The Great Migration Begins [All-Tech Maintenance Thread]

[Allanea]

The Great Migration continued apace, and more and more thousands, hundreds of thousands, millions of Freemen went out to the new worlds. Vast Menelmacari-built freighters rose silently from Liberty-City, and, with flashes of sky fire, went on to the frontier.

But among the multitudes, there was also a time for the discovery of a new species. No, they have not been found on the colony worlds themselves – they were found, as if by miracle, in the holds of one of the great ships that moved men and their goods to the new worlds. They were not a natural breed, but rather a created species. None knew who was the name of the wizard or geneticist who combined the features of the sapient pony and the spider, and some said it was the spider-spirit Webster, and other ascribed the creation to Richard Serpenthelm, or to Athlan the Wild Lich, or yet even to Emperor Blaken-Kazansky himself.

Regardless, the spider ponies were here, hatching gradually from a stockpile of near ten thousand eggs. Soon enough they would begin making their home in greater Allanea.

[Allanea]

What was clear was that the Allaneans were on the move. The Megavingilots rose from Earth once again, their gargantuan hulls filled to the brim with the poorest settlers and their supplies - everything from blankets and food to weaponry and portable homes. As the ships rose through the atmosphere, they were surrounded, like whales surrounded by schools of fish, by smaller ships, everything from light freighters and disposable colony vessels to small, personal spacecraft.

Soon enough they were up and away, to one of the Winter Worlds again - but this time, not Curulambiel. It would be Moissanite that would feel the feet of settlers this time, its name - a clear hint at Allaneans’ strategy in purchasing those worlds. For the Menelmacari that sold them, the Winter Worlds were considered nearly useless for habitation, whereas for Allaneans the blizzards and snows of Moissanite were the perfect climate. Even on the equator of Moissanite it snowed reliably in the autumn and winter. The fact that Allaneans paid so little for Moissanite allowed for its name - after a semi-precious stone that had a brighter gleam than diamonds.

Naina Kozlova was among the first to step across from the enormous transport to the station already set up in Moissanite’s orbit. She was dressed in an elaborate mix of black leather and mesh clothing, with a layer of green lumifiber, entirely appropriate indoors - though of course far insufficient for the outdoor cold of Moissanite. But for now, Naina didn’t have a plan to venture outdoors, or even to come down to the prefabricated colony home that was even now being lowered to the planet’s surface. She had a job to do.

Naina paced the station’s corridors, throwing her hair back onto her shoulders, the lumifiber weaved into her hair glowing the same lime green as her clothing. As she walked, the cortical implants within her body already connected to the station’s systems, and so she did not have the slightest problem navigating its inner confines. Within her field of vision she could see not only the station corridors that were actually visible to her, but also a simplified station map, with her own self as a gleaming green dot moving along the map’s surface, her destination - a blue dot on the station map.

At long last, the two dots met. A heavy blast-proof door slid open in front of her, with Naina barely getting a chance to read the words COMPUTER ROOM inscribed on the door before it slid away.

“Helllooo everyone!” - Naina cheered as she hopped across the doorstep, the door closing behind her.

Before her was a dark room, lit mostly by the screens of several computers, with long tube-shaped lamps running through the ceiling being almost an afterthought. It didn’t seem to matter to the people within - several of them were relaxed in soft, nest-like chairs looking like one half of a broken egg, wire uplinks tying their bodies directly to their computers. Of the dozen or so men in the room, perhaps three were not linked to their computers with such cables.


“Hello!” - one of them said. For a brief moment, he paused, and Naina knew that he was even now consulting a facial-recognition program on one of his implants. “Hello.... Naina?”

“That’s me, indeed. I’m joining the team.”

“Right, I got the files on you from Tiona. Self-taught, five programming languages, independent certs, programmig and social network management, Russian, English, Quenya, five years’ experience?”

“That be me.”

“Awesome. Welcome on board, Naina.”

[Allanea]

NEWLY DISCOVERED CIVILIZATION JOINS FREE KINGDOM
Liberty Times

Liberty City – After undercover negotiations completed themselves between representatives of the Free Kingdom and a newly discovered settlement of Astral Plane-dwelling aliens, the Githyanki, the latter have agreed to join their planar outposts to the political structure of the Free Kingdom of Allanea. The Queen of the Githyanki, Vlaakith CLVIII, has agreed to enter the Githyanki society as a state of the Free Kingdom.

Both our societies – the one of the Allaneans and that of the Githyanki – will benefit greatly from the achievements of the other. The Githyanki will receive the military protection of the greater Allanean civilization, in return accepting a range of reforms of their local governance, and our societies will exchange technologies and knowledge, the Githyanki receiving our greater technological skill and the Allaneans becoming exposed to their greater knowledge of magic an the Astral Plane.

Amanda Lixunomei, Professor of Conjuration and Planar Travel for the University of Liberty-City, has given us the following comments on the deal: “Githyanki civilizations are famous for their undying loathing of slavers of all kinds. Their friendship and their assistance will be doubtlessly useful to the Free Kingdom, and I would like to state I am entirely in favor of this new arrangement. Hopefully Congress will ratify it expediently.”

King Alexander Blaken-Kazansky and Queen Vlaakith have made a joint address today to the House and Senate, detailing the fine points of the agreement and discussing the benefits that it would provide to Allaneans and Githyanki alike – though of course, by the action of this agreement, many Githyanki would in fact become Allaneans. In part, Queen Vlaakith CLVIII said:

“This treaty represents a new dawn for both our cultures. It will arm our warriors with the finest weapons, and our artisans – with the finest tools. It shall strike fear into the heart of the slaver – and especially the Illithid – wherever they happen to be. It is, I have no doubt, a new future. May the Gods continue to bless Allanea.”

As part of the unification of the two entities, a group of Freemen has already departed for the Githyanki capital , to set up a representation of the Royal government there. Permanent portals connecting Githyanki Astral colonies to the major cities of Allanea are also being set up even as this article goes to print.

Simultaneously, a group of Githyanki wizards have arrived at the University of Concord, to share with the professors there information about Astral travel and related knowledge. The Free Kingdom Armed Forces are also preparing for joint operations with Githyanki militias, both to defend against Astral plane threats and to carry out joint anti-slavery operations.

[Allanea]

Liberty-City, Minas-Faerie

Alexander Blaken-Kazansky’s podium was something to behold - a large stack of gold bars, laid one on top of the other in several layers. An investigation would prove each bar of this gold was ‘real’ - not fabricated artificially in a fabber, but in fact mined naturally in mines, and as such valuable even in countries that possessed the fabbing technology. Alexander himself was expensively dressed - wearing a bulky suit of gold-enameled powered armor that sparkled and gleamed as he moved around, as the light reflected of the moissanite and diamond patterns on the suit. Dozens of reporters huddled in the conference room, separated from Alexander by a long row of men in riot gear, who already had their batons at the ready.

Alexander smiled broadly as he looked at the reporters, a smile which expressed his total superiority to them. He knew well who he was - he was a King, a hero, a liberator. None of these people had ever achieved a tiny droplet of what he had achieved, and never would, even if they lived for thousands of years. Of the many classes and jobs of Allanean society, few were as despicable as the reporter. Even people who trusted the news networks knew that reporters were inherently untruthful, and merely believed that they were choosing the least of the evils. Alexander thought back to his many achievements - bringing freedom to the slaves of Torontonias at his personal expense, helping start the Facehuggerian Civil War, defeating the false god of Antanjyl, healing the curse that rested on Zaiden. He had reasons to despise these people: he was just plain better than them in every way.

“Greetings.” - he said. “This press conference concerns not so much my affairs as King of Allanea, but rather my enterprises as a private individual. Now as you know I have recently become a married man. And I’d like to thank my lovely wife Cassiopeia for having me. It’s truly is an honor to be married to such a lovely woman. As you may all know, being married to Cassiopeia has helped me make many important advanced as a businessman and as a family man, for example I have overseen the production and sales of the Quiver-class warships and rights to them, which has made my family vast sums of money.”

“So it’s only reasonable I’ve consulted with my wife regarding how we spend it,” - he said, pausing for a moment. “Which is why I am establishing a fund to assist exiled and dispossessed noblemen on their entry to Allanea. The purpose of the fund is to maintain said noblemen in a state of wealth, proportionate to their original titles, and to assist them in retaining a place in society proportionate to the wealth and honor that they’ve been deprived of by various revolutionary movements. Naturally, this fund will be administered privately by my wife’s Herald.”

There was a pause once more, and then the hall exploded.

‘What the fuck?” - asked a Communist New Network Reporter. - “So what you’re suggesting is that you want to spend your super-profits to help rich, unproductive exiles retain unearned privilege?”

“Why are we importing these people into our country?” - asked an overweight reporter for Svoboda i Pobeda, his triple chin undulating as he talked.


“"Will Lady Elona's known pariah status among other anti-revolutionary Spirean nobles, for her cowardice in the face of the enemy not result in her presence compromising this scheme?"” - asked a Liberty-Times reporter wearing flowing, C’tani-style robes.

“Sir, will illegitimate children of the nobility be permitted to apply for this program?” - a man in the rear of the hall shouted out, drowning out the other reporters - “What about noble-born Skyborn from Altea who have been sold into slavery?”

“Will an established claimant be stripped of title if a more legitimate claimant comes forward?” - a hobbit in a leather shirt asked, hopping close to the stage - and then was crudely pushed away by the line of guards.

“Allright, now with the answers. Yes, I do want to spend my super-profits to help rich exiles retain unearned privilege. For one, because I - and most people in this great wonderful country of ours - don’t believe privilege needs to be earned. Some people are born into wealth, others into beauty and intelligence, some are born with magical powers. Some are born Orcs, some Elves, others Bronze Dragons. Those are forms of unearned privilege, and yet I believe that these are all totally fair and just. And the reason - which no doubt will disappoint you, and will make the questioner from Svoboda i Pobeda very happy - is to prevent Communism. Having people who have suffered oppression and privation at the hands of Communist and Socialist reformers among us will ensure the more members of our upper class are personally invested in the survival of the Allanean Way.” - he did not add, and will have a reason to be loyal to myself and House Kazansky.

He paused. “It’s true that Lady Elona isn’t the ideal candidate, but she has earned our trust by risking her life for justice and liberty. The details of her work on behalf of the Allanean security services remain classified, but I assure you that our trust in her is absolute. Unfortunately, while a candidate more popular in counterrevolutionary circles might be preferable, we’ve yet to find an alternate candidacy for the job. “

He looked at the hobbit reporter and continued: “We will enable both legitimate and illegitimate children to apply, and since we are not yet short of money, it will be possible for two or more claimants to receive pensions. If a money shortage comes up in the program we’re going to be forced to prioritise legitimate claimants over legitimate ones, and those who have an experience living in nobility - and thus actual victims of the Spirean revolutionary regime, which I stress has refused to apologize for any of its crimes, much less compensate the victims - will then be prioritised.over people who do not. However I hope it won’t come to that.”

“Sir!” - the hobbit butted in. “Why are you giving money to Spirean nobles? Aren’t Imerian nobles braver, and possessed with a better martial tradition?”

“For one, Imerian nobles aren’t being deprived of their lands by a Jacobin regime. Two, now I am going to be frank here, were this public money, I would not be able to prioritize one race over another in my spending, I’d have to treat everyone equally. But this is my own money. Gods be praised, this is not Edolia. I am free to be as racist as I want, and in my view birdlings are superior to Scanderas. My wife thinks so, and my wife is always right.”

“Superior to humans?” - asked the hobbit, completely horrified “What the fuck?”

“Well, for one they have wings. Do you have wings, Master Hobbit?” - asked Alexander, as if trying to check if the hobbit was in fact winged. “Their brains have superior spatial orientation, and they’re better at magic. Sounds good enough to me that we’d want them in the country and not some Scanderans. “

[Allanea]

Minas-Faerie, Liberty-City, Press Conference Room

This time around, Alexander Blaken-Kazansky stood on the podium without any powered armor. Indeed, he wore only a set of gold-colored boxer underpants. Next to him on one side stood Sandra and Malia, in their red and and yellow two-piece swimming suits, and on the other side, Tiffany and Mia, their hair (and bathing suits) blue and green respectively. Alexander began to speak.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we are continuing to engage in the charity project to invite the Spirean nobility to travel to Allanea and to make use both of the vast scale of charity money available to them here, and of refugee status. As you know, because the Spirean government has refused to refund those whose land was - even in its own admission - unlawfully taken from them, even though it has actually apologized - thus admitting guilt - Allanea has continued its sanctions against the Spirean government. As we all know, the Spirean government continues to base its founding document on the concept of collective guilt for the nobility. For this reason, the Allanean government continues to allow the Noblemen here as refugees, because their persection by the Spirean government continues. And as a private individuals I continue to give them money.”

He paused. “But now I have managed to sell production rights to my awesome new tank, and I have even more money to help these refugees with. I am going to purchase land in the extrasolar colonies, and I am going to parcel it out to the refugees in accordance to their old title, and if they are ‘illegitimate’ noblemen - issue them with a Reichskamphenite title and according land. The point is to get people who have been bred as noblemen, or at least related by blood, to immigrate to this lovely country and enjoy our glorious liberty. If they have money and land in the colonies they’ll be able to live happily by renting this land out to people moving out from the arcologies, or setting robots to farm on the land, or whatever.”

He smiled. “Of course, people have issued concerns that some of these people might turn out to be slavers. Happily if someone breaks the law that’s what police and an armed citizenry are for, I don’t really expect much trouble because this is Allanea and not some savage socialist country like Crystal Spires. That said, this is a free country - nobody will be met with prejudice and discrimination just because of their wealth and noble origins. Hating people because they are wealthy, elegant, and happen to have wings, or because their ancestors may have done evil, is not something Allanea does. It’s what the enemies of Freedom do.”

“Let me say this again: Allanea will always stand as a bulwark against egalitarianism. It will stand forever as a gleaming fortress of liberty, against the forces of Jacobinism and Socialism, against radical Republicanism. Let it be known that should a refugee cross our borders, they are protected by us, and sustained by the nurturing breast of Lady Liberty. The walls of Leyfield, the shores of Liberty-City, the endless ranks of our bayonets are an insurmountable obstacle to any Mythorian scumbag.”

[Allanea]

From: Alexander Blaken-Kazansky, Emperor of Greater Prussia, King of Allanea and Commander of the Varangian Guard
To: The Calabrian Veterans Association

Subject: New Opportunities!

Dear Friends!

As you might know, I have been making efforts to invite the members of the former Spirean elite to stand by my side in Allanea, and providing to them a share of the wealth of Kazansky Heavy Industries. On the official level, Allanea has taken a principled stand against the violations of sapient rights undertaken by the government of Crystal Spires. Our behavior on every level shows that we are friends to those who are victims of terrible injustice. And as such I would like to offer the warrior-skyborn a new range of opportunities.

As a first-step measure I am forming several special guard units to be part of the Varangian Guard - my personal security outfit, funded by the profits of Kazansky Heavy Industries. Officers, leadership staff, and guardsmen are needed for the Varangian Guard, and will be offered not only money - on the same guiding principles as the funding available for the noblemen - but also positions and an opportunity to once more be in service to a just and true King such as myself.

As a second step, I am seeking out individuals willing to help me testify before the Senate on the necessity of inviting more Skyborn warriors to Allanea as an official government policy, to improve the ability of the Free Kingdom Armed Forces to serve the nation’s interests and to protect the rights of all Freemen to Life, Liberty, and Property. Those willing to do so can testify either as individuals, or as representatives of their professional organizations.

Should this be successful and find the approval of the Senate, we will move on to the third step of our project - which I cannot guarantee at the present - a large-scale recruitment by the Allanean government of Skyborn Warriors to fill every sort of position within the Armed Forces, including command positions and research positions within the Stellar Navy War College, the Army War College, and the Navy War College, as well as in the General Staff.

Be assured that I have not only my own personal wealth on the side of this decision. I have discussed this action with my comrade, Kevin Nivensky, head of Allanean Arms, and more funds shall begin flowing soon.

Yours, Alexander.

*

Carefully, Alexander examined the piece of paper that the letter had been printed on - a dense, heavy piece, embossed with the Double-Headed Crow seal of House Kazansky. He folded it neatly, using the edge of a knife to press down on the fold, and then sealed it with a red wax seal. Finally, he placed the envelope into another envelope - a thick, heavy plastic envelope with the sign of the Cheetah Mail Company - one of the many private mail companies that served the Liberty-City Area. Then, finally, he rang the bell for a servant.

A blonde girl, dressed in a light, flowing yellow dress that ended just under her knees, appeared within about five minutes.

“Malia.” - said Alexander. “Please have this mailed off as soon as possible.”

“Yes, of course.” - said Malia, taking the envelope from him.

She left the room immediately, her canary-yellow pinpoint shoes clacking and clacking against the black polished floor. Minutes later she was on a balcony, waiting, looking out into the skies of Liberty-City.

She did not need to wait long.

The drone appeared within fifteen minutes, a buzzing, light-grey hexacopter, a single diagonal black stripe crossing its light body. A small shelf was attached to it from below, just large enough to hold letters and small packages. It hovered in mid-air, just slightly above Malia’s face level, and she raised the letter, placing it on the shelf. A few seconds passed as the drone scanned the letter’s cover, its software acquiescing to the reality that it was now ladened with a package, and then it turned, flying off towards the city. Somewhere, among the colorful roofs of a myriad private homes, a handling center waited, staffed by dozens of hissing machines and a few men. There the letter would be sorted, cleared, and redirected, until finally it would be on a flight towards D’Halbrisir.

*

It rained during the night.

Armored personnel carriers rolled through the streets of Liberty-City. The water flowed off their black, glistening hulls, like the bodies of ancestral beasts. Few people were in the street, the rain served well to keep people indoors. Among the few who did, even ferwer recognized the machines, thinking them to belong to some corporate security outfit or another. The few who did know what they were, waved to them - they were the King’s private army, the Varangian Guard.

They rolled forward, to rented garages and parking lots within the city, where they would wait in the coming days. Their turrets spun, the long, slim guns tracking against the windows of middle-class homes and wealthy mansions alike. In the neigborhoods where the poor lived, black-clad Varangians would come in the early morning, passing by the doors of arcology flats. Their presence there was welcome - they offered to help the arcology militias patrol the hallways, and rented unoccupied flats. On the balconies of these unoccupied flats, machinegun nests and anti-tank positions would be deployed. On the roofs of the enormous, high-rise buildings, automatic grenade launchers would be deployed. Heavier, bulkier weapons bid their time, waiting in olive-green wooden boxes.

It would be several days before the rumours began to crawl through the city.

And a few more days before the Liberty Council would begin to get genuinely concerned.

By that time, other people - people who were far more of a threat to the Council - were already moving into the city. These people were not visible, they carried no weapons - no weapons, at least, past what was normal for a Freeman to carry - they wore black, wraparound sunglasses even indoors.

Some might say the armed deployment was only a cover to hire these people - lawyers, journalists, and assassins.

Some might say...

*

In the weapons workshops of Kazansky Heavy Industries, in the forges under Leyfield, new devices and weapons were contrived - recoilless arms for use by the Skyborn, guided missiles to be fired from on high, and self-aiming munitions to be released by hand by a flying beastling or a man with enough elevation. New and exciting horrors were invented or retrofitted, some reimaginings of older weapons, others fresh from the screen of drafting computers.

Infantry doctrine was reimagined and contrived anew, for a new sort of warrior that the military did not have - but the Emperor’s private army soon would. Experts, contracted in secret, were already drafting the first pages of presentations that would show new ways in which the flying warriors could devastate their foe.

Obviously, conventional mechanized infantry service would not be for these new warriors, who could not abide vehicles, and were not able to even fit through the hatches of an armored personnel carrier or an IFV. But it was already obvious that there were many other things that they could do for the King’s Varangian guard. On the threedimensional battlefield of the future, these new warriors - if they agreed to fight alongside the King - would be worth their weight in gold, if they could but be properly utilized.

Priscilla Conde, Alexander’s friend and apprentice, paced through the Leyfield Arms workshop, looking over the mockups and prototypes. Here, she hefted an anti-tank rocket in her hand, a light setup only four pounds in weight, and unfolded its guidance fins. On a working sample this would be lethally dangerous - on this mockup the fins snapped into place harmlessly.

“This is like the unguided variant,” - she said, “but laser-guided like the old models, right?”

The scientist who had developed the rocket nodded, dressed in a white laboratory coat, the goggles that shielded his eyes during experiments shifted onto his forehead. “Yes, Grand Marshal.”

“Excellent. When are you going into production?”

“We’re hoping to have a test run to get off the production line in ten days.”

“Unacceptable. I want it ready in seven.”

