The Usmalím, western Andamonia
8 AM, 16 September 2014
There are no bridges crossing the Baira, the shallow but wide river that marks the eastern frontier of Txekrikar and the Trellinese Empire of which it is a part. A century ago there were many, some ancient and some new, all well used. Now all that remains to tell lost travellers that there was, once upon a time, trade between Andamonia and Txekrikar are some stone and concrete piers midstream, or the beginnings of a ramp and arch on the river bank. High explosives don't leave much in the way of a reminder. What's left of the bridges' spans has long since been washed away in the Baira's aggressive floods.
The roads to the border are overrun by weeds now, the cracked and pitted surfaces themselves forgetting human contact. Marshes stretch away westward from the river to the horizon, treeless, roofless, lifeless.
But tanks don't need trees, don't need roads, barely even need bridges when you've got ferries in waiting. Those mechanical treads are built to wade through muddy shallows, roll over dead land, and the Baira, unwatched and unguarded, is no barrier to the long-laid plans of the bitter and resentful Andamonian military. The commanders in the imperial palace, with their maps and computers and red telephones, had years ago deployed all the amphibious assault paraphernalia to bases in the Usmalím, that fertile belt of Andamonian-occupied land east of the river, in preparation for whenever Trellin made a move against the Trophy Ports. And now it had.
As soon as word had come in from Rha'gutza - sooner, even - another word had gone out to the Usmalím. Every soldier in western Andamonia, and most of those in the rest of the empire, had been drilling for years (when the budget allowed it) for this moment. They moved swiftly, their prize in sight.
The roads to the border are overrun by weeds now, the cracked and pitted surfaces themselves forgetting human contact. Marshes stretch away westward from the river to the horizon, treeless, roofless, lifeless.
But tanks don't need trees, don't need roads, barely even need bridges when you've got ferries in waiting. Those mechanical treads are built to wade through muddy shallows, roll over dead land, and the Baira, unwatched and unguarded, is no barrier to the long-laid plans of the bitter and resentful Andamonian military. The commanders in the imperial palace, with their maps and computers and red telephones, had years ago deployed all the amphibious assault paraphernalia to bases in the Usmalím, that fertile belt of Andamonian-occupied land east of the river, in preparation for whenever Trellin made a move against the Trophy Ports. And now it had.
As soon as word had come in from Rha'gutza - sooner, even - another word had gone out to the Usmalím. Every soldier in western Andamonia, and most of those in the rest of the empire, had been drilling for years (when the budget allowed it) for this moment. They moved swiftly, their prize in sight.
Eastern Txekrikar
11 AM
Zitiar had seen more than its fair share of bloodshed, this city of five hundred thousand the scene of the Trophy Wars' bloodiest street fighting. Eight decades on, some of the buildings on the eastern outskirts remained gutted and ruined. Those scars would never be healed, so what was the point in trying?
It had been an unfortunate matter of history and geography that threw Zitiar into the fray. A millennium ago, when the marshes had held some value (what it was no one could now remember), Zitiar had become the centre of trade in eastern Txekrikar. When the more prosperous land across the river had been seized by Andamonia, in the Great Astyrian War, the city had been too well-established to disappear, even with the distance to the border now halved, so it watched over the empty eastern roads. Its strategic value was unquestioned by either Trellin or Andamonia, so now the enemy was at the gates.
The city had done its best to hide the wounds of wars past in the touristy centre, with brightly painted buildings lining the bustling shopping streets, but even blinkered, idealist city councils had been forced to leave the sirens up at the prince's bidding. They were hideous, even if you strung them up with multicoloured pennants, but on the other hand they were material for a good tour guide, so they had been grudgingly embraced.
11 AM. The sun wasn't so high that it would burn your face off, so the tourists - still mostly Trellinese, Zitiar not having returned to the international tourist map yet - were out and about, seeing the sites of the town. "Those sirens up there, those old rusty contraptions," one tour guide called out to his entourage as he pointed up past the flags and flowers to a loudspeaker, "used to give out a deafening alarm when Andamonian airplanes were approaching, if you can imagine it."
"What about Andamonian tanks?" a stupid or smart aleck straggler asked; the guide hadn't decided if he was hungover or what. He smiled patronisingly.
"It wouldn't have gone off for tanks. By the time the tanks were arriving in Zitiar the streets were already a battlezone. There was no more point in the sirens, and no civilians would have stayed around to hear them if they were on anyway. Any more questions before the market?" he asked, expecting none.
A foreign woman with gaudy sunglasses and a bulky backpack - typical - had a question. "What did they used to sound like?" she asked in her grating accent.
Damn, this one. He'd specifically told them to imagine it. "It was, uh, kind of like a high-pitched-" he began, and was interrupted by a low-pitched wail from the siren above, slowly rising to a high distressed note. "That," he finished, adding "That's not meant to happen, I dunno what's going on." Around the city centre other tourists and shoppers were also slowing down, confused and considering covering their ears.
