.

“The border,” a third aide clarified, approaching with two folios. He handed one to Vlad, and immediately reciprocated to Gerta. “And prop papers. We’ll be narrating this picture as being after the signing.”

Director Gudthorsson looked around for the aide bearing his set of papers. There wasn’t one.

Vlad smirked and winked subtly her way, “Just roll with it.”

“I have so far.” She affirmed, oblivious to her Foreign Director’s dejection.

The camera approached, while the aides attempted to maneuver with flailing hand gestures the two dignitaries to be an appropriate distance from the line.

Without warning a flash snapped. Gerta imperceptibly flinched.

“Now shake!” a voice called.

Vladimir turned and extended a hand, offering a well-choreographed maneuver that hallmarked an experienced statesman.
Gerta’s hands were more experienced at choking enemies, than diplomatic bonds. However, she had been in office long enough to know the drill, and was smart enough to follow suit. She grabbed Vlad’s hand and pumped it a couple times like she was hoping something would dispense from his body for her vigorous working of the lever.

Both sides’ photographers were working the camera buttons like machine gun triggers to capture the moment. Then it was done.

“Let’s get the fuck inside now.” Spouted forth in rapidly freezing vapor clouds from Gerta’s lips. She let Vlad lead the way.

---

The room was steamy. No one could be sure if it was due to an overzealous boiler room or if it was just the sudden warmth following the frigid cold, but it hallmarked the event quite well. Enemies, were for all intents and purposes, now friends. Perhaps not quite to the warm embrace that both Vladimir and Gerta now endured, but more likely one step above lukewarm.

The conference room was spartan, as one might expect in such a remote location. But, what it lacked in accoutrement it made up for in comfort. The meeting table was solid wood, but not over-the-top in either length or width. The chairs, equally, were nicely padded and well-kept but not lavish. The atmosphere suited their requirements well.

“Please be seated,” another aide chirped.

Two Border Guards stepped forward from sentry positions, adorned in olive green dress and white gloves, and withdrew chairs for both leaders. Vladimir, in an attempt to offer some courtesy, approached his chair but waited until Gerta herself was seated. A courtesy rarely afforded nowadays, least of which to someone who’d rather probably choke him out for the gesture than be appreciative.

Vladimir followed, allowing the sentry to push the chair in behind him. Documents were already laid out in front of them, ready to be reviewed and negotiated and eventually signed. All in a day’s work for statescraft.

“So… Gerta… shall we begin? What’s first on the docket?” He turned to face a camera and smiled a snake’s grin into the flashing reception.

Gerta thought for a moment. Security agreements might get more complicated, considering, so she went to the easiest option. What was going to bring in the money.

“Right. So… I know we reviewed this, but to make it official for the record… Free trade agreements? The drilling and mining rights? Oil barge convoys? UD discount contracts subsidized by your government? Or did you want to start somewhere else?”

He again smiled with a Cheshire smile.

“That sounds perfect again to me. Remember, it’s all for the camera…”

Gerta relaxed her shoulders in slight resignation, looking back at Vlad. She understood this part was for show, but she still wanted validation that what they had talked about via video conferences would actually be the benefits that the YSR would enjoy with MALET. Likely it would deserve another talk away from the public eye. She sipped at a provided tea to internally silence her first sarcastic response, then she smiled for the cameras.
“Excellent. The Yellow Star Republic is glad to be a part of this organization to bring about the security and stability of Tavlyria. Thank you for welcoming us, and your willingness to work with us.”