“What-?” - the scientist started, amazed by the demand. Truly, it could be done in seven days - if he agreed to work feverishly, around the clock.

“Seven. You can do it in seven days. There is no question of it, I can see it in your eyes,” - pressed Priscilla, “Am I wrong?”

“....seven days would be extremely-”

“So you can do it in seven days. Then I expect you to do it. Don’t forget who you are working for - if you want to keep working for him, that is.” - Priscilla said, turning her back on the scientist.

“You cannot speak to me like that!” - the scientist raised his voice momentarily.

But Priscilla Conde was already walking away, her high heels tapping defiantly against the pearly-grey floors of Leyfield Palace. As the scientist’s voice grew shriller behind her, it also faded away, separated from her by distance and drowned out by the noises of the busy laboratory.

Minutes later she no longer remembered his surname, in her mind he was simply “that guy working on the new guided rocket.”

*

Meeting of the Liberty Council, Media Subcomittee

The meetings of this subcommittee were not announced to the public, and indeed they were held, like all meetings of the Liberty Council, in an underground bunker, held deep under the city streets of Liberty-City. The room was ornate, its walls covered in dark-green cloth, sealed against sound and proof against magical scrying. There were several representatives in the room - one of the Allanean News Network, one of Phoenix Movie Studios, and several others that controlled Allanea’s media industry. Between them, they had access to the majority of cinemas, television screens, and personal computers in Allanea. In short, these were some of the most powerful men and women in the country, moreso than many Senators and Representatives.

And Alexander Blaken-Kazansky was among them. He was dressed, as usual, in his black-and-silver uniform of the Allanean Armed forces, that same uniform in which he oversaw parades, attended foreign events, and commanded the Kingdom’s armies to glorious battle.

“What is necessary,” - he said, “is to avoid the overt appearance that we are having some kind of fucked up media onslaught here - and it’s especially necessary to do so because we are.”

“How are we going to do that?” - asked Phoenix himself, the head of Phoenix movie studios.

“Oh come on, you are not a child. The news people will strike first, of course, as they always do.”

“We already have a plan.” - Norman Healy, the representative of ANN, spoke. He was a pale man, bespectacled, dressed in a formal black suit with a white shirt, but without a tie - as formal as an Allanean could be seen. Only the trace of a tattoo escaping from his pressed collar betrayed who he really was. “‘We will air a series of documentaries of how members of former nobility are abused worldwide. We can have an episode on how the Spirean government steals land-”

“And sends people actual papers admitting they’ve done it illegally.” - smirked the King. “And still doesn’t compensate.”

“Imagine how those notices are going to play on ANN.” - said Norman. His watery, grey eyes seemed to be entirely bereft of emotion. “People will imagine themselves in place of those noblemen, they will think of what it would be like to have their house taken away and then have the government admit wrongdoing.”

“And we can have a series of shows on historical republicanism, and of course mention the assassination attempts that are occuring even today,” - said Alexander. “I don’t need to teach you how to do your job. And then in a few months...’

“I come out with a summer movie.” - said Phoenix. “Or a Wintereenmas Special if we can’t get it done by summertime.”

“Also we can talk about the Edolians seizing agricultural lands by force and their Imperator trying to stop it and being ejected., If we tie the notion of Republicanism to Edolain Socialism, it will discredit it utterly in the eyes of the public.” - mused Healy.

“The two of you know perfectly well what you’re doing,” - said Alexander, looking at Healy through his glass of Red Rabbit cola. He despised Healy utterly, it was like doing business with an octopus. Yet he realized that people like Healy where necessary - in every country the Healies of the world manipulated the public, in every county they were dishonest agents of fraud. The only difference was that in Allanea, though a series of fortunate events, they mostly served the right people. Mostly.

“Now there is no meaningful control this committee has of the tabloids.” - said Healy. “But they’r already doing everything we need for us, what with the Pantocratorian wedding and all.”

“It was like a symbol of everything Allanea stands for,” - said a man sitting in a shadowy corner. His face could not be seen, but everybody knew who he was - Charles Tan, the owner of a podcast network, hosting most of Allanea’s most popular radio shows . “I enjoyed every minute of it. The voice of that Pantocratorian newscaster covering it was precious. It has made me feel like a patriot again.”

“The great thing about this project,” - said Healy “is that we don’t have to lie very much doing it.”

It was obvious to Alexander that Healy didn’t feel any kind of remorse at the notion of lying to the public either. Had Healy been a fascist, he’d be persuading the public that being oppressed was good for them, that dangers lurked behind every corner, that it would be best - for their own safety - to accept cruelty and atrocities -and of course, since most people in the country listened to a handful of TV hosts, they’d believe him, isolated within the echo chamber of fear and sanctimoniousness. The only difference between that - and what was Healy doing now - was that right now the cause for which Healy was working was broadly just, the Allanean way was the right way - but Healy himself was a tame monster, a step below Cassiopeia’s tame carrion crawlers.

Sadly, he could not get rid of Healy. And if he could have, some new slug would fill the ecosystem.

“Well, ladies and gentlemen,” - said Alexander, finishing his drink. “I thank you for your time.’ - he rose from the table. “I believe it is time for you to talk to your own people. Let’s get this show on the road.”

[Allanea]

[b]Aboard the Imperial Yacht, SS Chutzpah[b]

The Emperor of Greater Prussia owned a ship of incredible scope, so much was clear. The ship had started out years ago, as an Executor-class Star Destroyer, but ever since it had undergone refit after refit, renovation after renovation, its engines replaced with gravitic drives, its FTL drive replace with the newest in imported technology, its weapons systems automated, refit after refit, its troop compartments replaced with a small hunting park, two swimming pools installed, and so on and so forth.

And so right now, as it materialized in New Dornalia’s home system, it looked as if it was brand new - a gleaming spearhead, armored in crimson-red.

On board the spacecraft, in a luxurious rococo-styled dining hall,, seated at the head of a mahogany table, Alexander awaited his guests. Already on the table were delicious, succulent medium-rare steaks, large bottles of champagne Reserve L’Empereur. Seated around him were four young ladies, dressed in two-piece swimsuits - one red, one blue, one green and one yellow. More amusingly, the ladies’ hair was matched to the swimsuits - one natural redhair, one blonde, and two ladies with their hair dyed.

“Chutzpah,” spoke the Emperor, talking to the ship’s near-sapient grade AI. “Please, contact the Dornalians via tight-beam. It shall be soon time for them to dock.”

---

Aboard Article 115

“Alright, folks. There she is.”

The ship visiting the Chutzpah would, by all appearances, resemble an ordinary Dornalian “Guardian” class vessel. A cousin of the legendary Defiant class, it was, in typical Dornalian fashion somehting much more potent than its UFP-bred cousin. And hell, that was powerful enough as is.

However, the observant would be able to note that this was no ordinary Guardian. It was lengthened a bit. It looked more turtle-like, with the “wings” of the Defiant sporting a pair of embedded, drumlike structures which resembled big revolving cylinders from a revolver, right down to the six chambers, covered by hatches.

It also was, quite frankly, shinier and had risqué nose art on it, consisting of a young woman posing suggestively over a rocket, with the name “Bite the Bullet” on it.

The vessel itself would be moving to dock with the CHutzpah soon enough. As it did so, the ship’s AI, Gracie-Elevenfive would reply back, “Chutzpah Actual, this is Article One-One-Five. We acknowledge your signal and are moving to dock. Over.”

As the ship moved to dock, the delegation onboard Article 115 got into character. Supreme Commander Katarzyna Wachowski stood ready to come onboard in her fine dress uniform, doing so because well, the Republic had guests who were interested in Article 115. Meanwhile, the Secretary of State, Norton Simons, stood next to the Supreme Commander in a relatively modest suit and tie and glasses, looking more like the modest protagonist of some harem anime than anything else, along with his companion--a cat eared/tailed woman with a tanned complexion and glasses, with an ever present tablet and stylus. And then there was a random Asian-looking man in a suit next to them. Despite his comparatively boring appearnce, he was in fact one of the biggest players in the reception committee.

And so, it would be time to come onboard….

As the ship came on board, gently guided by the yacht’s landing electronics to a slot in its spacious, and near-empty, vehicle hangar, several droids - subsapient, once more, but capable of limited communications - led the new guests to an elevator, and from there, towards the dining hall. Once there, Alexander’s four ‘secretaries’ surrounded the guests, ushering them to their seats.

As they entered, Alexander spoke in a happy tone. “Greetings, Karatzyna, Norton, this is well-met indeed. First things first - I am Alexander, and I am interested in purchasings all sorts of supplies from you for the Free Kingdom Navy... but of course it must happen in absolute secrecy. Even our closest allies must not hear of this. I will pay you, of course, by sending out the money as shipments of physical cash, or as cryptocurrency transfers. None of this will have ever happened.”

The committee greeted the reception with smiles. light bows, and a hearty handshake as they sat down. The neko with Norton looked about, and went, “Don’t you wish we could redecorate the drapes like this?” in a low whisper to him.

Norton nonchalantly replied, “Didn’t we just get drapes, Amanda?”

“Yeah, but they’re so….” her voice trailed off, as the meeting came to order and Alexander laid out his proposal. The idea of cash-and-carry on the downlow certainly appealed to all those assembled. The Asian man in particular nodded with approval, and scribbled onto his own tablet. Norton was the first to speak.

“Well, Your Highness...”

“Alexander.” - said the Emperor. “Alexander is quite sufficient, we all know who I am.”

“Apologies.” Norton continued, adding, “Well, Alexander, those means of transfer would make sense, to keep this on the, ahem, ‘down-low,’ as the kids say nowadays.”

Pausing, the Secretary of State then asked, “If I may ask, what sort of supplies were you looking to acquire from the Republic? If I understood the situation correctly, part of those supplies…” Euphemistically, the Secretary of State added, slyly, “...well, I think we can all say we’ve brought over one of those requested items. Which by the way, I assume is why you’d like to keep this a secret?”

“My primary interest would be in what you’ve called so far the Intergalactic Ballistic Missile Program. My plan is to secure large amounts of long-range weapons,” - explained Alexander, “ in storage in remote areas of the Galaxy, on the rim of the Galactic Disk, beyond the commonly-traveled space-lanes. Not so much ships such as the one you are showing off here - though I’m happy to purchase some ships, just so we can form a sort of multi-tier complex.” - he paused. “The primary strike means, however, shall be a range of single-use weapons, which will not move about once placed in storage, and thus require minimal maintenance while awaiting their use. We will couple those with a series of interstellar surveillance stations, which we will also contract with you. In this way, even if Allanea’s main worlds are occupied or devastated with an enemy first strike, we will have the capacity for a powerful second-strike blow.”

Norton nodded stoically. The IGBM program had been one of the main systems the Republic had purchased wholesale from the Starways Congress, seemingly as they had left the concept behind for more advanced and sure means of putting worlds to the sword. It had been left to the Dornalians to perform the requisite tinkering and scientific stuntwork needed to keep the concept going, albeit under the name “Interstellar Ballistic Missile.” A misnomer--they were essentially long range cruise missiles with FTL and even that nugget Nadine Huntleigh-MacIntyre knew it.

Before he could speak, however, Supreme Commander Wachowski spoke up first.

“Ah yes. The Interstellar Ballistic Missile program.” Katarzyna continued with a sanguine, acknowledging tone. “The ISBM--technically a type of interstellar FTL-capable cruise missile--was designed to provide a means of deterrence against enemies of the Republic as well as a capable long-distance strike capability.”

Nodding as she pulled out a small holographic model of an ISBM and Article 115, Katarzyna continued, “The Republican Navy does mount them on types of vessels, as we do prefer a more mobile capability in this regard. For example, Article 115, designed by Mr. Nakajima’s people, was designed to provide highly flexible and mobile response. But, I can see them also functioning according to the needs of Allanean deterrence doctrine in the manner you suggest.”

As she said that part, Katarzyna nodded and gestured to the Asian man, who began speaking in a somewhat lilting tone, originating from the Hawaiian Islands, “Apologies for not introducing myself. I’m Paul Nakajima, with United Armscorp--the ship out there was my design. Anyway, I’m sure we could try building something to your specifications in terms of a stationary observation station/launch platform and a ISBM to match. What did you have in mind?”

“I am envisioning something primitive all to fuck, which we could fit to free-floating asteroids in the outer rim of the solar system. To an observer,” - Alexander said, as he cut off a bit of steak, “it’d look like an ordinary asteroid. It would have IGBMs, probably hidden either in a storage hold, or actually in silos much like ones you could see in ancient times, in the ballistic missile era. Once the onboard system - or possibly the crew - receives targeting data, they fire the missiles and then immediately abandon the asteroid, as it’ll likely get torn to bits by responding fire.”

“Makes sense.”

Paul then pulled out his tablet and noted, “Well, asteroid-based platforms would be easily done. We could put together a static silo emplacement system which could be quickly installed in an asteroid. I’m no Gracie, but I know we’ve built asteroid-based systems before for research projects. Could easily retrofit the plans with C-3 equipment and secure communications lines to talk to one another and with whatever authority in the Free Kingdom’s authorized to launch superweapons. The existing Naval CRM-114 Strategic Communications System could be adapted to this static environment--CRM’s what we use on ships like Article 115, the Phoenix Special Missions Vehicles, or even the Mac-class vessels armed with ISBMs to ensure that when it’s time to nuke someone, well, it comes from the right people.

There’s also off-the-shelf mining platforms we could use which well, wouldn’t look like much until someone hits the proverbial red button. Could spread them amongst the asteroids. Either way, the ISBMs would be emplaced in silos, ready to be armed and aimed at a moment’s notice.”

Norton nodded, and added, showing a holographic model of a missile that looked surprisingly mundane, “A variant of the main ISBM we use, the Big Stick Series, would be the system likely used to equip such ISBM stations. It’s a single use device which is comparable to an old timey ICBM or SLBM. Our stellar version though utilizes a combination of a Colonial Jump Drive Style FTL that occasionally beams the ISBM on random points along the travel path as it flies to the destination to minimize the chance of interception--along with a crude particle shield designed to resist impacts and some enemy fire--and a very large sublight drive, so as to ensure that the missile can go over long interstellar distances. It can support a variety of munitions, done in the form of a MIRV setup--everything from atomics, to antimatter, to kinetic kill projectors which have their own repulsors and hyperdrives. We’ve tested it, and it can go from one end of New Hokkaido to the other--and for perspective well, New Hokkaido’s a very large County, and but merely a smaller section of the Prates Supercluster.”

Amanda looked at Norton as he said all that, and resisted the urge to titter at the glittering generalities within Norton’s pitch. Norton looked at the neko, and shrugged, before pausing to take in whatever questions Alex had.

“I think the proper way to do this is to refit some of them with actual Q-bombs,” - Alexander said, “and some with various other explosives, to strike both planets and megastructures. We should have about three thousand of them. The other issue would be building surveillance stations, once against built in the asteroids. We will build four, one to cover each Galactic Quadrant, with the stations gathering data from an array of drones, both FTL-capable ones and STL-only drones. The stations themselves will be primitive as all fuck-out, once again, but they’d still probably cost about a billion each. So right off the bat we’re talking about a bill for about three hundred and fifty billion New Dornalian dollars for everything including the missile-carrying ships we talked about early on, is that a fair deal?” - he paused, before adding. “Furthermore, I think we should add a Hyperdrive capacity to the missiles, for true interstellar range, sort of like Galaxy Gun projectiles.”

The Dornalians nodded at one another, and Katarzyna indicated, “To the latter point regarding range, I believe Norton did address that in part by noting the fact the stock missile does come with a form of FTL travel, which does give it considerable range as it is.” Looking at Norton with a puzzled look, Katarzyna added, “Still, I don’t have any objection to installing a mroe conventional hyperdrive to the missile.”

Amanda crunched the numbers, and said, “Alexander has a point. I was looking this stuff up just now--installing conventional hyperdrives would reduce the risk of ‘redlining’ that comes with Colonial style FTL drives, and for only a few dollars more. Alternatively, we could also equip the missiles with Flux Capacitor-based drives, which are not only dirt cheap and easily maintained but also provide nearly unlimited range--you’d just need to plug in the target coordinates into the space-time computer and you’re good to go.”

Katarzyna added, turning to Alex, “What she proposes though, it is not as subtle as the other options. Flux Capacitors tend to make a big thunderous entrance….which may attract unwanted attention to the incoming missiles from enemy defenses. Still, that may not be that big of an issue.”

Amanda also added, “Oh, and by the way, crunching the numbers, I’d say that three hundred and fifty billion Dornalian Dollars, considering purchasing power, use of fabbers and other such things….I mean, flyaway cost on each Big Stick is a hundred million per missile. Three thousand missiles, that comes to three hundred billion alone. Then, using off-the-shelf parts such as the CRM-114 Decoder…..the Mitsubishi Heavy Industries Standard Asteroid Habitation System....standardized space stations, ruggedized to meet DoD standards...all the parts needed to build a sufficient stellar monitoring network using secure FTL comms and probes and possibly also ship based telemetry feeds also in case someone blows up a drone….”

Norton nodded in acknowledgement and went, seeking to speed things up a bit, “Think it’s a fair deal?”

“Just about fair market value.” the neko said with a grin to both Alex and Norton.

The Dornalians looked at one another for several long moments, before Norton declared, “It’s a deal.”


“Very well,” - said Alexander, “Now I think you should try the steak.”

[Allanea]

As the new scientific advancements that have been purchased from the New Dornalians and others were making headway, a new wave of prosperity rolled outwards through the country. Several portals were erected in Liberty-City, owned by several portal operators, all licensed by the Ministry of Colonial Affairs to use the technology.

The Interstellar Highway Company had the simplest setup - portals that have been keyed to a specific location on one of the Mercine worlds, each of them large enough to drive several cars through. The user had no access to the portal control - he would simply drive forward, and find his metaphorical wallet a few credits lighter, and the sky overhead a slightly different color as the car drove out of the portal and out towards the snowy expanses. The Multiple-Choice Portal Company allowed individuals to key in specific portals where they could exit, and charged slightly more.

Some of the portals were fixed at the tops of skyscrapers, accessible to gravcars and helicopters, opening out to mountaintops of dazzling white and hilltops of brilliant, empty blue.

Though Hestia was left untouched, for now, the other Mercine worlds were now the prime focus of expansion. There was little planning as such - thousands upon thousand of Allaneans poured out of the portals every day, some of them middle-class, many more arcology dwellers in cheap, beat-up automobiles, with their belongings crudely lashed to the tops of the cars with ropes.

They drove and drove forward, along the freshly-laid highways, until the highways disappeared and were replaced by gravel roads, and then veered off off the highways and into the wilderness. Those who could afford it made arrangements to have a prebuilt house brought down on their preferred location. Some couldn’t, of course, and families - sometimes assisted by some manner of robot they had purchased on the cheap, sometimes laboring with hand and axe and saw - built their own homes in the wild.

The rescue services, of course, had to work hard to support these pioneers - teams of brave young men, riding across the wilderness on gravbikes or descending from orbit on converted Navy gunships, were standing ready in the case some poor soul was about to succumb to the elements - but the colonies were not, of course, perfectly safe. Sometimes the rescuers arrived only to discover corpses huddling together in the snow, or worse, the rent bodies of those who had lost a last firefight against a pack of animals, or even against a gang of bandits.

None of this, of course, stopped the migrants. Around the portals themselves, small towns were beginning to form. Geodesic domes - some light-grey, but others colored in every color of the rainbow - were now spread in every location where a few portals were mounted, as if a child has tossed out a handful of marbles onto the snow. Those who have had the foresight to grab onto land lots that were located usefully near a portal began to open bars, clubs and casinos. In this wilderness, a man who had imported a bartender’s kit could secure himself a small income. Others - equally intelligent - sold cold-weather equipment, weapons, and supplies to those who were about to venture into the wilderness and had not been wise enough to buy winter gear.


And of course, there were men like Christopher O’Neal, working hard on the very forefront of Allanea’s outward expansion.

Christopher was the very image of what the expansion was all about - a prospector.

No, not like that. Christopher O’Neal was not just a prospector, he was a Prospector. Even now, dressed in a skinsuit that protected him even from the most incredible cold, armed with a scratched-up infantry lasgun, he was making his way up a mountain pass. Behind him, a small caravan of six-legged robots, carrying supplies and equipment, followed. The robots crawled, climbed, hopped their way upwards up the slope, sometimes following Christopher, sometimes making their way up nearly vertical slopes. Sometimes they fell, smashing down the mountain, their spindly legs flailing in the air as they tumbled towards the ground. A fall like that would have killed a human being dead, causing their skin to split and their bones to splinter like matchsticks - but the robots skittered like overturned bugs, flipped themselves back over, and continued on their journey. Sometimes they sped ahead of Christopher, and dropped a length of thin, sturdy rope on which they helped him rise upward.

Finally, he was at his destination: sitting atop a vast, granite cliff. Above him was the sky of the new planet - Mercine World #4, it was so far named. He sat on the edge of the cliff, his feet dangling off the rock, clad in heavy boots. From here, he could see out across the land - dark-green evergreen trees, snow that looked almost blueish in the twilight, and, at the very edge of the horizon, the lights of a settlement. Blinking, shimmering as they moved across the snows, he could see the lights of cars and snowmobiles, the sign of more settler convoys moving out into the expanse.

As he sat here, he pondered his days as a schoolboy - only five years ago.

The classroom was ill-lit, two of the three lights having gone out a month ago and not having been fixed. The screenboard was glowing softly still, displaying an animated explanation of a binomial.

“Of course, our country doesn’t value mathematics sufficiently,” - said the teacher. She was the very illustration to that phrase - tattered boots, a pale skin, a faded shirt betrayed in her an arcology-dweller, much like the dozen of boys and girls she was teaching. “But there are some good things you can do with your life if you’re skilled in mathematics.”

“Like what? Be a math teacher?” - one of the boys said with derision from the rear row. He smiled with a set of yellowish teeth. Everyone knew who this boy was - Alec Pate. His father was a dockworker, his mother had been unemployed since before Alec wa born. With his father away at the docks, Alec - even now Christopher remembered his face in detail - paid only as much attention to schooling as he needed to not to fail outright. This was considered to be a fairly reasonable degree of success - for Charitable Arcology School #26, it was wonderful. Many boys like Alec didn’t qualify even for a class like this.

“Well, Mr. Pate,” - the woman said, “What about an engineer? Or a spacecraft navigator? Or a Colonial Prospector?”

“What’s a Colonial Prospector, Miss Simpson?” - asked Christopher. He didn’t know then that asking that would change his life.

“Well, you know how Allanea has colonies throughout the Galaxy and beyond?” - asked Miss Simmonds.

Of course he knew, the promotional videos were everywhere.

“Well, after the recon drones sweep the colonies for a preliminary survey, Colonial Prospectors go out to inspect the various places where preliminary survey says there might be something of value - gold, diamonds, silver, dilithium ore. It’s fairly dangerous, but they get paid a fuckton.” - it wasn’t surprising for a teacher to use such a word, of course, this was Liberty-City.

“Dangerous?” - Christopher asked then, his eyes lighting up.

Well, here was his answer. He directed the drones to set up camp - spread a tent, fire up the heater, unfold the sleeping bag - and then went on, along the mountain slope. Of course, the drones would sweep the area later, but Christopher was a believer in doing his work thoroughly.

Even as he picked up his first samples - really, any small rocks that attracted his eye - he thought back to the days he would hand back his homework to Miss Simpson. She was still there, somewhere, light-years away, dealing with some other classroom full of arcology impossibles, getting paid five hundred credits a month. He contacted her when he got this job, offering her help. At first she refused, but eventually he talked her into accepting a bank transfer of a few hundred credits - just before he headed off into the wilderness.

”It’s not enough to have the right answer,” - said Miss Simmonds, handing him the thick notebook - an inch thick, bound in cardboard.

“Why isn’t it enough?” - asked Chris. “It is the right answer.”

“The question is, Mr. O’Neal, how do you get the right answer reliably?” - she paused “The answer is, by doing all the work.”

“I did the work in my head.” - replied Chris.

“Sure.” - replied Simmonds. “And maybe that’s even true. But, first of all, I need to see that. And second, you need to train until you do that reliably. Dozens of times. Hundreds of times. Until all the steps of disassembling the binomials are a second instinct to you. You know how to shoot a pistol, right?”

Of course he did, he was almost an adult now!

“Well it’s the same thing. Just how the important thing in the pistol shot is the draw, and you train in drawing efficiently every single time, you need to train in doing the work until you can solve these things rapidly and instinctively. That’s why you hate doing the work-”

“I don’t hate-”

“All of you do. You think it’s because you dislike writing out a few lines of numbers and digits? No, it’s because you’re irritated with doing the work in your head. But do it a hundred times and you’ll be able to do more complicated things. Like the sort of math Colonial Prospectors need to do.”

Of course, he had done most of the math back at base camp, when looking the earlier, rougher soil samples that the scout drones had brought in, and looking at spectrographer images. What he was doing now was only confirming his theory - a scientific experiment of sorts, with money coming out of one end, rather than scientific truth.

So now he was here, with a handful of rocks, sitting in front of a heater at base camp. The heater was a single cylinder, with the top and bottom still black and its body glowing in a warm yellow as it spread heat and light around itself, even as darkness descended onto the mountain. Had he been doing it without the heater, he’d have to somehow bring firewood up the mountain, or harvest it here. As it stood, the heater was powered by some complex technology Christopher didn’t know much about - but it did make his life easier.

Even now, he took one of the rocks out, holding it with three gloved fingers as he dripped a single drop of clear fluid on it from a pipette. He waited for several seconds, the cold winter wind ripping away at his face... the fluid stayed clear, and he threw the rock over the edge of the cliff in frustration.

Another rock, somewhat pinkish in color - a granite of some kind. This time, the liquid became pink, bright-pink. “Fuck you,” - Christopher said to the rock, as it went over the edge of the cliff too.

The third rock took its sweet time - a whole ten seconds - before changing color. He was already about to throw it away, too, when suddenly the fluid seemed to light up, becoming a noxious lime-green.

He placed the rock carefully on the ground, fumbling for the camera.

This was it.

Well, not really.

It wasn’t really it. He would have to continue searching for several days, to find more rocks like this, to confirm his suspicions. Only then would the Company send more men and more drones into these mountains. But this was... let’s say it was on its way to being it.

“Thank you, Miss Simpson,” - he whispered, and clouds of steam came out of his mouth as he did.

[Allanea]

]Old Russia

There are many countries in the multiverse that call themselves ‘Russia’ or that speak the language of Dostoevsky and Pushkin. Some of them are socialist and decrepit - like Ravenstskia - others are technologically advanced and stand astride multiple planets. Others are even located outright on other planets, by some bizarre cosmic luck. Of these, this particular place - known as Old Russia - has famously been the origin of at least some of the settlers that had later formed the Allanean people.

Old America, the other origin country, had long been subsumed as the castaways returned in force. Old Russia, on the other hand, had so far been spared the attention of Allanea... or perhaps so people thought.

In truth, the United States of Allanea - and later, the Free Kingdom - simply decided to utilize a slower, and perhaps cheaper strategy, using the country’s weakness against it. Therefore it would be bribes.

At first it was slow. First mobsters, and then the officials in small towns were targeted, by OAS agents that posed as semi-criminal ‘businessmen’. For the first year of operations, the budgets were only about a hundred million dollars, less than an infantry regiment’s training budget - but this was enough to create a foothold.

Some who seemed too loyal to their leadership, or who haggled too much, were given ‘a trip to the woods’ - kidnapped in the trunk of a car, tied and gagged, and taken to a forest clearing for a beating and a lecture on the benefits of compromise. For some this trip proved to be the last.

Allaneans of course were not very good at real espionage, but bribery was for them an infamous skill, as was murder. The snapping sounds of suppressed pistols rang out in apartment complexes in Yekaterinburg, members of crime groups had car accidents or fell out of apartment buildings, screaming as they fell. Sometimes, corrupt police were bribed into raiding them.

The result was the creation of a vacuum in the criminal underworld, into which OAS moved. Some forms of crime effectively ceased altogether - human traffickers, for instance, vanished disturbingly often.

Legally, Alexander Kazansky - not yet married to his beautiful wife - began to invest vast quantities of money in the big cities. Thousands of locals worked for him, hundreds of officials accepted his bribes. Some claimed even the President did.

Finally, Alexander married, and became King.

And Cassiopeia became Queen.

Negotiations began soon after.

They were first known as the Negotiations for the Union State.

It was then that the state media - partly by orders of the mafia-state that ruled Russia, partly because many of the officials who organized state media - began a propaganda blitz, arguing that becoming a protectorate of the Free Kingdom would be not a humiliation for Russia, but a path for national greatness.

Many were divided - some were in doubt given Allanea’s ‘corrupt’ culture, others were attracted by the promise of a role in something great and glorious. Allaneans could not be accused of Russophobia - indeed some of them even worshipped in a religious cult of the Grandfathers who Fought.

But the traditionalist groups had been infiltrated by the same corrupt government that was now seeking bribes and rents from Allanea. The Union State charter has been signed and ratified suspiciously easily. It had been a somewhat dishonest document. On paper, it seemed to preserve sovereignty - but in practice, the sovereignty Old Russia would have would be one of a colony, or a protectorate. The officials were promised they would remain ruling the country, but a new title would be added to Alexander’s titles. A ‘roadmap’ for a gradual transitioning to statehood in Allanea was an ‘optional’ attachment to the treaty.

Thus, as the Union State Agreement was finally ratified, the President of Russia would remain in charge - or so he believed, and Alexander would gain the titles of the Romanov Dynasty.

It would be only after the Council of the Federation ratified the titles that it would be realized what a vast mistake the Mafia State had made.

[Allanea]

Stavropol, Old Russia

As has been the custom of Allaneans for many years, the meeting had been held in a basement - a Civil Defense bomb shelter probably built in the era before Communism. Dozens of men were in the room - some of them Freemen, others citizens of the Russian Federation. The Allaneans were distinct - some with colorful clothing, others with brightly-colored hair, with gleaming gadgets that either clipped to their clothing or ears, or seemed to be embedded directly into their flesh. The locals, meanwhile, were serious, their hair cut in buzz cuts or shaved outright, purplish ‘urban camouflage’ uniforms their typical clothing. Those were police from Mobile Special Purpose Units - OMON.

“Ladies. Gentlemen. Others.” - an Allanean officer in a military uniform spoke. “I am Colonel Ekaterina Vinogradova, Allanean Army Special Forces. Officially, this task does not exist.” She had long, brown hair, flowing down to her shoulders and was tall - almost six feet, with the physique of a martial artist.

There was a whisper through the crowd, some of the OMON officers not quite understanding what ‘others’ had been referred to.

’Lunnaya Dolina’ Presidential Residence, Sochi

“I need him.” - Cassiopeia Blaken-Kazansky said calmly, her voice as ice. The President of the Russian Federation looked at her, his ice-blue eyes widening. Most people would not notice how much he feared this woman. But Cassiopeia Blaken-Kazansky has smelled men’s fear many times. “He is going to be mine, Vasily Vasilievich.”

“You do not understand.” - the man said, alarm rising in his voice. “We can’t just arrest the President of Chechnya.”

“Why can’t we? I thought Chechnya was not sovereign.”

“It... is not that simple.”

“What is not that simple, Vasily Vasilievich? Explain it to me.”

“Listen...” - he met her eyes. Black. Deep. “Listen, you can’t just...”

“Explain.” - the woman said, her tone becoming, at least she hoped, somewhat like her Aunt’s. “Who is he? Why are you afraid of him?”

“I am not afraid,” - the man’s voice rose in both pitch and level, betraying the very reverse. “It is just... he is important.”

“I thought you are the President.” - Cassiopeia said. “Vasily Vasilievich Kuznetsov. Brave. Manly. Rides bears. That sort of thing. Why can’t you arrest a petty thug? We both know what he is. Do you think there is a man in this country that doesn’t know who he is? Do you think there is someone who does not know that his ‘bodyguard’ is a gang of thugs and murderers, and worse?”

“That is...” - Kuznetsov paused, and then steeled himself. “This is how we keep the country at peace. We let a man like this rule Chechnya, or else there’ll be a new war there. He’ll go to the mountains and turn guerrilla. Or he’ll die, and without a strong man to keep it in order, Chechnya will...”

“I understand.” - Cassiopeia said. Her smile was kind, but it was the fake kindness of contempt. “You were afraid, then. Your country was so traumatized by the Chechen Wars - how many have there been over the history? Six? Seven? That you took to the British custom of hiring local thugs to rule it. And, one thug after another, they realized they could bully you, violate the laws, maim both Chechens and Russians, all of this with the hidden threat - you let me do what I want, do you want a new war to start again? - and slowly, imperceptibly, it became lawless. Worse than Chechnya under Dudaev, back in the day. And the rot spread, from Chechnya to Dagestan to Ingushetia. Abuse of chidlren and women. Hidden murders in the night. Tigers fed human flesh.”

“That is not true...”

“Not true, Vasily Vasilievich? What part of this is not true, then?” - she asked, imitating as best she could her Aunt’s tone.

He paused, gulping for a moment, the policy was not directly his, nor has it been his idea. He has never wondered whether there was an alternative. It was simply taken for granted by him and his advisors that it had to be done this way, and that the alternative would be war.

“It is true.” - she said. “Now, there already are cases in your government’s possession that implicate President Aslan Desheriev and several of his bodyguards in serious crimes. Headless bodies turning up in St. Petersburg, kidnappings, possible involvement in slavery. I want there to be arrest warrants.”

“Your Majesty, the courts in Russia are independent-”

“Khuynya”, [Rus. - cockery] - the woman snapped. “And for you, it is Your Imperial Majesty.” - she rose. “I know everything about how courts in your country work. Make the calls, Kuznetsov.”

In Stavropol

“Who is going to let us do that?” - one of the OMON officers asked as the presentation ended. “That’s Desheriev you’re talking about.”

The Allanean who was giving the presentation smiled. “We have court warrants, stamped with yesterday’s date, for his arrest, as well as the extradition of him and his bodyguards, Ahmet Chermoev, Daurbek Estemirov, and others, to Allanea to face trial there. We have orders from the President of the Russian Federation to create this task force, under Allanean command.”

“He is not going to come quietly.” - someone pointed out from the back of the hall.

“He is not.” - the Allanean nodded. “And that’s going to save the taxpayer millions in trial costs, is it not?”

Several officers rose, trying to ease themselves towards the exit, only to see that it was blocked by two burly Allaneans in mossy green camouflage.

“I apologize.” - the Allanean said.

“I have a family!” - one of the policemen said, and tried to rush the guards. They held on to him, struggling to hold him in place without hurting him.

“I understand.” - the Allanean officer reiterated. “If you don’t want to participate in the operation, that’s entirely your right. However, I would like to ask you to remain in this building for the duration of the mission. To enforce the secrecy agreement you signed, you will be asked to make no phone calls for the next few days. I am sure you understand.”

“You...” - one of the officers blanched. “Is this why you asked us to leave our phones home and told us we will be going in the field and to warn our families?”

“Yes, yes indeed.” - the Allanean nodded. “I won’t judge. I understand you are afraid for your family, and I understand some may even be, to some extent, corrupt. We are not investigating that. What we will do, however, is ensure nobody warns Desheriev.”

“That... is brilliant.” - the man who said this was a police Colonel, a man with short, silver grey hair, just slightly longer than the buzz cut most here seemed to prefer, a vertical scar running the height of one cheek. “You have everything set to go already, don’t you?”

“Somewhat.” - the Allanean officer replied. “Now for our plan, Desheriev is set to be attending a sporting event in Vladikavkaz tomorrow afternoon Next day, he will be returning to Chechnya with his entire motorcade. This will be over 140 cars.”

Behind him, a photograph came on screen, showing an endless motorcade of luxurious cars - jeeps, sporting vehicles, and so forth, some clearly costing more than the average person’s house.

“What we are going to do...”

As she spoke, the faces of the local police filled with new emotions - some with admiration, some with fear. The first were excited to get a man whom so many here had hated, others fearful for what he might do if the mission failed, or what the future would bring.

Grozny-Vladikavkaz Highway, a day later

”This is a highway? Are you shitting me?” - asked Vinogradova, raising an eyebrow. In Allanea, the Grozny-Vladikavkaz Highway, a mere two-lane road, would have qualified, at best, for a sleepy suburban street. On one side of the road, a thick forest seemed to run right up to the asphalt.

“Of course this will only make our job easier.” - the Russian Colonel observed.

“Yes indeed.” - she said. “We will have men dig positions here, here, and here.” - she pointed out, “during the night of course. By morning the trenches will be impossible to spot from the road. We will let him pass us on the way in, he will be more relaxed when he’s coming back from the match. Your job, Colonel, is perimeter control. When we signal you...”

“We shut off the road towards the city, and then as you start shooting, the road behind Desheriev too.”

“This is true.”

Through the night, the Allaneans dug, sinking into the ground with every hour. Weapons were readied in the trenches - two watercooled machineguns of an ancient type, ready to be rolled up into a firing position within seconds, rocket launchers, and rifles. In the trees, nests remininscent somewhat of hunters’ blinds were elevated and made ready. By morning, the woods were again quiet. The men and women drifted off to sleep in their trenches, only a handful remaining on watch.

Grozny-Vladikavkaz Highway, afternoon, two days after the original meeting

Aslan Desheriev was proud of himself. The team he had rooted for had won a match - he had given the man who scored the winning goal a briefcase stuffed with cash, hard green New Dornalian dollars.He was now going home - happy and accompanied by friends. He was a strong man, stocky perhaps but strong, his brownish-red beard short but squared off. Right now he wore a knit hat in his favorite team’s colors, and a tracksuit. Next to him, his friend, Estemirov was seated, a giant of a man, with a bodybuilder’s physique and cruel, leaden eyes, who seemed to need to bow slightly to avoid hitting his head on the limousine’s roof.

“What I am saying, Daurbek,” - said Desheriev, “Is that that fellow plays excellently and what what matters - who cares if he is a monkey? I don’t pay him to be pretty, I pay him to play. What-”

The car came to a halt. All cars did, actually. The motorcade was long - dozens of cars, jeeps, sports cars, SUVs, limousines, motorcycles, black, red, white, purple - all of them now standing in a long, frozen line on the narrow road. “What the devil has happened out there-” - Desheriev said, pushing his head out of the window, happily his car was near the front of the motorcade.

He was stunned by the sight.

Two wheeled APCs blocked the road, their turret guns aimed menacingly towards the convoy. He was not able to identify the type, but it was clear that they were some manner of BTR relative, with thick wheels and angular, flat turrets. What, however, was more important was the sheer insult.

“What the hell has happened out there?” - Desheriev called out. “Do these pederasts know who I am?”

Suddenly - the noise ear-shattering - one of the vehicles fired its gun skywards, a burst of autocannon fire making Desheriev’s ears ring. Then a voice rang out, a woman’s voice, commanding, merciless.

”ASLAN DESHERIEV. AHMET CHERMOEV. DAURBEK ESTEMIROV. ALL MEMBERS OF THIS CONVOY. THIS IS THE INTERNATIONAL SLAVERY AND COUNTERRORISM TASK FORCE. WE HAVE WARRANTS FOR YOUR ARREST. YOU ARE SURROUNDED BY POLICE AND MILITARY FORCES. SURRENDER IMMEDIATELY OR BE FIRED UPON.”

Aslan Desheriev’s face grew long. He reached into his clothing, and Estemirov saw the gleam of gold as he unsheathed his weapon - a gold-plated Stechkin pistol, really a submachine gun in a pistol form. As he poked the gun skywards through the window and pulled the trigger, his face was the expression of outrage.

Neither Estemirov, nor the limousine driver, doubted Esheriev in that moment. They were in such confrontations before, with rival gangs, with neighboring province presidents, even with various groups of Chechen police. They would menace each other, then someone would surrender. Probably the other guys, they thought. Nobody was surprised, therefore, when a long burst of the Strechkin split the air, a gesture of defiance as the gun was fired skywards. Several men in the convoy did the same, the sound of rifles and pistols rocking the countryside.

There was a pause.

The other APC - the one whose gun was not turned skywards - fired. One of the sports cars - a red,, flat, gleaming vehicle, its hull pressed close to the ground - seemed to be hit with a giant jackhammer, its hood and driver’s cabin bursting into flames at once. A second later, as the flames still roared, a figure seemed to half-fall, half-stagger out of the car, entirely enveloped in flames. The man screamed, rolling on the asphalt as he tried to put the flames out.

”THIS WAS A WARNING SHOT, DESHERIEV. DON’T MAKE IT WORSE FOR YOURSELF.”

Of course, there was one way he could react. He reached for his phone - he was surprised, slightly, that he still had a signal - and called one of the cars in the convoy. “The pipe! Rahmat, the pipe!”

Pipe, of course, meant rocket launcher. Even now, soemone in the convoy, shielded by the mass of cars from being spotted by the people up ahead, would-

There was a single, snapping crack of a rifle shot, and Desheriev realized suddenly, with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, that all was much worse than he thought.

On the motorcade’s left side, almost invisible at ground level, two watercooled machineguns began to work, firing methodically as the guns raked the gleaming luxury vehicles, arrayed for them into a long chain of comfortable targets. The machinegunners moved the long, thick gun barrels left and right and left again, pressing their thumbs into the spade triggers as the bolts worked back and forth. In their blinds, snipers fired methodically at the cars, aiming at the drivers even as the Desheriev bodyguards struggled to get into the empty opposing lane to get even some measure of mobility.

The APCs fired again, this time the sound of firing was different, a low, thumping sound. The bodyguards were unable to appreciate the finer details of the vehicles’ design, of course, nor to realize the two APCs mounted two cannon each - a long, slender autocannon, and a wider gun, its muzzle ten centimeters wide. Now explosions tore through the motorcade, cars flipped to the side, motorcycles thrown violently.

Estemirov died before his friend’s eyes. He had reached into the limo’s trunk and then leaped out, weapon in his hands - a belt-fed PKM to fit his hulking physque. He held the gun in his hands, raking the treetops to try and get the snipers - just before several wounds blossomed like red roses on his shirt, and he fell back against the car’s body, his finger still pressed on the trigger. For a brief second his gun was still firing as he collapsed.

The trails of a dozen rockets at once peppered the motorcade, fired from points where a second ago nobody was visible. Everything shook with explosions as luxury vehicles turned into fireballs, broken glass and steel showering the survivors. The gunfire only escalated - hidden in the woods, automatic grenade launchers hosed the motorcade with projectiles as bodyguards with assault rifles attempted to build up some resistance huddling behind their cars. Others did what the military textbooks said -try to assault into the fire of the ambush. Then there more explosions, low, subdued in sound this time. The shrieking of hundreds of ball-bearings as they sped through the air announced the failure of that particular plan.

Within about two dozen minutes, the bodyguard force had been butchered by an unseen enemy that they could not even touch. Only a few survivors remained, either injured or whimpering in terror near the ruins of their trucks. A few brave souls have darted through the enemy positions and escaped. They would - of course, become the subjects of a manhunt.

’Lunnaya Dolina’ Presidential Residence, Sochi, that evening

”Raids by FSB special forces and SOBR units attached to the International Task Force on the Desheriev residence and those of his associates had uncovered evidence of numerous serious crimes, as well as several individuals who were kept as hostages or slaves...” - the state television newscaster’s voice was calm, with only a measure of indignation sneaking in, if one did not know how scripted television in this country was one might believe it was genius.

“You never planned on capturing him alive, did you?” - asked Kuznetsov.

“To be fair, he had a choice in the matter,- said Cassiopeia. “I am pretty happy with the outcome. Aren’t you?”

“I... what?” - asked the President.

“Look,” - she said, pointing at the screen, displaying the men the task force had just freed, unshaven, tired, pale. “This is what they did. What they intimidated your entire country into accepting. Do you not think that millions in your country did not know, or suspect, this or something like this? Do you not think millions of your citizens are not cheering now this creature has been stepped on?”

“I think...” - Kuznetsov spoke - “I think this is the sort of thing that might end badly.”

“I think you and I are not going to get along, Kuznetsov,” - said Cassiopeia.

Her tone was not menacing. She was merely stating a fact.

[Allanea]

Vitebsk rail station, St. Petersburg

Some imagine war is the worst thing in the world.

Nikolai - Kolya, now, it has been years since he had been called Nikolai by anyone - knew better.

He knew war - he fought in the Caucasus, in one of the ‘counterterrorist operations’ that everyone knew meant war on a slow burn. He remembered it well - especially that one night that changed his life, when an explosion at the side of a mountain road threw his truck rolling down the mountain side, the cabin crumpling around him, the screaming pain in his mangled legs.

But then something happened that was worse than war. Every night was now the same - spent locked in an elderly apartment with a steel door, with others like him - some maimed, some blind, some with heinous burns on their faces. Not all of them were war veterans - out of seven, one man was a farmer, one a dentist - it didn’t matter. They were given uniforms, old, tattered camouflage uniforms, given medals - for some, their real medals, for some, fake ones - and of course, sent out every day, some to the Metro, some to shopping malls. In the evening, the men who owned them took all the money they collected.

For this was what they were. Property. Slaves.

Slavery was worse than war.

Kolya tried to escape many times. Once he checked himself into a police station. His owner, a fat woman named Svetlana, came and simply handed the cop a banknote, and picked him up. The woman and her friends put out several cigarettes on his face and on the bare skin where his legs used to be.

The second time, he tried to simply buy a train ticket. Documents were required, of course Svetlana had taken his passport long ago. He asked a train conductor for help. Somehow, one of Svetlana’s aides, a muscular, tall man with a forehead that looked like it was only two inches high from his nose intercepted him in Luga and simply yanked him off the wheelchair and shoved him in a car’s trunk. They burned his face this time, and beat him with an old police baton. He began to suspect there was a tracker in the wheelchair after he was caught again, two weeks later.

Once he checked himself into a mental hospital. The same cop that Svetlana bribed once came in a day later and claimed he was a suspect in a murder case. He had a fake warrant, and of course Kolya was ‘arrested’.

He tried to escape many times. The different escape attempts were a blur to him now - how many were there? He didn’t know. Svetlana had rented different apartments. They were shuffled between them. Sometimes their ‘owners’ hid them when the owners came to inspect the rentals. Sometimes they were made to pretend to be relatives.

To be fair, the slave dealers fed them regularly - cheap food, eggs, rice, bread, cheap vodka, even spaghetti and some butter. Really, other slaves probably had it worse. The vodka made it possible, somewhat, to forget that he was once a man, a soldier. He was just a piece of property that had cost Svetlana fifty thousand roubles back when the rouble was worth something. The days began to run together, which was good. Losing track of time was a way to avoid madness.

He rolled along the facade of the rail station, squinting at the early morning sun. Had he not been tired, sleepy, somewhat hungover, he might have appreciated the beautiful faux-rennaissance architecture more. As it was, he focused on getting the wheelchair forward, shaking a metal half-litre mug in one hand, coins and banknotes rattling and rustling within.

Kolya didn’t recognize her. He rarely read newspapers, and of course the slave apartment had no television, nothing but a few elderly books for them to read. Even if he had - she looked nothing special. She looked like a heavy metal fan - heavy boots, leather pants with lots of studs in them, a shirt with some band’s logo, her hair tied behind her head. Only a pair of nerdy-looking glasses disrupted this look.

He wouldn’t even have noticed her, if she had not, suddenly, handed him a foreign bank note. The green hue, the digits 100 snapped him out of his sleepy reverie as he grabbed the note with his fingers, so dirty the skin looked brownish.

“That’s... not very funny.” - he uttered, his voice rasping. He was sure this was a cruel joke, perhaps a fake note, or maybe the girl was going to take it back.

She looked him right in the eyes. “It is not meant to be funny.” - she replied. There was a slight accent to her Russian that he couldn’t place, perhaps like an English accent but somewhat different.

“You are foreign, yes?” - he asked.

“You could say that,” - she said, incomprehensibly. “What is your name, Sergeant?”

She had a tone of respect in her voice, as if he was young and healthy, standing next to her in parade uniform.

Something lit within him, as if a reflex he thought he had unlearned. “Yermakov Nikolay Fedorovich,” he enunciated clearly, filling his lungs with air.

“What did you do in the Army, Sergeant?” - she asked, pulling out another banknote. Kolya couldn’t believe his eyes. He felt annoyed for a moment - do you think I get to keep that money, you spoiled brat? - but then he realized his owners didn’t have to know he got more than one banknote. Something, nevertheless, annoyed him about the question.

“I was just a truck driver,” - he answered angrily, even as he hid the banknote in the wheelchair’s lining, this one marked with a ‘50’.

“Nothing bad about truck drivers,” - she replied. “There are songs about truck drivers’ bravery.”

“Girl, my-” - he realized suddenly this was no way to treat a girl who’d handed him so much money. “I’m sorry, devochka. Thank you for your kindness. God bless you”, - he reiterated the phrase dozens of times a day as his masters had taught him. He never believed in God, and he felt disgusted with himself, for turning into a caricature beggar. “-I mean, thank you very much.”

“You are hung over.” - she observed.

He smiled, showing two rows of teeth that once were the white, pearly teeth of a healthy young soldier, and now several of them were missing altogether. “Of course. What do you think I spend my money on?”

“I can cure that.” - she smiled. Her teeth were of course much better.

“You have a drink on you?” - he asked.

She aimed a finger at him, and uttered a sentence in a language he did not understand. Before Kolya could say anything, a beam of soft, blue light arced towards his forehead. A witch! - he thought belatedly, and then felt the power of the spell coursing through his body. Suddenly, his head stopped hurting, the nausea receded. He felt, suddenly, healthy and strong - except, of course, for the fact his legs were still missing above the knee.

“Who are you?” - Kolya blinked. “Are you a witch? An extra-sense?”

“Some use those words.” - the girl said, and he realized suddenly that she was older than she appeared. “I like to think of myself as a scientist.”

“Thank you.” - Kolya said. “Really, thank you.”

“Would you like to go for coffee with me, Sergeant? I have some questions I’d like to ask. Perhaps an offer to make.”

He stared, and then the fear began to course through him again. “You... I can’t.”

“Why not?” - she asked. - “I’ll pay for your coffee.”

“No, no, it’s not like that.” - he began to explain. “You see, they’ll come after me.”

“They?” - she asked. “Are those the people you hid one of the banknotes from?”

“....you noticed?”

“I notice many things,” - she said, in a tone that suggested she might be imitating someone. “So tell me about them.”

“You need to leave.” - he said urgently. “You can’t help.”

“Hm. Intriguing.” - she said. “I’m sure I can.”

“Don’t you know anything about beggars in this country?” - he whispered. “Have you not read the papers?”

“I... have heard.” - she said. “I heard there are people who keep beggars as slaves. Are you one of these slaves?”

He looked at her. She wasn’t very tall. She had been kind to him. What would Svetlana do to her? What would Svetlana do to him?

“Yes. Exactly like this. I cost fifty thousand roubles. You can’t help me.”

“I carry more money in my pockets. Are you sure?” - the girl - no, not girl, woman, he realized now she was at least twice the age she appeared to be.

He blinked. “Are you offering to buy me out?”

“I prefer to avoid buying a slave if I can avoid it.” - she said. “I’m going to rescue you, of course.”

“What else are you going to do? Give me new legs?” - he asked.

When he looked in her eyes again he was surprised to see a new object in his field of vision - an ornate bone stick - a wand, he realized - pointed between his eyes. The woman chanted something, and the same blue light appeared again, strength seeming to course through his body, through his blood, through the stumps of his legs. And nothing happened.

Kolya fought back tears. He thought, for a moment, for a brief brilliant moment, that he was going to be healed. But nothing happened. His stumps only started itching for some reason, and filling with unusual warmth. He opened his mouth to say something, but as he looked past the woman’s shoulder, he saw that same man who had once caught him - tall, muscular, his forehead low-set, his hair a flattop cut, camouflage pants and tight dark-blue shirt, approaching her.

“Hey girl!” - he shouted - “Don’t be bothering the poor invalid. He’s not done anything to you!”

“Excuse me?” - she turned. “Do you have a problem if I talk a bit to Sergeant Yermakov? He is a family friend.”

“Family?” - the man blinked. “He has no family in this city except for me, he’s from Novosib. Nor does he have friends, if you’re going to try that.”

“All of Russia’s honest soldiers are my friends.” - the woman said, her wand hand relaxed at her side.

“What now?” - the man asked, his intelligence clearly insufficient to grasp what the woman said.

“I said it.” - she continued, advancing on the man, as if it was not him who was taller and stronger. “Now tell me, why are you bothering the Sergeant?”

“I am his cousin. He is an invalid, he depends on my help, can’t you see he’s got no legs?”

Kolya looked at them. He ingored the feeling in his stumps, a pleasant feeling of warmth, and the feeling - less pleasant - that the cloth of his pants where they had been wrapped around his stumps’ ends had become suddenly tight.

“He has no legs?” - asked the woman, turning towards Kolya.

Suddenly, he felts that his pants unwrapped themselves at the ends, exposing his stumps to the cold morning air, and then, suddenly, something cold, incredibly cold, touched his toes.

His toes?

He looked down.

He did have toes. And feet, and legs, and knees, and his toes rested barefoot on the cold granite. Unsteady, he got up, the wheelchair receding behind him. He took a step, and then another step, towards the man that had for years been his tormented.

“What?!” the slave supervisor asked in horror and fury.

“You don’t look happy that your cousin can walk again,” - the woman said in a sarcastic tone. Again, it seemed unnatural to her - it suggested she might have been imitating someone again.

In that moment, the man did the worst thing possible. He lunged at her. She shouted - a single word, that Kolya did not fully hear, her voice suddenly harsh and hoarse, as she raised her wand towards him.

Suddenly, the man that had tormented Kolya for so long was enveloped in flames, rolling around on the granite as he tried to shake off the fire that was now consuming him, screaming as his hair and clothing crackled in the flames. His polyester shirt was melting now, the cloth melding to his skin as the man screamed and screamed and screamed, and then finally he stopped screaming. The slave overseer was alive still - squealing softly, his entire body a giant sore, blood running onto the granite.

Around them, the world was screams of horror, and police whistles. Already, two cops in dark-blue uniforms were running towards them, shouting something.

The woman only smiled at them as they came - and threw her head back, her black hair flowing open on her shoulders. He could see now, the gleam of a simple circlet of gold in her black hair, and suddenly the police stood and saluted her.

“Who.. what?” - Kolya asked.

“My name?” - the woman looked at him. “You don’t recognize me, Sergeant?”

“Your Majesty?” - one of the cops asked - “What has happened here?”

“It is Your Imperial Majesry for you.” - she looked at the cop. “This creature tried to assault me.” - she prodded Kolya’s tormentor, who made a whimpering sound, with the toe of her boot. “He is also a slaveholder.”

“He...” - the cop didn’t argue.

“I believe we’ll have to ask your superior to declare a Counter-Terrorist Operation. It’s called that in your laws, yes?”

The police did not argue - it was within their experience that senior officials could get away with literal murder, and if someone had attacked the Empress of All Russia, they could only expect the worst.

“I have spoken truth.” - the woman said, doing her best to sound like her Aunt. “I am Cassiopeia Blaken-Kazansky, Empress of Greater Prussia, Queen of Allanea, Empress of All Russia, and so forth. All honest Russian soldiers are my friends. Sergeant Yermakov, you said you were a driver in the army. Would you agree to be my driver for this operation?”

“I... of course. Of course.”

Legally, of course, she could not command these men - but this did not stop them from obeying her. “Bring this man a rifle, fresh clothing, and a pair of boots.”

*

A few hours later, he was no longer Kolya, but again Nikolai. The burn scars on his face had vanished, he had showered, he was wearing a new digital camouflage uniform, and an assault rifle with an orange bakelite magazine and a reddish wooden stock hung off his shoulders. He was driving a large jeep towards the apartment he had left this morning. Next to him was seated Cassiopeia, and behind her, two bodyguards. Two more trucks came in behind them.

The elevator was dirty and smelled of urine, curse words engraved on its walls, several buttons missing. But the 7 button was still there, and Nikolai pressed that.

The door of the apartment Nikolai had been kept in for the past six months was steel - like the doors of all the other apartments he’d been kept in in the past several years.

Cassiopeia rang the bell.

“Who is it?” - an angry voice answered from inside. It was one of Svetlana’s other overseers, of course - the beggar-slaves were forbidden from answering the bell.

“I want to see Svetlana.”

“No such person lives here.”

“Wrong answer.” - Cassiopeia said, and made a motion, as if throwing something into the door.

The slavedriver screamed as the heavy steel door came off its hinges, falling on him. Before he could clamber out from under the door, Cassiopeia jumped onto its surface, making his bones crunch under the combined weight.

“Death to the slaver!” - she roared. Nikolai saw another man as he burst into a guest room, a dark-haired man in bright red boots - a Dagestani who took particular pleasure tormentingt former soldiers. The rifle stock seemed to find its way to Nikolai’s shoulder, and the rifle fired a long, long burst, gleaming cartridges raining down onto the wooden floor.

There was a scream - Cassiopeia had extricated the other slaver from under the door, and shook him, no doubt the pain in his broken bones getting worse with every movement. “WHERE IS SVETLANA? WHERE IS SHE? TELL ME NOW!”

“I don’t know I swear!”

“Do you have her number, then?”

“I do... it’s in my phone. Please make the pain stop, please....”

For a moment, Cassiopeia stopped tormenting him, and then reached for his phone. “Hm, you do seem to have her number.”

“Please stop it...” - the man whimpered.

“All right.” - Cassiopeia said, reaching for her belt. In her hand was suddenly a curved knife with a thick, menacing-looking blade. The man convulsed for four long seconds as his blood splashed onto the walls as if from a fire hose, and then he moved no longer.

Three of Nikolai’s fellow slaves were found in other rooms of the apartment - the dentist, the farmer, and another soldier. They walked out on their own power. The others were found too, a few hours later, using the trackers in their wheelchairs. Other slaves were found as well, in the other rented apartments.

The day was a whirlwind. Nikolai remembered that day in detail, as he did the day he lost his legs. Apartments after apartments. Horrified neighbors who never knew what horrors were happening behind the walls. Laughing slaves who saw the doors of their prison fall open. And, of course, the suffering of those who had tortured and tormented them.

There were monsters, too, accompanying Cassiopeia. One of her bodyguards was a man named Viktor who looked as if he’d died a decade ago, his head looking like a skull, his eyes gleaming cold lights. One of the slavers who saw Viktor took a running leap across the balcony in the apartment where he’d kept the slaves, and fell screaming to the asphalt. Viktor laughed, his laughter sounding like the stuff of nightmares. Another one looked almost human - but in fact was not at all, his teeth sharp as needles, his skin rough as leather, his eyes seeming to gleam with malice. It was this man who laughed as he put out cigarettes on a dying slaver’s face, just in the way as that man did to Nikolay. Both Nikolay and the Orc found that funny.

And then there were the spiders. Enormous spiders that that looked larger and more menacing than any police dog or Caucasian Shepherd that Nikolay had ever seen. On any other day Nikolay would have been horrified.

They met Svetlana as they reached the fourth address. She tried to run, of course, the woman’s enormous, almost formless body heaving as she waddled across the apartment building’s inner yard. She was dressed in a dirty white hoodie and grey sweatpants.

The spiders bounced after her, hissing in anger as the enormous woman’s rear just momentarily cleared a pair of mandibles. Nikolai saw a wet, dark stain spreading across the sweatpants’, and then the spiders were on her, toppling her to the ground.

“Svetlana Topoleva. Multiple counts of kidnapping and slavery,” - Cassiopeia said. - “Eaten while attempting escape. Do you think my Aunt will approve, Sergeant?”

“...I wouldn’t know, Your Imperial Majesty.” - said Nikolai. He was surprised how concerned the Empress seemed to be about her Aunt's approval, whoever this Aunt was. “Do we have to tell her?”

“We do, Nikolai. We do.”

[Allanea]

Moscow, Russian State Duma building

Cassiopeia looked out below her, into the faces of the State Duma delegates. She knew, of course, that virtually none of these people had been elected anything that approached a fair election. De-facto, almost all of these people were appointees of the President, despite whatever electoral sham that was used to justify their accession to power. She knew also that they were thieves, and some murderers, and all corrupt in such a way as to render them capable of any crime at all, only to maintain the positions that allowed them access to wealth. Their faces seemed to gleam, perfect make-up and false emotion making them seem like mannequins. Only two or three were here who somehow bested the odds and got elected without being supported by the state, and those who were, probably were opposed to her - the foreigner who had established de-facto control over their country by bribing its top officials.

To her this did not matter.

She knew more about her goals - of course - than anyone else. And she was about to speak.

Honored deputees!

Her voice carried, clear and calm, honed by hours of lectures and classes, and by commanding in numerous battles.

Honored deputees! - she repeated. Your country is extremely poor by world standards. This government’s annual budget has two hundred and thirty three billion New Dornalian dollars in spending. The average citizen has a salary of less than seven thousand dollars a year. There is a vast housing shortage. Hundreds of thousands still live in Soviet-era communal apartments, sometimes at three families per apartment. There is a vast problem of child homelessness, infrastructure failures, crime, absolute poverty.

We are however proposing not so much a solution, but assistance with the existing plans of your country to reform its own problems. We have decided to donate some of my own money - as you know, We own a few small industrial companies jointly with Our Husband.

Some in the audience chuckled politely, Kazansky Heavy Industries was so far larger than any Russian company, and Cassiopeia Blaken-Kazansky was known to personally own several companies around the world.

We have already received permits to commence housing construction as part of the plan for Greater Moscow, -she added, referencing the plan by the country’s government to expand Moscow’s city limits, We are hereby opening the Russia Branch of the Blackwing Holdings Group. As part of this, We are hereby investing a sum total of two billion dollars in constructing apartment buildings, shopping malls, as well as other housing in Greater Moscow. The apartment buildings will be available for affordable rent to Muscovites who will wish to move out of communal apartments. Furthermore, We will make additional investments of similar scope in St. Petersburg, Novosibirsk, Vladivostok, and Yekaterinburg.

Gasps rolled through the building as Duma members realized that Cassiopeia Blaken-Kazansky just announced a vast investment program.

Furthermore, there is an issue We wish to raise. This is an issue of Lenin.

Whispers rolled through the hall.

Six thousand monuments to this vile monster remain in this country. Naturally We cannot have any respect for a creature responsible for murder of thousands of innocents, terror, confiscation, and hunger. However, We understand that some of you wish to retain them for their historical and architectural value. We therefore offer a compromise. We will assemble a panel of experts that will classify all Lenin monuments in this country into three types. These experts will be locals, vetted to be unbiased by local authorities..

The Communist Party deputies just stared in surprise.

Grade C monuments will be those which will be deemed to have no architectural value whatever. In these cases We will offer sums of money out of Our personal pocket, of up to a million dollars per monument, to be donated to help pensioners and orphans in those cities, for each monument to be removed. Grade B monuments will be those possessing cultural and artistic value, and We will for these monuments offer greater sums of money - up to ten million dollars - to have them preserved in museums. Finally, Grade A monuments will be those which will be deemed an inherent irreplaceable part of a given architectural or urban ensemble, and they will be preserved, unless it will be possible to contract an artist to create a monument for the Heroes of the Great Patriotic War that could fit into the Ensemble instead. We believe this solution will fit all of us.

The Communists remained stunned. On one hand, the offer was sacrilege against everything their party claimed to believe, and yet on the other hand they could not help but realize that the woman had just pledged a vast amount of money for charity, and that this money could not be simply refused.

Finally, as We are, by the Grace of the Gods, the Empress of All Russia, and as part of Our desire to help the citizens of this Realm, we hereby note that we will spend the next day in the City of St. Petersburg, the ancient Seat of the Russian Monarchy, along with our aides, and wizardly apprentices. We shall receive individuals from among the regular citizenry, and attempt to listen to their complaints, and requests for charity and assistance. We will use Our wizardly powers to heal the lame and ailing, Our vast wealth to aid the suffering, Our compassion to heal the wounds that this country has suffered.

May the Gods bless old Mother Russia,

And May they forever Continue to Bless Allanea

There was applause, but she could see the terror in the deputies’ eyes.

*

Smolny, St. Petersburg, a day later

”I need to see her Imperial Majesty!” - the man begged, just before doubling over in terrible cough. “I need help! I have tube-” again a cough, and now the other people in the building parted from him, as they realized already what he had - “Tubercul-”

“We understand.” - the cop said, trying to shield himself from the man’s breath.

They were everywhere - cops in light-blue shirt, cops in greyish-blue OMON uniforms, Internal Forces men in urban camouflage. Cops in the hallways of Smolny fought - sometimes literally fought, with batons - to keep order. Everything was packed - with the sick and lame, with the poor and indigent. Here was an old lady on crutches whose pension has been delayed three weeks. There - a mother cradling a sick eight-year-old child in a wheelchair, with no hair, who looked on with sadness, and who clearly did not believe his mother’s last-ditch attempt to save him would achieve anything at all. Dozens of children wailed in the lines, made tense and frightened by the sounds of frightened adults around them.

Then - suddenly - music played, the sound of two trumpets.

And she appeared.

She was resplendent, in a long black and silver dress with an open back, her wand hanging off a lace of her wrist. She chose for this event the Imperial Crown of Russia, a gleaming, bulbous setup, more hat-like than like the circlet she wore regularly. Behind her stood a man in camouflage uniform, a rifle with a wooden stock hanging off his shoulder. This man was Nikolai Yermakov.

“Greetings,” - Casisopeia said, her voice clear. Something on her back began to move - the crowd gasped - and then, suddenly, her body seemed transformed. Two vast, feathered, black wings appeared on her back.

“An angel!” - men and women alike gasped. - “The Empress is an angel!”

“Not even.” - the Empress replied. “Now of course my daughter is an adorable angel, but not in the literal sense. Now my friends, I will attend to you all in the Governor’s office. He has kindly lent it to me for my use.”

There was laughter - people realized that though Old Russia was formally sovereign still, the Governor had little choice in the matter. “But first let us attend to those who can be attended to most easily. You.” - she pointed her wand a the bald child. “What is your name?”

“Misha.” - the child whispered. The mother, terrified, whispered something in his ear. “Misha, Your Imperial Majesty,” - he corrected himself.

“Are you sick, Misha?” - the Empress asked, her eyes filled with sadness as she looked at the boy.

“I... yes, Your Imperial Majesty, of course.” - he would have been angry if he did not feel so tired. “I have blood cancer.. Leukemia, Your Imperial Majesty.”

“I understand, Mishen’ka.” - she replied. “Be brave, please.” - she raised her wand.

The blue light flowed from Cassiopeia’s wand, and towards the young boy’s body. Misha blinked as he felt the tension in the woman’s eyes as she walked towards him, wand still leveled, the blue force still flowing in strands of whispy, soft blue light. As she came closer and closer, Misha felt the fatigues, the despair recede from him, closer and closer were the Empress steps. None dared breathe, until the light stopped. Misha blinked, looking at the woman, not daring to say anything - and then, suddenly, leaped up from the wheelchair and ran the last two yards towards her. Cassiopeia caught him in mid-run, hugging him. “How do you feel, Misha?” - she asked.

“Fresh like a cucumber, Your Imperial Majesty!”

“Want me to grow your hair back?”

The boy laughed. “Thank you, Your Imperial Majesty!” - as he said this, she whispered spell words, and suddenly brown hair appeared on the boy’s bare scalp.

“MISHA!” - the mother cried, scarcely able to believe her luck.

“Now there are plenty of sick people here.” - Cassiopeia spoke. “Let us see what I and my apprentices can do for them, shall we?”

She raised her hands, wand in the right hand, and spoke, words that few in this room coud understand, and so did the wizards behind her. The blue, soft light flowed out from her, into every direction as it began to fill the room. All stared, none daring to say a word, as the spell’s energy flowed out into the men throughout the hallways. Gradually, the coughing stopped. A walking-stick fell to the floor, useless. Then, finally, someone exclaimed - “I see it! I can see!”

Applause, instinctive, filled the entire building, first those who could see it directly applauded, and then the applause spread, ringing throughout the entirety of Smolny.

Cassiopeia laughed. “This is only the beginning. This is the taste of the life you can have for yourself. A life with freedom and kindness, a life with magic and technology. This, ladies, gentlemen, and others, what Allanean and Greater Prussian civilization is like. And I am offering to share it all with you.”

There was applause once again.

Some, of course, required separate help - for those who had missing limbs, like Nikolai had, the spells needed to be cast separately and required a deal of strength from the Empress or her wizards. Several times that day she regretted not having a source of magical strength with her, a Hestian pillar or Sykes Transformer. There were other issues.

“Ma’am, I am Chief Surgeon and our hospital needs new medicine and CT machines-”

“Your Imperial Majesty, the state is trying to seize my children and I can’t afford a lawyer-”

“Your Imperial Majesty, I’m an orphanage director. We need to buy new clothes-”

“Your Imperial Majesty, my father is a combat veteran and they’re delaying his pension...”

Cassiopeia struggled with the burden, to be fair. Some people she offered money, others she offered advice, others she offered phone number of a legal support officer, or a brief letter to an official that would expedite affairs - they didn’t have to follow her orders, but usually they would. She did her best to appear, at all times, kind and compassionate, as she imagined a proper Queen should, as she imagined her Aunt doing. Some people were helped by her apprentices even as they approached the Governor’s office in which she sad - sometimes with a spell, sometimes with a small sum of money - but still she needed to see dozens and dozens of people, working at a rapid pace.

“...the officer sold my son.”

Cassiopeia blinked. The woman that sat in front of her looked tired, and old, older than her years, dried out by years of agonising waiting, tears, despair.

“Excuse me, what?”

“My Son’s battalion commander, Lieutenant-Colonel Krivitsky, sold him to a brick factory for half a year and for thirty thousand roubles.” - the woman said. “Several of my son’s friends told me about it. Then “Krivitsky didn’t come to pick my son up at the end of the year. Maybe he forgot. I went to the factory to ask to have my son back, and they said they don’t have him - but then someone called me, and they said I could... have him bakc, for thirty thousand dollars. I don’t have this much money. So I went to the -” - fear shone in the woman’s eyes as she looked at Cassiopeia. “Your Imperial Majesty, I am sorry, don’t be-”

“Colonel Krivitsky, you said.” - Cassiopeia spoke, her eyes beginning to glow. “And which unit is he Colonel of, this fine officer?”

“Unit number 56468, 490th Motostrelki Regiment.” - the woman said, terrified. Cassiopeia rose, and then sat down. “Very well. And your name is... Faina?”

“Demidova Faina Semenovna, yes.”

“Faina Semenovna, today I must finish my office hours. People are waiting outside. But I am going to do my best to get your son - and I am going to have a talk with this Krivitsky fellow.”

The woman threw herself to the floor, not merely bowing, prostrating herself before Cassiopeia. “Thank you! Thank you, Your Imperial Majesty-”

“Get up, Faina Semenovna, please get up.” - Cassiopeia said, helping the woman up. “To protect freedom - your son’s, too - that’s my job. My duty. I will do it, as your son was ready to do his.”

*

A day later

”You can’t do this to me! I am a Colonel! Do you know what that means?” - the man with his head in a black hood screamed as two muscular Orcs tied him into a steel chair. Then the hood was ripped off, and he could see a gleaming, white, hot light aimed into his face.

“We know it means you made Colonel despite being a scumbag.” - one of the Orcs said.

“Excellent point, Kroshnak.” - Cassiopeia said. She was dressed, this time, in a white hospital robe over a simple shirt and black cargo pants. In one hand, she held a scalpel, which she twirled in her fingers like a pen. “But you are not going to be a Colonel much longer. I imagine the President of the Russian Federation will strip you of all ranks and pension, and then send you to a work camp. What do you think?”

Krivinsky blinked. “What do you want from me, you bitch-”

Kroshnakh slapped him, the sound ringing in the dark room.

“I would like it if you killed yourself by tearing your own veins open with your teeth.” - Cassiopeia said calmly. “But you can do that later, in your free time. For now you can just tell me-”

Shla nakhui, suka! - [Rus. - go fuck yourself, bitch!/i] - the Colonel screamed. Even as the sounds still rang in the small room, the two Orcs rained down a hail of blows, this time they were genuinely angry on her behalf, their fists landing blow after blow, stomach, ribs, head, they cursed in their terrible speech as the Colonel grunted in pain.

Suddenly Cassiopeia said something to them - also in the Dark Speech, the one that the Colonel could not understand, the tongue harsh, but the voice less so, as if she was addressing two friends with a polite request. And the beating stopped.

“Now, Colonel, I have spoken to several of your men. I know that during your service of the Caucasus you used to sell military equipment to various groups. You sold off a tractor and declared it stolen, you sold diesel fuel, and so on. I don’t care about these. What I care about is that you sold soldiers. As indentured servants, and some as slaves.”

He blinked. “That is a-”

“My men spoke to three men from your battalion. These directed us to a fourth man, whom you sold to work in a Dagestani farm for three months, until he came to be demobilized. And a fifth, named Fedor Demidov. You sold him to a brick factory near Makhachkala and left him there.”

The colonel pushed back against the floor, trying to get up - but he was tied to the chair, and the chair bolted hard to the floor. “What do you want?!”

“If you did this sort of shit, I want to know who else was in on it.” - the Empress said. “I want names, surnames, addressed. And of course, I want to know exactly where you sold Demidov.”

“I... I don’t remember exactly...”

“Kroshnak knows some wonderful memory refreshing therapies. For example there’s the one where they take a soldering iron, and then-”

He looked at the woman, his eyes fixated on the scalpel she was twirling in her fingers. “Oh, you’re looking at the scalpel? Oh yes, I might use that if I need to resort to anthropomancy. That or my ritual knife.”

“What... is anthropomancy?”

“It’s a form of divination using the intestines of a living human being. Obviously they don’t stay living for long.” - Cassiopeia spoke. The Orcs laughed foully.

“You won’t dare-”

“I won’t dare?” - the woman laughed - “Are you challenging me to torture you?”

“You won’t dare do that, you-”

“Remove his clothes, boys.” - Cassiopeia said. “We’re going to have an in-depth conversation with the Colonel.”

The Orcs moved swiftly. In seconds, they cut off his shirt and removed the ties connecting him to the chair, tossing him face first on the cold, steel table. He felt the cold, flat blade of the scalpel on the skin of his back.

“Sure you want to dare me to torture you?”

It was only then that he began to talk.

*

A brick factory, Mahachkala, 24 hours later.

“Is that even legal!?” - Cassiopeia blinked in amazement as she looked at the brick factory below, the helicopter circling - square stacks of bricks stored in the open air with narrow passaged between them, dirty corrugated-metal factory buildings on the edges of this wide space, open-air gas flames visible for miles away. Only a few dozen meter away could be seen the flat, grey walls of apartment blocks, the same as everywhere in this country.

“It shouldn’t be!” - Nikolai strained his voice over the engine’s sounds. “But this is the Caucasus! If you know people and pay the bribes, you can be a man-eater and nobody minds!. These factories spew poison into the people’s windows, but what can they do?! They put on a noise, someone breaks their legs at best!”

“Well we’ll need to talk to the governor later! Now we need to land!”

Minutes later, they stood before the factory gates - green-painted metal, with decorative flowers and pikehead decorations on the top. The gates fell open before Cassiopeia, just like the steel door at the apartment Nikolai was held in.

The factory owner was almost a crude stereotype - a short stubble of a beard, a track suit, red boots. No, of course, he had no Demidov. He had no idea what you were talking about, strange lady. He was a law-abiding person. Why were you doing this police raid-styled thing to him? He was a businessman, a pillar of the community-

“DEMIDOV!- Nikolai barked, in a military like tone. And again, “DEMIDOV!”

There were two dozen workers within sight in the factory, all tired, in dirty clothing, most of them looking thin, hard-working an ill-fed. And as Nikolai shouted this, one man turned next to him, in military-like instinct.

“Are you Fedor Demidov?” - Nikolai asked him.

“Yes...” - the man said.

It was at this moment that the factory owner turned and ran. Seeing this, several of the men in the factory ran too - the ones who looked slightly better-fed, Nikolai noted mentally as he broke into a run, too. One of the men - dressed in a nearly-new tracksuit - stopped, grabbing a brick from one of the stacks, and throw it haphazardly, the brick missing Nikolai’s shoulder by a few inches.

“Idiot.” - Nikolai said, breaking his run. “Now I can shoot.”

The AK rocked in his hands, the bolt clattering back and forth. At this range Nikolai didn’t aim, he just held the rifle at his hip and pulled the trigger until the shooting stopped on itself. The man in the tracksuit doubled over as if he had been punched in the stomach, and fell. In the periphery of his vision, Nikolai saw a towering, bulky Orc wearing a camouflage uniform and a vest full of gear- this one, he knew, was named Kroshnakh - throw himself at the factory owner as if he was a competitor in American football, causing the man to bowl over. As the man screamed, Kroshnakh headbutted him twice with his helmeted head, breaking nose and teeth alike, and then headbutted him again for good measure.

“That is enough, Kroshnakh.” - Cassiopeia uttered. “This is another to whom I wish to talk in more detail. I think he knows many interesting things.”

[/align]

* * *

In a tiny, two-and-a-half bedroom apartment on Vasilevsky Island, in St. Petersburg, the phone began to ring. A tired, dry woman’s hand took the receiver.

“Faina Semenovna?” - a familiar voice said.

The woman held her breath, both horrified and full of hope. “....yes.” - she said finally. “Yes... Your Imperial Majesty?”

“I have your son.”

“My son? MY FEDEN’KA? ALIVE?”

“Alive. Healthy. Recovering. Eating an Allanean sandwich right now.”

“You are joking? This is not funny.”

“I am not that cruel. Would you like to speak to him?”

“I...”

There was another voice on the other side of the line.

“MAMA! MAMA! IT’S ME, FEDYA! I’M FREE. MAMA! CAN YOU HEAR ME? WHY ARE YOU CRYING, MAMA?”

[Allanea]

Moscow, Meeting of the State Duma

Cassiopeia looked at the Deputies below her with derision. By now, she had established her own bribes to many of them, sometimes out of her personal pocket, sometimes through OAS funding. Some of them did not even know exactly where the money had come from. Others were being threatened, with revelations of their many illegal activities. The result was the same - by now, over a quarter of these men were no longer puppets of President Kuznetsov, but of the Allanean crown. Whatever sovereignty this country once had was being swiftly choked out of it, and the citizens did not know, and most of those who fully understood, cheered on it.

The country was, of course, going to be vastly better off. Money had begun flowing in - not only through the donations of Cassiopeia herself, but also through various investment of the Allaneans, who seemed to be interested in improving their ancestral homeland. Their work was swift in other ways too - Cassiopeia had established a presence in several cities, wherein Allanean spellcasters worked to cure the sick, free legal advice was available for the confused, and various other advice was also made available. At the country’s hospitals, one could seen new CT machines, new equipment, renovations and fixtures.

Moreover, Cassiopeia was popular particularly among those who had felt the touch of her and her apprentices’ magic on their very bodies. Every time that Cassiopeia, Oglor, or another of the powerful wizards that formed the elite of Allanean government visited a major city - and Cassiopeia would make frequent appearances - they would take several hours casting spells that restored eyesight to the blind, making the lame walk, and healing horrifying illnesses. Within such a visit, Cassiopeia would leave behind her dozens of people who had already abandoned hope and would now had despair replaced with joy, and for every man or woman like that - several of their friends and neighbors who no longer had to suffer with their loved ones’ suffering, no longer needed to strain themselves aiding a paralyzed father or a blind brother or a cancer stricken wife. These individuals would now, of course, be loyalists of House Blaken-Kazansky.

These were the people Cassiopeia was willing to work hard for - the Deputies in front of her, on the other hand, she had to strain to stop herself from butchering them all.

She spoke:

“Honored Deputies!

Having spoken and discussed the issue with President Kuznetsov, I have decided to organize further assistance to your nation, based on my understanding of its problems, and the many resources this country possesses. For this purpose, I am happy to say that I have organized a proposal, already approved by President Kuznetsov, to privatize a large amount of state resources.

The money from this privatization will be overseen by appointees of this house,” - whom I have already handpicked and who are on the OAS hook or on my payroll. “All the income will go towards the improvement of Russian infrastructure, the improvement of conditions in this country, and the reversing of ecological damage done by decades of irresponsible stewardship.”

“In addition, the Free Kingdom’s Congress has approved a direction of a large amount of arms orders towards this country’s largest arms factories - UralVagonZavod, Sevmash, and Izhmash. These will be to a total of fifteen billion New Dornalian Dollars as well as an five billion dollars for infrastructure improvements that will be contracted, to avoid corruption, from Menelmacari-based engineers.” - this was brazen. But they could hardly complain, she pondered, after all she was giving them-

The Communists began to applaud. Why were those shits applauding? They were the ones she had not bribed yet - even the three token opposition types were applauding, she realized. Perhaps they simply realized how good this was for them.

Of course, what they did not realize is that this was the rope with which she planned to, eventually, hang every single man in this room.

In some cases, literally hang.

*

Russia, Somewhere in the Caucasus

SPEAK! SPEAK YOU PUSTULENT TURD!

Krivitsky yelped. He was no longer the same Colonel that spoke so bravely to Cassiopeia weeks ago. He was a whimpering shadow of a man now, his cheeks sunken in, his face and body bruised, dressed only in underpants and a wife-beater shirt that was once white but now was greyish.

“I don’t know anything! I told you everything I know! Why are you doing this to me?”

The Orc smiled, revealing two rows of yellow, sharp teeth.

Because you are a slaver shitbag. You are worse than a slaver. You are a traitor slaver. - his voice was hoarse and raspy.

“I am not a -”

The Colonel yelped as two other Orcs grabbed him, uncuffing him from the chair. He screamed in pain as the Orcs lifted him bodily off the floor, and laid him horisontally on the chair, back propped on its seat, shoulders, arms, and legs hanging painfully in mid air. The, pulling hjis arms and legs under the chair - he screamed in pain - they cuffed them to each other, pulling his limbs together under the chair.

”You sold your own men to be slaves. The men who were sworn to shield you with their very bodies. Is this not what the Armed Services Code of Regulations says - to defend the unit commander and banner with one’s very life? And you sold them, you pathetic creature. You are on the level of the creatures who sell their own children. You do not deserve to be alive.”

“So? Are you going to kill me? That’s... there are laws!”

”The Russian Federation is sovereign,” the Orc said, mockingly ”So technically I am just a spy here. But nobody will care - just like nobody cares for some terrorist suspect when the FSB puts his fingers in a door jamb. I will torture you until you talk or until you die. I do not care. I am enjoying it.”

“You are what?”

”I am enjoying seeing you suffer. Do you understand that? It’s funny to me. Maybe I’ll show the video to the young men you sold into slavery. Would that be funny to you, Colonel?”

“You can’t do that-”

”We are diverting from the main topic of the conversation, which is - tell me how you hid the money. Tell me about your associates in the armed forces and the police force. Name me names.”

The man whimpered.

“My family-”

”Your family, scumbag? And are they associates of yours?” - the Orc smiled, leaning forward.

“NO! NO! MY CHILDREN HAVE DONE NO SUCH THING! THEY DON’T KNOW! I SWEAR TO YOU! DON’T HURT THEM!”

”You are afraid, then, that your associates will retaliate against your children?”

“Yes! OF COURSE THEY WILL! MY DAUGHTER IS FOURTEEN! MY SON IS TWELVE! THEY WILL KNOW AND THEY WILL-”

”Her Imperial Majesty will protect them, of course.”

The Colonel froze in his uncomfortable, painful posture. He was almost broken now - his body and soul were on the very edge of breaking, he was a weak man. He only needed an excuse, a tiny excuse, and he would betray everyone. Probably even those children. But the Orc knew that if he gave the man an opportunity to feel tha he was doing right by his children he would now break, and of course it would not be hard to promise this - indeed, it was something he had intended to do anyway.

“Really? She will?”

”Her Imperial Majesty, Cassiopeia Blaken-Kazansky, will take care of your family”

The Orc’s voice was almost solemn as he spoke.

They were dealt with in various ways.

They could not be arrested, the evidence would not fly in Russian court. OAS, on the other hand, was not part of the country’s laws, and the mobsters on its payroll even less so.

Therefore, Krivinsky’s associates had accidents.

The general who helped cover up his crimes when Krivinsky was a Lieutenant Colonel, and the General commanded a brigade, fell out of the bedroom of his luxury apartment, in Moscow, forty floors to his doom. Nobody saw anyone push the General. Which is normal. Invisibility rings tend to make it hard for people to see you.

The Mayor of a sleepy Dagestani town that helped put Krivinsky in touch with his ‘clients’ died in an accidental explosion when using his stove. People need to be careful when cooking with gas. Especially when there’s a bar mine hidden inside the stove.

Krivinsky’s former XO vanished from his dacha one night, and was simply never found again. Probably be decided to abandon his wife and start a new life somewhere.

Well, technically, he started a new unlife somewhere, but that’s a wholly different story. What mattered however was that the chain of corrupt officers, their subordinates, their associates, continued unraveling. Some were even arrested by real police based on tips. Some tried to flee. But, like hounds on a track, the hidden OAS men continued moving after their prey.

[Allanea]

Democide Prevention and National Security Act

Given, the open policy of Crystal Spires to eliminate the former ‘noble’ and ‘knight’ subcultures of its country, due to its belief that their mere persistence poses a threat of the caste system’s restoration,

Given, the policy of physical elimination of members of these subcultures not only directly as part of war and revolution (which would be understandable), but also long after, through the existence of sham legal procedures that have ‘convicted’ members of these subcultures of various crimes,

Given the policy of making property holding by noblemen conditional on political oaths of loyalty,

Given the state-admitted policy of confiscating such property without compensation through sham trials, and a refusal to compensate, even in situations where the Spirean court system itself admitted injustice,

Given the official policy of placing orphans from these subcultures into school environments intended to indoctrinate them and remove their cultural affiliation, environments where they were routinely subject to abuse, torture and forced labor, and denied critical medical care (this in a society where healing water literally flows in rivers,

Given the attempts of Spirean agents to infiltrate Allanean institutions, including the actual school where children of the highest members of Allanean social elite study,

Given the refusal of Spirean government officials to cooperate with Allanean law enforcement in Allanean national waters, resulting in the murders of one civilian and several law enforcement agents during a lawful inspection of a vessel, and then the murder of several law enforcement agents who were taken prisoner, placed tied up on a vessel, and then sunk;

Given the broad body of Spirean law listing all D’halbrisir citizens starting with adolescents as members of its military

Given the literal dozens of terrorist attacks and attempts by Spirean citizens on Allanean and Menelmacari citizens and law enforcement,

The Free Kingdom Senate and Congress hereby pass the Democide Prevention and National Security Act. Below is a summary of its provisions:


1. A complete embargo on the sale of arms to D’Halbrisir agencies of any kind; no arms, vehicles of war, military uniforms, loadbearing clothing, military-type boots may be exported to any D’halbrisir agency or individual;
2. A sanctions complex on the D’halbrisir government and all its agents; prohibiting their travel to any signatory states, or any business deals with the D’halbirisir government, since any equipment or business deals may aid the policy of continuous democide.

3. Arrest or seizure of all bank accounts and other property of persons or entities directly connected to the democide activity described above;

4. Given the literally hundreds of terrorist attacks committed by members of the Spirean National Guard and other Spirean citizens throughout the world, a travel ban on D’Halbrisir citizens who are not members of persecuted minorities. The Crown’s Immigration Service is hereby authorized to deport any and all Spirean nationals who do not have an existing permanent resident or refugee status, and no further visas will be issued, except for members of persecuted minorities, defectors, or by special authorization of the Crown.

5. An authorization for the Free Kingdom Armed Forces to use all manner of force and tactics against all Spirean vessels of war, and all members of the D’Halbrisir armed forces, as shall enter Prussian waters.

6. A Foreign Military Support Act to ensure the arming of our strategic partners whose national security may be negatively impacted by Spirean terrorism, placing up to 150 billion dollars a year at the Crown’s Discretion to be spent as military aid to these partners, and up to 150 billion dollars a year as reconstruction aid. This is not a replacement for other aid funds but an augmentation thereof.

The bill is now headed to Their Majesties for signature.

[The Ctan]

Transmission Source: Arnstorana Lygngarma nos Dunnealc, High Protector of Crystal Spires, Great Civilization of the C'tan
Destination: Alexander Kazansky, King of Allanea, Emperor of Greater Prussia etc.
Subject: Democide Prevention and National Security Bill
Security: N/A Public Disclosure

Dear Alex,

I have no doubt that you are giving the ‘Democide Prevention and National Security Act’ due consideration. I should like to make you aware of certain information that may be relevant in this matter.

First and foremost, I will address the concerns expressed about the oppression of Formerly Privileged Persons, specifically those in schedule one; all ‘Skyborn’ are ostensibly formerly privileged persons, but in fact most ‘Skyborn’ have gained higher legal status under the Spirean republic, as the overwhelming supermajority of Spirean ‘Skyborn’ were neither ‘nobles’ nor ‘knights’ but commoners of higher caste, used as menial labourers and attendants, or forced into military professions – there were in total only a few thousand ‘knights’ and less ‘nobles’ in the country prior to the revolution, there are and were inordinately more ‘Skyborn’ than this.

It should be noted that Formerly Privileged Persons are still over-represented in government and in prestigious positions, and are likely to remain so for some time, and many have been models of community spirit since the Revolution.

As High Protector of Crystal Spires I have made a point to both investigate and remedy this obvious concern. While it is true that the original (“anarcho-capitalist”) Spirean Revolutionary movement seized much land from the Formerly Privileged Persons during the Revolution, this has not been the case for some time, and I believe your government’s conception of this is exaggerated, possibly by those who seek financial compensation from your government.

There is no organized programme of arrests of Formerly Privileged Persons, nor has there been for some time. Neither are tax systems deliberately conjured with the aim of suppressing Formerly Privileged Persons, though they are of course progressive and do impose a proportionately greater tax burden on the wealthy – which of course I suspect you also find reprehensible, but which is not the same thing at all.

Furthermore we have established the Special Crimes Investigation Unit (Formerly Privileged Persons) with broad police powers in Crystal Spires. This consists of two branches of policing, similar to the general policy of the Great Civilization domestically, and drawn from our own policing officers; the Lawtenders, a low-armament police force assigned to community and civil tasks, as well as most property crime, and Lawkeepers (also known as ‘Enforcers’) who are a high-threat police force used to combat serious crimes against the person as well as high threat situations.

Lawtenders of the Special Crimes Investigation Unit are primarily involved with settling discrimination against Formerly Privileged Persons in a positive way that provides protection against discrimination. Punitive actions and warning notices issued by the Special Crimes Investigation Unit for hate crimes against Formerly Privileged Persons are comparatively common, it must be said, and this has included in extreme cases, arrest and imprisonment for assault and battery.

The Lawkeepers of the Special Crimes Investigation Unit are chiefly engaged with the suppression of illicit slavery by Formerly Privileged Persons, and estimates derived from fieldwork indicate that up to 20% of adult Formerly Privileged Persons are involved with or have been recently involved with serious crimes. The penalty levied for this is of course, normally slap-scarab assignment and relocation to the Great Civilization on a permanent basis, though we have made a point to publicly execute those who murder their slaves to avoid discovery in line with our general anti-slavery policies.

Our concern is of course, to crush absolutely the one-fifth of Formerly Privileged Persons involved with serious crimes such as murder, slavery, terrorism, sectarian violence and forced-marriage, and to protect and safeguard the remaining four fifths of the Formerly Privileged Person population who are compliant (some happily, some grudgingly) with the law – including those who dissent peacefully, of course.

Democide of Formerly Privileged Persons is not possible; we would detect it, and if necessary, take direct corrective action, if necessary, against any Spirean government encouraging such, though we do not anticipate this as even remotely likely.

By the matter of ‘terrorism’ we believe that you primarily refer to the assassination attempts made against your daughter? We have drastically reduced those made against the other high profile targets Emina and Varsel, by permitting relocation and protection of those assassins who were part of the ‘crow’ franchises and thus inducing them to provide information to our services; raids to obtain crow guildmasters have also been successful in both ending attacks and identifying

It is notable that of the attacks on Varsel and Emina, many were commissioned by a group of thirteen Formerly Privileged Persons who have now been convicted. This has drastically reduced the number of assassination attempts. In fact this group of Formerly Privileged Persons was responsible for more attempts on their lives in total than all radicalized anti-monarchists.

And we would be happy to cooperate in eliminating any cabals who seek to cause terrorist attacks or assassination in your own country, or against Rheya Blaken-Kazanky?

The military and law enforcement apparatus of Crystal Spires are being rapidly reformed to alter recruitment and religious policies while retaining the traditional character of both the Order of Uncorruptibles and the Grand Order of Idealists – the police and military forces of Crystal Spires. This is a work in progress, about which I cannot disclose final details, but needless to say will address many concerns.

While it is likely that the symbolic nature of the universal Spirean militia will be retained we anticipate the clarification of this – legally at least – to be certain that it represents adult citizens who do not choose to opt out of this. Obviously no one seriously believes that even the most committed pacifist Nenyite of Crystal Spires is a part of its military.

Naturally, complete foster care and adoption reform is being undertaken at all levels and the former orphanage system is being replaced at the speed you would expect of us.

I hope this information proves useful,

Lygngarma

P.S. Lawkeepers of the Special Crimes Investigation Unit (Crystal Spires) would very much like to speak to Elona Maeyra about the dozen bodies of maids dated post-revolution that they found buried in shallow graves on her estate, as well as the persons who were living as slaves there until the SCI raided it. We understand that Elona Maeyra is also at this ‘school for the highest elite’ of Allanea?

[Allanea]

Official Response from His Imperial Majesty, Alexander Blaken-Kazansky, Emperor of Greater PRussia, King of Allanea, Reichskamphen, and Leipzig Island, Czar of All Russia, etc.

A consideration is being made of the bill and it has not been signed as of yet, but several points have to be made:

1. It is somewhat irrelevant if the nobility and knights are ‘overrepresented’ or ‘underrepresented’. This would matter if Allanea’s government subscribed to the worldview in which a person’s oppression or freedom depends on whether they are in a ‘privileged’ or ‘underprivileged’ position in society. Let me tell you immediately that we do not. It’s preposterous and I am not even entertaining it for the sake of argument.

2. The definition of democide includes not only open murders of vast groups of individuals through the use of gas chambers and the like, but also organized attempts to suppress a group or subculture and to force its disappearance. It’s true of course that the ‘government’ of D’halbrisir has now mostly wound down its atrocities. But that’s principally because most of the victims are already dead.

3. The Spirean ‘government’ is adept at lying. I personally have never had an interaction with a Spirean government agent of any kind without them either lying to me or attempting to deceive me, or somehow violating professional ethics. Literally every single Spirean agent I have spoken to has been a liar, a child abuser, a murderer, an agent provocateur, or some combination of these. Of the Spirean government officials I met, two lied to me, one went to prison for child abuse, one turned out to be an agent provocateur. The Spirean officials lie. It’s what they do always.

4. As an example of Spirean lying, the Spirean government until recently rigged its property taxes not merely as a system to ‘tax the rich more’ (within the customary prerogative of sovereign states, although of course morally repugnant), but as a system specifically to enable itself expropriate the lands and homes of the nobility at the flimsiest excuse. [I use the term ‘nobility’ broadly here, and not in the sense in which it is used by the Spireans]. Simultaneously, there was an “abolition of inheritance” (read: theft), again, designed to target the nobility. Again, time and time again the Spireans designed their legal system to make it seem that they are complying with the norms of rule of law, while in practice people whom they wish to target just kind of happen to lose their land, end up exiled and enslaved, or accused of heinous crimes.

It is the design of their government system that enables this.

5. That the Spirean system had repeatedly subjected noblemen to unfair trials, is not a matter of dispute. The Spirean governent admitted so at numerous junctures, and issued documents confirming this. The fact that the Allanean government is working to raise money to compensate those affected does not make the Spireans less guilty to less liable - if I steal a credchip out of your pocket, and then a kind person gives you another, in no way does this improve the fact I am a thief and have your money in my pocket.

6. You can either have your cake, or you can eat it. If a nation declares that all its citizens are members of its militia, then by nature in wartime they get shot up, and in peacetime when they commit acts of terrorism abroad, this throws a shadow of suspicion on the state. This is natural especially when the acts of terrorism are such that they appear to be inspired by official state ideology - again, I am not suggesting that every Spirean who shoots Allaneans is acting on orders (surely only some are!), but I am suggesting that when your state propaganda is a constant humming drumbeat about the evil monarchists, some people will try and murder a monarchist. Every time I personally traveled to Crystal Spires, and even when sitting at the table with my friends there, I and my family faced false accusations, suspicion, physical assaults, and so forth. Over the time of our visits in Crystal Spires, I was assaulted once, my wife was assaulted because Spireans are unable to understand ‘servant’ other than as ‘slave’, Rudolph was assaulted. A month does not pass without us washing a Spirean off the treads of a BMP because they try to infiltrate Leyfield.

No, I am not suggesting Spires had orchestrated these attacks - it had only infiltrated one spy into Leyfield so far. Had Spires orchestrated these attacks on a state level, I assure you it is not trade limits we would be discussing.

THis brings me to an obvious conclusion:

Spirean culture is not consistent with Spireans not loathing all noblekind given what they’ve underwent in pre-revolutionary Spires. As such I absolutely do not believe that they will one day compensate their victims, cast off their policies, and so forth. Perhaps to some extent they’ll be ameliorated, but it’s not possible, given the past of that country, for its culture not to be wound around vicious Jacobine Republicanism.

I do not wish to attempt to impose on Spireans a thing that simply cannot be imposed on them. However, I wish to both be secure against their death-cult, and to not cooperate in it in any way.

That is all.

Yours,
Alexander.

P.S. as for the matter of Elona Meyra, the answer is simple:

No. And I am insulted that you seriously contemplated I would reply in the affirmative’. Were I not Emperor, I would send back a dueling challenge.

P.P.S. Future correspondence using the designation 'formerly privileged person' and not 'noblemen' or 'knights' will be returned without reply, or autofiltered.

[Allanea]

The Alexandrovsky Palace, Old Russia

The Imperial Office room, once used by the rulers of Russia, was immense, far beyond the scope of a personal or even a corporate office. A two-story room, complete with several arrays of chairs, sofas, a large pool table - it was beyond her how the last Romanovs could work in a room like this. But still, she felt it was appropriate for whom, and what, she was.

The Patriarch Filaret!

Cassiopeia blinked in disbelief as the man entered - with a long beard, a black robe and a white cowl, on which a gold cross gleamed. An enormous crucifix, gold or perhaps brass, shone on his chest as he bowed deeply to her.

“Greetings, Your Imperial Majesty”, he said, in an obsequious tone. Cassiopeia smiled slightly, for she could not deny such a behavior flattered her.

“Sit down, Your Holiness,” - she said. “It is normal that in these office hours I accept the poor and indigent, the weak and lame, and those who wish to aid them. How may I assist you, Your Holiness? Is it a charity program, perhaps, you wish me to endow?” - she asked, but already she suspected this was not the case.

“No, this is not so, Your Imperial Majesty.” - he replied. “Perhaps even, I may ask you to act less kindly and...”

“What?” - Cassiopeia blinked.

“Your programs, Your Imperial Majesty, they are driving men and women to sin.”

“...what.”

“Consider, Your Imperial Majesty. Now I.... as a Christian man, I of course oppose witch-craft of all kinds, but I suppose it would not be fully ‘witch-craft’ in the biblical sense, what your people do...”

Clever. - Cassiopeia thought, he has already found a way not to start a conflict with me.

“Of course, what you do is science rather than magic, you are a reputable scientist. Though the word ‘magic’ is used, we both understand that reputable science is involved.”

Cassiopeia’s face was like stone. “Yes. I am a very reputable scientist. I have made various discoveries. Go on.”

“And yet, there are some problems.” - the Patriarch said. “People are abandoning our church in droves. It is not that they’re becoming unbelievers - people seem to just stop coming to services. And of course, your services cause people to act... badly. People are now sinning more. People now know that it’s easier to cure the consequences of sin... and of course your people are handing out condoms, and we all know how dangerous that is. It will spread both promiscuity and a variety of danger. What will be next, Your Imperial Majesty, will you hand out free syringes to drug addicts?”

There was a long silence as Cassiopeia looked at the Patriarch, as if he was an insect, some disgusting multi-legged creature crawling across her desk.

“Actually, yes, I will.”

“What?” - the Patriarch’s eyes widened.

“Your Holy Lordship.” - she said, invoking the man’s full, ceremonial title. “I am sworn on the altar of the Gods to protect freedom of faith. I will not censor your religion, or chase your priests by the sword from their monasteries. But. That is all. I owe you nothing more, or less, than that. “

“What are you saying?”

“Your Church,” - Cassiopiea said bluntly, “has received a variety of state privileges over the years. Tax privileges, the ability to trade in oil, tobacco, and alcohol without taxes, and lots of free state land that you claimed some religious value - including places that never were Orthodox Christian churches. You stole - sorry, ‘had returned to you’, elderly Teuton Order fortresses, on the account that they were religious institutions - even though they were religious institutions of different faiths. You organized semi-criminal ‘patrols’ near churches, to enforce ‘modesty’ and ‘protect law and order’. Did you or did you not?”

“We are protecting the morality of the nation!” - the priest’s voice rose.

“Listen to me, Patriarch. Your church has billions. It could have helped people just as much as I had - and yet it had done almost nothing compared to its power. I know - and you know - that many of your top priests are agents of the government. I know - and you know - about the abuse of young men and women in the Church. We both know who you are, Patriarch.”

“I...”

“Here’s what you’re going to do, Patriarch. I did not say - ‘I want you to do’, I said ‘you are going to do. I will protect - as I said - your congregations’ freedom of speech and belief. But you are going to pull your tendrils in, or I am going to cut them off. You are going to cease those ‘patrols’, or have them comply with the law. As soon as one of your men raises a hand on a woman or man illegally - that’ll be the end of it. I will have your finance books thrown open.”

“You cannot do that!”

“I cannot? Do you think your flock will appreciate to know you’re stealing their money? Now, the second matter is the abuse. We will have a full investigation. THere will be trials, and prisons, and cold Siberia for those who exploit their wards. THe perverts, the torturers, the ones who use their mantles and crosses to hide crimes against your own God and those who entrusted them into their care - these people need to be destroyed.”

The Patriarch looked the Tsarina in the eye, and recoiled in terror.

“Do not trifle with me, Patriarch” - she said. “I stand for the freedom of faith. But I do not stand for the freedom to torment and destroy.”

“Witch.” - he spat out. “Witch, Dark Artist, whore-”

“That will be enough, Patriarch.” - she replied. “We both know you are not even a man of faith.”

“...how dare you?”

“Your faith rejects the existence of necromancy.” - she pointed out. “And if you truly believe in your faith - should not your faith be armor to you against my spells? Should not your Trinity ward you?” - she laid her hand on her wand. “Would a believing man have tried to bribe a judge to sue his neighbor out of thousands?”

“You... how do you know that?” - the Patriarch was pale.

“I know things, Patriarch. Now. Are you going to work with me on these problems... or are you going to take me on?”

The priest paused. “Yes, your Imperial Majesty, I will work with you.”

“With a Dark Artist Witch Whore.” - she said. “So much for faith.”

“I want to live.” - he said. “And live well. There is no point concealing it. I am not as much a man of faith as you would expect in my position.”

“Thanhk you.” - Cassiopeia smiled.

“For... what?”

“For admitting this.”

“You whore. You have bugs in the room.”

“You understand now, Patriarch. Now go,” - she said, blasphemously, “and sin no more.” - she paused. "By the way, I was just guessing about the judge you bribed. "

[Allanea]

Address by Alexander Blaken-Kazansky, King of Allanea, Tsar of All Russia and Emperor of Greater Prussia, to the Terek Cossack Host

The Cossack tradition is an ancient one. It predates the existence of Allanea, it predates the current Russian state, and quite possibly predates the Romanov crown. Some - though this may be an artful exaggeration - trace the Cossacks back to the very ancient Scythians, who rejected Roman rule. Some suggest - and this is somewhat likely - an ancient Menelmacari trade influence on Cossack culture. Few things speak better to the character of the Cossack than to know that Cossacks have traded with and befriended Elves centuries ago, and to this day use a similar sword design to elf warriors.

The TereK Cossack Host, in particular, had been erected by the Romanovs, whose crown I am wearing even now, to protect the Southern borders of their Empire against the encroachments of Persians, Caucasian raiders and Mehdiist slavers. It has made itself known, in glory, through some of the greatest wars Old Russia had ever known.

Yet today Cossacks are often mocked. Their traditions are seen by the ignorant as only baubles, their swords and pikes as decoration, their dedication to martial valor as hypocrisy and charlatanism at best, and a cover for extremist hate at worst. To some extent, this mockery is a result of the fact that, naturally, most Cossacks are no longer the horse-riding farmers of the past, and their wonderful cavalry skills are no longer very important in most combat.

However, these are things I as your Tsar offer to remedy.

As you know, Old Russian laws call for the arming of all Cossack hosts, and only bureaucracy has prevented this from happening. I have however worked with President Kuznetsov to make it happen in fact. As a first step, we will work to have every Cossack aged over eighteen, male or female, to be issued with a hunting arm similar in pattern to the AK rifles used here, or the FN FGR used in Allanea.

Further, we will work to create standing Cossack Regiments, funded by aid from Allanea, to be stationed permanently around the towns where most Cossacks live, to function as a light territorial reserve and to protect against Islamist terrorism and other threats. Further, I will personally fund, out of my pocket, the creation of His Imperial Majesty’s Cossack Escort, comprised of four mounted companies, as it was in the days of old.

I, and my compatriots, will endeavor to henceforth arm, fund, and support Cossacks and their culture to the full extent of the laws, out of the profits of our enterprises, and furthermore if Congress grants its assent, then from Allanea’s military budget. The Free Kingdom shall allow Cossacks to serve in its armed forces as if they were Allanean Freemen.

It is said that in days past, the word ‘Cossack’ meant a ‘free man’.

And I promise you it will continue meaning that.

That is all.

May the Gods bless the Cossacks, and may they forever continue to bless Allanea.

[Allanea]

Millions were on the move. Some fled from the Milky Way Galaxy, its worlds devastated by the fractal disaster known as the FusterCluck – the opening of the Pandora’s Box itself, which had rend the world asunder. Some simply because they feared the mighty forces that had been unleashed – the Chaosites, the Old Ones, the [url=Phyrexians, the Shivans and Tyranids. Others no longer needed to fear, for the horrors that they had once feared had come true. Amras had been [url= viewtopic.php?p=31791674#p31791674]dislocated from its orbit by the actions of Necron warships[/url], and the cities of Earth, once beautiful, were aflame. Should they wait for their homes to be rebuilt, for the insurance claims to be paid out, for life to begin anew? Or should they start a new life, where even these monsters could not reach?

Thus, it was the Mercine Worlds, in the Andromeda Galaxy, near the border with Allanea’s staunch allies, the Dornalians, where millions now fled. In escorted convoys – everyone moved in convoys these days, who knew what could happen? – flocks of starships passed through the intergalactic portals that connected the Mercine Worlds to the Milky way. The ships were many – dozens of leviathan colonial freighters, hundreds of smaller freighters and service ships, and thousands upon thousands of tiny personal vessels, hanging about them as lampreys about a shark.

There were nine worlds available to the colonists to choose from, Hestia still off-limit, the world neither pacified nor fully explored yet. Elsewhere, they began to descend. In some places, the freighters themselves were cut apart, lowered towards the ground, their battered metal bodies used as the structure for the first colonial homes, each capable of housing several thousand men or holding an office building.

The recent deal with the Empire of the Lemons had given Allanean corporations thousands upon thousands of tons of pure, non-fabbed, natural gold, and it was this gold that was now being poured into infrastructure for the new worlds – sometimes literally, as spellcasters now were in possession of sufficient gold to use in incredible operations that consumed it as a component.

Thus it was that arcane items were enchanted and produced for use in the colonies. Where doctors were in short supply, beds were enchanted to provide health to their users. Summoners and Demonologists worked to bring forth outsider beings to aid in the colony work. Those forges and factories not yet caught up in the war effort clanked and hammered, as reactors, bridges, homes, and road components were being made.

But the refugees and colonists did not wait for this, nor did they wait for the planets to be fully named.

They carved out their own omens and named their own towns. Thus, on Mercine World #4, born was Aurora Colony – fifty thousand settlers just on the edge of the planet’s polar circle, some living in homes they had brought in, others in rapid-constructed geodesic domes, and yet others, in landed freighters. Thousands more made their way into the whirling blizzards to make home elsewhere.

Not all were in favour of such living. A small island near the equator was named Verna, and upon its white beaches a colony of migrants from Kurzweil Province made their home. The equatorial warmth, the pristine green-blue sea and the white sand were what they had come here for.

Yet others were dwarves, cutting into the stone of the world’s mountains to create what – at least for Allanean dwarves – was the first dwarf hold outside the Milky Way Galaxy. Plasma cutters both cut and melted the rock, and the dwarves named their city Thoringrad, which would thus combine the word Allaneans frequently used for ‘city’ with the name of Thorin Oakenshield, the ancient hero. Thousands of them streamed towards the planet, and even as thousands burrowed into the granite, thousands more labored on the surface.

In orbit, two space stations were placed for use by planetary authorities as hospitals and rescue service providers for the colonists below. Small gravships would ride down towards the snowy surface to rescue those unlucky enough, or foolish enough, to be injured or stranded in the endless snows. Sometimes it would be too late. Sometimes too late even for witchcraft to restore life to a man whose heart had stopped beating, or even to find a body. But it could not be said that the rescuers did not try.

Yet other Freemen chose even more exotic locations. Floating cities were built, the seasteading spirit still strong within the Allaneans. Yet others chose to dwell simply upon house-boats, moving deftly and swiftly upon the waves of seas yet uncharted, and rivers yet unnamed.

The Great Migration was once again on the move.

[Allanea]

World Group: The Mercine Worlds
World: Khione
Township: Oremvale

The township was coming alive. The money flowing into both Allanea’s economy and the coffers of the Ministry for Colonial Affairs had reinvigorated the push outwards, to the colonies. The black road surfaces, stark black against the gleaming white of the planet’s snows, pushed outwards in every direction from the landing pads, where dozens of shuttles unloaded every day.

Flush with money, the Ministry had now attempted a different tack for the colonies. Colonial Townships were now being founded – Oremvale, Jadena, Fadon – each with the capacity of housing ten thousand families. These would serve as community hubs for the myriads of settlers that were continuing to stream out to the new worlds.

In places, the townships had already been built up, rows of prebuilt colonial homes were stretching to the horizon. Elsewhere, no such provisions had been made, and only long expanses of marked-up land lots waited for those who would soon build their homes on this land.

These streamed in rapidly. Overhead, Numerramar cargo ships hovered in orbits, dozens of their supercontainers descending through the athmosphere, some carrying settlers and their supplies, others with infrastructure elements – reactors, bridges, stations.

The Crown, of course, also participated.

Fifty miles North of Oremvale, on the frozen snow, preassembled buildings where being lowered onto the land. With the assistance of droids and techspiders, the untamed wilderness was reshaped not within years or months, but within hours. By morning of the next day, several buildings were in place, tall, ornate, decorated in the gothic style, with paths laid between them. By morning of the day after – several more, this time three-story buildings several hundred yards long, in the same style as the central complexes. These would be dormitories, and the complex would of course be a university complex.

A few days later, the first staff began to arrive. The Chief Janitor, seated in a control room on the ground floor, turned the key, and the reactors began to buzz softly, pumping light and heat into every room.

Finally, at last, the Royal Yacht arrived. Enormous, decorated in gothic emblems, like a cathedral, it hung in orbit, and from it, a small shuttle descended. Soundlessly, the shuttle flew over the university grounds, and settled in the snow.

The Queen emerged, dressed in a long, elegant iigh-grey fur coat, escorted by a pair of Dark Knights. Striding confinently across the snow, they proceeded to the building that would be the college’s main auditorium.

Speech by Cassiopeia Blaken-Kazansky, Queen of Allanea, Empress of Greater Prussia, etc., at the opening of the Daumsia Academy of Wizardry

My dear friends!

I say these words not as a mere figure of rhetoric. Those in the world of science are friends of mine – wizards, archaeologists, physicists, doctors and historians. Before becoming what I am now, I have been a scientist, an archaeologist, and an explorer. Some of you have no doubt have read some of my work. I believe – I hope – that although I am now your Queen, I am also still part of the large scientific family.

For this reason, I have donated a modest sum of money for the development and foundation of a range of colleges, laboratories, and other such things throughout the Andromeda Galaxy, where the Ministry of Colonial Affairs will make its next focus. Among other things I have helped build the very auditorium we are in now.

In the future, I believe that the universities and colleges of Andromeda will not only provide for the needs of students here, but will attract students from Sol itself.

In these pristine snows, you possess unusual advantages over your colleagues on Earth. The proximity of Hestia, with its scientific treasures, will be for you like a tomb of an ancient wizard, a treasure chest, a book of wonders for you to open and read. I believe fully that very soon I will be hearing of your achievements.

Let me, however, issue you a wish, and a warning. In your study of Hestia’s secrets, of the corners of the arcane and the physical world, some of you – perhaps the youngest students and researchers most of all – may feel the desire to cut a corner, to move faster than that guidelines of safety and ethics would have you move. You may think that these are not for you, and that you are wise enough to bypass them – this time at least. You might think that the ethics committees are staffed with doddering fools that fail to understand your true genius. Perhaps it might be true.

But remember – these guidelines are written not in ink, but in blood and tears. Those who have come before you have said the same things – ‘these are not for me’, ‘we need to move faster’, ‘we will see who laughs last’. History has kept their names – often not in the rolls of science’s greatest pride, but in the records of prison wardens, the rosters of mental asylums, and the marble of their gravestones.

It is best that you remember their names, and restrain the flight of your intellect with the ballast of your wisdom.

Go forth. Be brave, but be also wise.

That is all.

May the Gods continue to bless Allanea.

[Allanea]

The Tinkering Tiara, Liberty-City

There are some elementary principles of magic, Darius Wolfe thought as he raised the jewel in front of him. These were the principles that would always keep him – and the Tinkering Tiara – going.

The first was – this was known among many worlds, many peoples – was that hand-made, quality objects were easier to enchant. The theories for why this was differed. Some argued that the objects began 'charged' in some way by the craftsman, that his desire to keep the work at a high quality would somehow tie the item better to the so-called subtle world – what the Allanean wizards called the magosphere, the magical element of the multiverse.

Whether or not this was a correct theory, hand-made objects indeed easier to enchant. Which brought him to the second fact: the fact that more valuable objects were easier to enchant as well. Again, theories differed as to why – it had something to do with the interactions between the noosphere, and the way it interlaced with the magosphere, the ways people's thoughts, feelings, symbols contacted reality.

All of this meant that, over the centuries, nearly all cultures tended to enchant jewels and weapons. And the Tinkering Tiara made jewels, ready to be enchanted by wizards and witches across the country.

Which is how we get here, – Wolfe mused as he brought the item to his eyes, holding it the tips of his fingers. It was a golden pin, portraying a spider seated at the center of a web, its mandibles spread and prepared to bite. His client had ordered a hundred spider brooches – all his apprentices were now seated making them, melting, crafting, polishing.

The government was in need of spiders.

Now that was a phrase to ponder! – the Ministry of War was calling up jewelers of a sufficient grade, purchasing hundreds of spider brooches like the one here. Of course, they were hand-made, and each of its own design – the government's specifications were fairly varied, allowing individual artists to apply their own particular desires. Thus the different individuals went about constructing the spiders.

Other artworks were also commissioned – a sculptor on Crimson Avenue that Wolffe's cousin knew was commissioned for a series of obsidian statuettes, and so on and so forth it went.

But how are they going to enchant all that stuff?

*

Bimmington Institute of Magic

The machine pumped away – chuff, chuff, chuff, chuff – as if a small locomotive was working in the laboratory. It was certainly a strange way to work, thought Ilgar Draconax – Professor Ilgar Draconax, thank you very much – as he looked at the item in front of him. It was a spider, albeit nothing like the one that Wolfe had held – silver and moissanite, this one, tiny pieces of gleaming stone covering the metal. Two tiny sapphires represented eyes.

"Assistant Larkin?" – he spoke to the assistant behind him – "Put the machine in release mode."
Behind him, a man flipped a switch.

Now, the machine behind him – that fabled, secret machine, the Sykes Transformer – began to release its product into the air.

Its product was power, raw, uncontrolled mana.

Professor Draconaxx concentrated, allowing the magic to flow through him.

Oh, that machine.

Primitive, that machine.

And yet, Professor Draconaxx understood why the machine traveled under guard.

Why it was locked away after use.

Why the Institute was not allowed to own the machine – it was strictly on loan from some shady branch of DREAD.

Yet there were some parts of spellcasting, and of the making of items like this spider, that they could not yet automate.

It was why they had let him put the machine in his lab, and use it for his tests.

They needed someone to work with the spiders. Professor Draconax would be rewarded – lavishly – for this work. So would the institute.

He had no problem with this. He began to whisper his spells as he raised his wand. He, and he alone, could see what happened next, the spell's energy flowing through the wand in strands as he wove it through the air, gleaming protecting sigils growing around the small metal spider. Then – another movement – and the strands compressed, the sigils growing smaller, pressing into the metal and moissanite.

For a moment, the stones glowed, and then the glow receded. Only the arachnid's sapphire eyes continued to glow, slightly, as Draconax began to chant the sealing spell. The gleam was barely perceptible now to the naked eye, but those magically-aware would know what Draconax had made.

The spell ended, at last, and the spider lay on the blank stone of the ritual table. It was ready.

For a moment, there was the temptation to keep the machine running, to keep using it until his voice was sore from spellcasting – but Draconax realized he was not yet skilled with this machine. Perhaps nobody was.

"Shut it off, please."

The knife switch moved. There was a strange emptiness in the room as the machine continued spinning – but now was no longer producing that power which, minutes ago, Draconax felt free to tap.

Yet he did not feel that he spent any of his own power – the cost he'd have had to pay to create the amulet was paid by this machine. After a few minutes, he and his assistant would turn it on again, and reach for another one of the spider-jewels.

* * *

The simple reality was that Allanea's government has gotten its hands – once more – on a large amount of gold and other valuables, and it was interested in having them spent. Thus, enchanted items began to flow, siphoned in care through a range of clandestine contractors. Some were small, like the brooches. Others – larger, much larger. One night, the emblem of the Ministry of War was carefully replaced – officially, the old one had become in danger of coming apart due to its old age.

This would of course not explain why the new one used gold and not brass, and why armed DREAD troops stood ready along the building's roof, their faces concealed by helmets and masks, when the new emblem was hoisted into place.

This would also not explain why it had to be raised and installed at night.

Those who paid attention – but of course, few ever do – might notice paintings being taken out of government offices and replaced a few days later. Sometimes a carpet would be removed and replaced. Clearly something was happening.

And yet the full extent of the project was not, yet, obvious.

Soon that would change.

[Allanea]

DREAD Facility X-109, Hestia

When a scientific discovery is made, it often takes quite a while for its effects to be felt fully, and especially when a given research is at least partly classified. Hestia and its treasures remained, so far, under the control of the Ministry of Defense, and so were the secrets of the Sykes Transformer. Other secrets, ancient and terrible, had been kept in storage for years. Now, however, with the discovery of Hestia, and with the Sykes Transformer's early production run being ready, it would be possible to prepare for entirely new horizons.

Dr. Irina Ivanovna Lantsova walked down the length of the well-lit corridor towards the facility's secure test hall. Behind her, a lab assistant in a light-blue DREAD uniform pushed forward a simple gurney, and resting upon the gurney was a box with a secure armor-glass top. Held under the glass were several items about the size and shape of a Red Rabbit can – or, perhaps more pertinently, about the size and shape of a large hand-grenade.

They were, of course, neither.

The notion of enchanted munitions that would release a spell on impact was certainly not new. They were known around the world, and fired from any number of weapons, or thrown by hand. There had already been munitions that would deliver a cloud of magical smoke that would put targets to sleep, or that would dispel the wards of an enemy. Adventurers had been known to carry potent and expensive weapons that could dump out everyone within a dozen yards into the Astral Plane.

The Free Kingdom was now in position to take this to a new level. The weapons on Lantsova's gurney were an entirely new type of contraption – each costing as a brand-new house, they had been imbued with the power of archmages, and fashioned with the hard work of jewelers. It seemed insane to put such expenses into a weapon that could only be used once – but if they worked, it would all be justified.

They would, of course, never enter into the hands of regular troops or policemen – but they would find service with P-SWAT teams in major cities and with special forces teams on those awkward missions that require the most force in the smallest package.

The gates in front of Lantsova opened. For a moment, she basked in the bright white light of the testing room.

– "Assistant Smith," – she said, her voice polite and yet steely. "Open the sample box."

The testing hall was spherical, with the exception of the floor of course. The walls were of transparent armorglass, although the perennial blizzards of Hestia made actually seeing anything outside impossible.

And, painted on the floor, was a protective circle.

There was no mistaking it – several concentric circles, drawn onto the white floor in black, with complex sigils in the ancient tongue running between them.

There in the circle, Lantsova's colleague waited. He was dressed in a long black robe, and he had a long, black staff of curved, gnarly wood, his skin dried and his cheeks sunken. This was Dr. Terrence Hall. She was not surprised by this, and she was also not surprised by the look of concern on his face – the Demonologist had long stated what he thought of this experiment.

– "You are certain these things will work, Irina?"

– "Are you sure your protective circle will work, Terrence?" – she replied.

He shrugged. "I cannot guarantee a thing with your choice of a test subject that powerful."

– "The grenades worked in the dry firing, and they worked with the dretches. Failing that, we fight it ourselves. There are also autoturrets in the ceiling should we fuck it up."

– "That is hardly the most reassuring –"

– "Just cast the summoning, Terrence." – she said, tiredly.

The demonologist shrugged as he raised the staff. The words flowed from his mouth with ease, as if he had been reading a beautiful poem. Yet the lab assistant behind him shuddered in terror. He understood none of the words, but he understood very well, with every fiber of his being, that Terrence Hall was speaking in a demonic tongue, a language both ancient and malicious. The assistant reached towards his weapon, a heavy, bulky thing hanging off his right hip, and placed his hand carefully, quietly on its handle.

And the creature arrived.
–
It looked nothing like the red-skinned, winged, horned demons from children's drawings – although the assistant knew, vaguely, those too existed somewhere. It loomed over the trio, as if wondering if it should try and breach the protective circle. The letters and lines underneath their feet glowed slightly as the demon approached, as if they were meeting some unseen force with their own.

The creature itself was awful to behold. It was somewhat humanoid, but much taller than any of the three scientists, standing almost nine feet tall on bent feet. Its body was thin and leathery, like the body of a swamp mummy rather than a living being, except that its skin was grey. It glistened disgustingly, as if the creature had just arisen from a swamp, or perhaps lathered itself up for the encounter. Protruding from the place where a human being has a tailbone was a long, prehensile tail that rose towards above the creature's head, and ended in a stinger much like on a scorpion.

And, perhaps most disturbingly, its face, although hairless and looking for the world like the head of a corpse, seemed to smile.

"Who are you? Why do you disturb me, Sig'Drimon the Thrice-Accursed, from my travails? Do you imagine that I shall serve you?" – the creature cackled – "Oh, let me guess, you think you have found my true name, he, he, he. Or perhaps a wish. You imagine I shall grant you a wish, is it not, little lady? Perhaps it is three wishes. I once had a mortal ask me for four wishes. So, what is it?"

The creature leaned closer, the air beginning to crackle and spark as its face approached the edge of the protective circle.

"No." – said Lantsova, her face seeming entirely calm. Her emerald-green eyes met with the demons sunken black ones. "I just needed you as a guinea pig, Sig'Drimon the Four-Cursed."

"What?" – for a moment, the creature paused.

The scientist moved her hand in a single, fluid motion, the can-shaped device clattering under the demon's feet. And as it bounced, spinning, under the creature, coruscating, radiant arcs, like lightning, appeared from within, wrapping around Sig'Drimon.

"HUUUUMAN!" – the creature roared in hated "WHAT HAVE YOU–" – the arcs pulled at it, and it seemed to be drawn into something, as if the earth opened up under its feet. Shrieking, it vanished into the device.

There was silence.

"The spell itself was a simple one." – said Lantsova. – "What was required was making it powerful enough to contain the demon. The approach is almost a brute-force one. "

"Brute force." – said the demonologist. He was still somewhat pale, paler then usual even. "My Gods, Lantsova. What's next?"

"Frankly, I'm hoping for a promotion. I really feel I ought to be having more say in the running of this facility, you know?"

Lantsova stepped forward across the boundary of the protective circle and picked up the can.

[Allanea]

The Arcologies

"I apologize. Don't want to bother you, sir. I haven't eaten for two days."

He did not recognize the panhandler at first. His face had been wrinkled and dried, and his hands, covered in several open boils that made it unpleasant to reach back and place the credchip in the man's open palm. He was dressed in old, tattered clothing – many layers of it, two sweaters, it seemed, and two jackets – one a thin, green Army one, and one a thick, padded cold-weather jacket. There was also a nauseating smell – perhaps, to be fair, coming not from the man himself but from the many layers of dirty, terrible clothing he wore.

Only as he reached out to give the panhandler his credchip did he look, finally, in the man's eyes. Piercing, grey, wide, they seemed familiar somehow.

"Sergeant Cleaggs?!" – he asked.

For a moment, the panhandler stared at the Orc standing in front of him with confusion. There was a vast difference between how they'd turned out. The Uruk-Hai was – for the exception of a mangled right ear – the image of health and happiness, tall, wearing a new shirt and a pair of black jeans, his wraparound sunglasses the product of some fashionable company. Only after a minute did recognition come. "Gro-Gatuk?"

"Durgob Gro-Gatuk, the very same. But why are you… here? Why are you…"

"Why am I homeless? Why am I lying in my own shit in the arcologies?"

"Yes. Yes, that, Sarge. You were supposed to have an Army pension."

"It's because… I don't want to talk about it."

"Bull-fucking shit, Sarge. Come with me."

"I'm doing no such thing, Gro-Gatuk, and if you –"

But Gro-Gatuk had no real intent of respecting his Sergeant's freedoms. He grabbed on to the homeless man's wrist.

"Lay off me!" – the man roared, and for a moment that old Army sergeant's voice seemed back in his throat and lungs. "I don't need or want your help!"

On the corner, a few yards away, several men and women turned. The situation was growing volatile, Gro-Gatuk realized. Had they thought he was kidnapping a homeless man off the streets – he might end up in a gunfight with several passers-by.

He let go. As his fingers unclasped from his former sergeant's wrist, he noticed in passing how dry, wrinkled the man's skin was. It was as if he was growing old faster, rather than slower, than what was natural.

"Let's make a deal, Sergeant Cleaggs. A hundred elf credits, and a meal at the Book Trench, and you tell me what went wrong."

"Fine. But make sure it's a hot meal."

* * *

The Book Trench. It's a combination book store, gun store, coffee shop. In small, private booths, modeled after trench dugouts, surrounded by wooden slabs that mimicked trench walls, the patrons discussed the newest play, or indeed the newest gun accessor. Or, in the case of Cleags and Gro-Gatuk, What Went Wrong.

"And so I had several diagnoses. Trauma, PTSD, severe depression, some other stuff… all of them having to do with the war. But, of course, not service related," – the Sergeant said.

"War trauma? You?" – the Orc asked in disbelief. – "But you seemed so…"

"Strong? Is that the word?"

"I'm sorry, Sarge, I didn't mean…"

"And maybe you did. It won't matter. I know how it is with Orcs. You get hit with it less than we do, which is one of your people's many strengths. Now… what I'm getting at, is that I got none of the help which Department was supposed to give. There were tests… and forms, and then more tests and forms. And then Marissa left me."

"Oh no."

"Yes. And I just couldn't, you know? Sometimes you just can't. I was lying in my bed and the delivery men were taking the house apart around me. It was total and absolute pizdetz, like a truck full of cows hitting a bus full of nuns on the freeway. We split up our belongings, sold the home, split up the money. I ended up in an arcology box. And then, for three days, I just couldn't get out of fucking bed. Just couldn't. If it wasn't to take a piss, I would just stay in bed for the entire three days. Then I got up… and I saw there was a fucking ad, for those fucking… what are they called… they deliver those jerry cans with cheap booze, right to your house."

"Fuck."

"Yuuuup. So then I got a can of booze. I drank the whole thing over… I think a week. I missed a filing date for some stupid Veterans' Services thing. I had to file right over. Got set back three months…"

The story was a long one, and, to be fair to Bashnag Gro-Batuk, he didn't need all the details. It was a sad story of a man's life going off the rails – partly his own fault, partly the fault of a system that was meant to help him going snarled and confused.

He listened, nevertheless. Then he ordered another mug of black coffee. Then, at last, Bashnag Gro-Batuk spoke.

"I should have told you where I work now."

"Where? Why does it matter?"

"I work security now."

"Sure, many people do. That's good for you I guess?"

"Leyfield Palace, Perimeter Security, Senior Shift Manager." – the Orc smiled suddenly, his sharp, slightly curved fangs making an appearance. "I still do sometimes talk to her."

"You boss? Cassie? Our Cassie?" – even years later, the Sergeant remembered her – not the proud Empress from the television broadcasts, but the grave-robbing archaeologist with the short, black-painted fingernails and the short jeans, who ended up fighting the Nefreedians along with him and his men.

"The very same."

"You can't just… she will think…"

"Of course I can." – Senior Shift Manager Bashnag Gro-Batuk got up, suddenly seeming to stretch out to his full, immense height. "What will you do, Sarge, make me do push-ups five hundred times?"

* * *

A week passed. Sergeant Eliezer Cleaggs had already forgotten most of the conversation. He spent several days in a warm arcology capsule, had several showers, and began to forget that he would have to return to the street when, eventually, the money Gro-Batuk gave him run out.

It would be when he saw that car – an unusual one for these parts of the city, a long, dark-violet car, moving smoothly and almost inaudibly – pull up to the entrance of his arcology that he realized that Gro-Batuk did not, in fact, forget.

He had to re-tell his story another time that day, this time in the Queen's own, spacious office.

Few things changed about her, it seemed. She was dressed in more expensive clothing, but she swore, still, like a sailor. She tried to appear regal, but she burst out into roars of rage whenever he reached a particular turn of his story about how the Department treated him. And, at the end, the same hands that used to open canned rations and slit throats moved a pair of credchips across the desk to him.

"I'm going to have them find you a place to stay." – she spoke, "Probably somewhere where you can commute."

"Commute where?" – he asked. " I mean… ma'am… Your Imperial Majesty, where do you mean me to commute? I have no job."

"To the Senate." – she said harshly. "I'm going to light a fucking fire under the Department's ass such as they have never seen before."

* * *

Extract from a speech of Cassiopeia Blaken-Kazansky, Queen of Allanea, to the Allanean Senate

…and let me tell you also, that this is not one story, this is not two stories, this is not three or ten stories. This is how our Department of Veterans' Services acts! This is their practice! And let me tell you also, that we as a country cannot afford, morally, to go to war, not for the most just cause, if we cannot ensure the fair treatment of those who fight those wars for us!

We may have trillions of dollars, and millions of men, and thousands of ships, but we cannot afford to fight – morally. We – this Crown, this Senate, this country – cannot afford the moral debt of sending men to fight and bleed if we cannot ensure that they are taken care of.

Therefore I ask that this Senate, with the members of all parties, work with the Crown and with the Ministry of War on finding a solution to the observed incompetence of the Department for Veterans' Services. Further, I ask that the Senate work out and approve an emergency funding bill to aid those who are currently facing delays to their aid applications, and expedite their requests.

That is all.

May the Gods continue to forgive, and bless, Allanea.

[Allanea]

Several days later, Cassiopeia Blaken's office, Leyfield Palace, Sovereign Duchy of Leyfield

For Eliezer Cleaggs, one of the first impressions he had of the meeting was not even of the woman seated in front of him – majestic though she was – nor of the room itself. No, his first impression was the sandwich. And it was an incredible sandwich indeed. Still warm, it comprised of an entire baguette, split lengthwise, and filled, it seemed, with enough food to feed a dozen men like Cleaggs. There were, he noted, several eggs in there, and several sausages, and a bunch of sliced beef, all of this doused in melted cheese and, apparently, judging by the smell, some truly amazing quantity of bacon, and somewhere during this all of this was also fried in bacon grease. Merely touching this sandwich might kill a foreign tourist, he mused.

"Please do go ahead, Eli." – the Queen said. She was dressed differently from what he remembered, seated in front of him in a black military uniform, the shoulderboards gleaming with gold, and with a simple golden circlet in her hair. A pair of black wings seemed to spread from her back. A sandwich identical to his own was set in front of her, and a pair of cans of Red Rabbit were placed on the table. "Please go ahead," – she repeated.

The sergeant took the enormous sandwich in his hands, trying to conceal from the Queen that his fingernails were dirty and unkempt, gnawn to the quick. It was as delightfully greasy as he imagined, and apparently had mustard and onions spread throughout. Having taken several bites from the enormous, incredible sandwich, he placed it down and reached for the can of Red Rabbit. It was cold, and hissed as he opened it. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Cassiopeia start on her own sandwich, much in the same way he remembered Cassie the wizard-turned-volunteer-fighter devour field rations.

"I've made some arrangements for you, Eli." – she said.

"Arrr…" – he swallowed a bite of food and looked at her. "Arrangements?"

"Yes. I've spoken to my family therapist to see if an appointment can be made for you. If you don't feel like traveling here to meet him, he'll direct you to one in Liberty-City, which of course I'll pay for. I'm also going to continue paying for your room and board until either you can get back on your feet, or DVS pulls their fucking head out of the depths of their arse and starts doing their fucking job. I've already told Pris about the situation and she'll look into it. Or rather, she'll look into your specific situation. We're going to –"

"Pris? You mean… Baroness Conde, the Minister of War?" – Claigg said, not noticing he'd interrupted her.

"Baroness Stossel-Conde, now. She's married!" - Cassiopeia beamed.

"I'm sorry, Your Imperial Majesty, I…"

"Fuck. That. Noise. Eli." – Cassiopeia said. "We've been in the shit together, and you're no longer a soldier. You don't need to salute me. You're a Freeman, and you're my friend. Don't you remember the words? The ones you taught me?"

"Hm?"

"for whoever sheds his blood with me today shall be my brother." – Cassiopeia said. "So while… no, I'm not the closest or best of your friends, I feel you need to call me Cassie."

"I see. I apologize."

"Apologize nothing. You don't owe me apologies, I owe you an apology, the goddamn country owes you an apology. What the fuck, Eli? You gave this country everything. You trained those people so they wouldn't die in the fucking ditch. And then you went and fought in the fucking mud and shit and blood with them. And then you gave this country your fucking sanity, Eli. And then they – we, Eli, we – we tossed a fucking form at you, and then ten thousand forms, and we told you, well, if you can't fill them out just this right way, we don't help you. Fuck. Pizdets.

"You're not responsible. It's not your fault."

"Well, in what way isn't it my fault? I hadn't ordered it done, no. But listen, it's fuckery. I assumed, you understand, that veterans have some kind of privileges, some kind of shit they're entitled to because they served the Motherland, yes?" – Cassiopeia said – "I assumed that there's some corner of the government that's just ticking the fuck along, issuing yebanye forms and signing the checks for all the people who lost limbs or whatnot. And they can get cybernetic limbs with that money, or some kind of support while they recover from their trauma, you know. I assumed, you understand, that we don't just toss fucknig combat veterans into the fucking streets like some fifth-rate communist dystopia. But I am the Queen, Eli. My husband and I are in charge of the entire fucking executive branch. So it is our responsibility to be aware of shit like this. Now even if we didn't talk about what responsibility of citizenship is, we, I, because I'm in charge, this shit, it rests with me. That's what 'the buck stops here' means. So let me say, first of all. I apologize."

"It's alright. It genuinely is."

"Now. What I'm going to say is." – she paused. "Look, first. I want you to know that no matter what you answer me. I'm still going to help you, personally. Either I'm going to get DVS to give you money, or I am going to pay for the treatment you need myself. But you are not going to be thrown back to the street, no matter what you say in response."

"I… okay." – he nodded, and then bit again into the sandwich, it was far too tempting to ignore.

"Now. I'd like you to help me help the other veterans. The other people who are in the same situation as you."

"How?" – Eli asked.

"I'd like you to testify before the Senate Committee on National Defense."

There was a pause as Eli Cleaggs contemplated this. For a moment, his body seemed to betray him, as he felt colder and colder. It seemed like the room was drawing smaller around him, the walls of the vast Leyfield office seeming to draw closer like the walls of a trench.

"I'm sorry…" – he said, trying to suppress what he already knew were symptoms. "I… why is this needed?"

"I'm sorry, Eli." – she said. How does she know? "I think you're going to need to recover a bit before you do that.

How did she know?

"I'm… I still don't understand."

"Okay. First of all, it's alright. We're not doing this yet. We are going to strike at a time of our choosing."

He breathed in.

"Now, here's the issue. I need to explain why this is important." – she paused – "As you may remember from your civics class in high school, and this hasn't really changed from the Republic times, the Executive branch in this country is limited in power. In particular, any kind of major spending of money is set by the legislature, yes?"

He nodded, listening carefully while continuing to devour his meal.

"Right. So, the various ways in which this country cares for its veterans, this is addressed in a piece of legislation called the Veterans Services Act. It's a piece of law about eight hundred pages long, which controls various ways in which money is spent. Over the years, Congress has fucked with this back and forth, variously passing different confusing bills that say 'strikes this paragraph, replaces with that paragraph'. And in drafting these, they've created a shitton of different idiot measures, all of them designed to control fraud."

"Well, fraud is important." – said Claigg. "I've seen some guys who could have competed in the International Shammers' League if there was such a thing."

"Now between this, and generations of DVS wonks who invented forms, and hoops, and checklists to control fraud, they've gone and created a system that's dedicated, in the name of fraud and savings, to defrauding veterans of their money and saving dimes on your blood and your suffering."

"That's not true at all." – said Claigg. "I've known a bunch of guys who got everything they were owed. I'm just… you know, some guys get shafted, that happens, it doesn't mean the system is designed to screw people."

"I'm not saying that because you're my friend and you got shafted. I'm saying that because I asked the Minister of War to look into the situation." – Cassiopeia said.

"Oh."

"Now, again, for now I just want you to rest and recover."

"I… I will help you."

"That's great! And in fact, there's a simpler thing you can do for me. Do you happen to know any other guys who got shafted like you did?"

"I actually do." – Eli said. "Not that this proves anything, you know, anecdotes aren't…"

"I know." – she smiled "I am a scientist too, remember?"

"Well there's that one guy. His name is Vitalik… Vitaly. Vitaly Mikhailovich Fomin."

[Allanea]

Trazivier's Elite Gifts, Freedom Island, Liberty-City, Allanea

The gnome blinked, throwing his dark-red hair back in an instinctive motion as the two men entered the store. For a moment, he thought that they were members of a posergang. But all thoughts of this were wiped clean from his mind as the pair approached. One was a slender, tall man, in a long leather overcoat – near seven feet tall, towering over the gnome. His black hair and brown eyes were familiar to Felvyn Trazivier from dozens of portraits and media reports, and so was the man who walked at the newcomer's right – almost a foot and a half shorter, the other newcomer was dressed in a denim jacket and matching pants.

It was obvious that both would be armed, but at first Felvyn needed to strain to see their weapons. The taller man, of course, had his hidden under his cloak, not even out of any attempt to conceal them on purpose, but because having a pistol holster on the outside of an overcoat would be rather uncomfortable. As the buyer approached, Felvyn did manage to spot one of them – the gleaming handle of a gold-plated pistol made itself evident, momentarily, through the opening in the coat's front. His companion had at the left side of his belt a long, slender blade – a shin-gunto in the Psychotian style, worn in a denim scabbard that almost entirely matched his pants, and on the right, a full-sized pistol in a similar holster.

"Good day… Your Imperial Majesty?" – Felvyn said to the taller man.

"Good day, Mr. Trezivier. I know what you're thinking," – Alexander replied – "It is in fact me, and this is in fact Marechal Stossel-Conde, and this is not a robbery. We are shopping for gifts."

"I would think you'd have people for that, Your Imperial Majesty."

"People? For gift-shopping? Do you have people that sleep with your wife for you, Mr. Trazivier?" – Alexander laughed. "Why would I outsource something as fun as buying gifts to others? Of course, there's no need for you to list out my full title ¬– 'Sir', or 'Mr. Blaken-Kazansky' will do entirely fine."

"Thank you, Sir." – unlike many in this situation, Trazivier adapted instantly. "So, what would you like?"

"Let's start with the small things. I'd like to have a pair of action cameras – and a gymbal, and the usual things that go with them." – the King of Allanea said.

– "Action cameras? We've got the Serene Power Company's SPC Freestyle 2, if you want one. The Freestyle 2 Elite is a bit more… oh what I am saying, of course you can afford it."

– "Yes, give me the more expensive ones. Also, I'd like one of those big cameras, for full-on serious photography. With all the gear as well – a tripod, a monopod, everything, also of course a telephoto lens to make the gods weep in envy."

For a moment, the gnome turned towards the display where several cameras were housed, his enormous nose swiveling like a tank's gun. "The SharpEye 5000 will do, I think – with the newest lens it'll be five thousand credits."

– "Excellent, excellent. What are you getting your daughter, Wil?"

Marechal Stossel-Conde contemplated the issue for a moment. "Mr. Trazivier, I'd like to have, first of all, the dollhouse."

There was no need to discuss the type of dollhouse. Only a specific dollhouse could be meant, a vast, expensive type, one that cost more than many real houses.

"First of all? Are you saying that won't be…"

"No, it won't be the only thing I am buying. I'd also like a set of art supplies, and a pair of sports shoes – perhaps the Perseus."

"Will do, Sir."

"Now, of course," – Alexander spoke – "We need to get gifts for my daughter as well."

Felvyn blinked, as what was about to happen was beginning to dawn on him.

"That mithril necklace." – said Alexander.

It was a thing to behold. It seemed like a web of mithril strands, bearing dozens of diamonds interlocking in an elaborate pattern, rested upon the dark-red cloth display. Dark-blue sapphires, woven into the necklace, seemed to only underline its light.

– "And those sandals, I think they're fashionable."

"Sir, those are not sandals, those are called open-toe shoes and they cost…"

These were indeed open-toe shoes, and they shone. Or possibly gleamed, as they had been covered with gleaming crystals, brighter than diamonds. Polished moissanite shone from every strap, while the clasp was polished mithril.

"Mr. Trazivier, I appreciate your concern for my fashion sense. However, as I am the Headmaster of the Leyfield School for Girls, I'm sure I will have ample opportunity to learn the finer details from my students."

Trazivier laughed, "I see, you do not like to be lectured, that is entirely fair. Would there be anything else?"


"Yes, indeed there would be." – Alexander spoke. – "First, I'd like to have a bear spear."

The spear, which arrived in his hands within minutes, was long and heavy, with a dark redwood shaft on which a hunting scene was displayed in ivory inlay.

"This is well, we will ensure that my uncle Vitellius gets it." – the King continued – "And, finally, for my ex-Castellan," – he pondered, "get me a bottle of some really expensive wine."

If there were any doubts about the visitor's identity, the credit card – made of a gold-like substance and stamped ALEXANDER BLAKEN-KAZANSKY – dispelled them all.

"Now, Wilhelm, to the pet shop. I have a friend who is in need of a white-faced owl."