A couple of police cars sped down the road, their own sirens blaring to create a horrendous cacophony. The second car screeched to a halt in the middle of the street and discharged a loudspeaker-wielding officer. The sirens weren't a mistake, he urgently informed the uncertain crowd. There was a moment's hesitation, and then everyone ran.
It had been an unfortunate matter of history and geography that threw Zitiar into the fray. A millennium ago, when the marshes had held some value (what it was no one could now remember), Zitiar had become the centre of trade in eastern Txekrikar. When the more prosperous land across the river had been seized by Andamonia, in the Great Astyrian War, the city had been too well-established to disappear, even with the distance to the border now halved, so it watched over the empty eastern roads. Its strategic value was unquestioned by either Trellin or Andamonia, so now the enemy was at the gates.
The city had done its best to hide the wounds of wars past in the touristy centre, with brightly painted buildings lining the bustling shopping streets, but even blinkered, idealist city councils had been forced to leave the sirens up at the prince's bidding. They were hideous, even if you strung them up with multicoloured pennants, but on the other hand they were material for a good tour guide, so they had been grudgingly embraced.
11 AM. The sun wasn't so high that it would burn your face off, so the tourists - still mostly Trellinese, Zitiar not having returned to the international tourist map yet - were out and about, seeing the sites of the town. "Those sirens up there, those old rusty contraptions," one tour guide called out to his entourage as he pointed up past the flags and flowers to a loudspeaker, "used to give out a deafening alarm when Andamonian airplanes were approaching, if you can imagine it."
"What about Andamonian tanks?" a stupid or smart aleck straggler asked; the guide hadn't decided if he was hungover or what. He smiled patronisingly.
"It wouldn't have gone off for tanks. By the time the tanks were arriving in Zitiar the streets were already a battlezone. There was no more point in the sirens, and no civilians would have stayed around to hear them if they were on anyway. Any more questions before the market?" he asked, expecting none.
A foreign woman with gaudy sunglasses and a bulky backpack - typical - had a question. "What did they used to sound like?" she asked in her grating accent.
Damn, this one. He'd specifically told them to imagine it. "It was, uh, kind of like a high-pitched-" he began, and was interrupted by a low-pitched wail from the siren above, slowly rising to a high distressed note. "That," he finished, adding "That's not meant to happen, I dunno what's going on." Around the city centre other tourists and shoppers were also slowing down, confused and considering covering their ears.
A couple of police cars sped down the road, their own sirens blaring to create a horrendous cacophony. The second car screeched to a halt in the middle of the street and discharged a loudspeaker-wielding officer. The sirens weren't a mistake, he urgently informed the uncertain crowd. There was a moment's hesitation, and then everyone ran.
-
The desire for revenge is one of those few emotions which chooses to ignore the passage of time. Two, three generations mean nothing to a nation wronged, unless it is to make the bitterness run deeper and the injustice all the more painful to bear. Seventy years of festering hatred; that's what the Andamonians had under their belt. They weren't about to do things by half measures.
Maybe four hundred CC-58s, that Confederate-produced staple of the Andamonian military, deployed in wrathful retribution now sped across the eastern marshes - if they hadn't broken down in the shallows after years of irregular maintenance. They'd been ferried quickly across the Baira, reaching the Txekri side even as Trellinese intelligence was setting off all of its alarms.
The military hierarchy of the Sidereal Crown had been almost painfully single-minded in laying their own plans, they were now realising. They hadn't forgotten the still-occupied Usmalím and Andamonia, per se, but beyond shoring up deployments in the south it had been put on the back burner while the Trophy Ports operation was carefully prepared. Dungeyland's diplomatic intervention had thrown some things into disarray and now Zitiar was directly in the line of fire.
A small town, compared to the still-relevant cities of Sasahiri, Iruska or Onostada, but pivotal nonetheless, Zitiar was the administrative centre for the Txekri half of the sundered Usmalím. Its fall would be a tremendous propaganda victory for Andamonia; much needed now by the regime, even more so than whatever tactical value it might hold. Trellin's commanders were not about to give it to them.
"The movements of the Trellinese navy in the early hours of this morning have proven their empire, once again, to be a menace to international stability," an Andamonian government spokesman read out before a press assault, even as waves of tanks tore across the Baira marshes. "Their continued aggression is too much for us; we cannot allow them to take away our rightfully-held territories and evict our citizens. Even if we stand alone, we stand defiant in the face of their imperialism." A few cameras flashed; nothing compared to the bright flashes east of Zitiar, where Trellinese fighter jets launched a desperate foray against the Andamonian tanks. "We are not the aggressor, nor were we when Trellin last went to war with us. What we do is in self defense and for the protection of the Andamonian people, whom Trellin's so-called emperor wishes to destroy. Our western defence forces have been mobilised with great urgency to protect our frontier in the Usmalím where we expect the next assault to come, as it did over eighty years ago. We will not there make the first move," he pledged, the first move long since made, "but by the gods we will make the last. We have never wished for war with the Trellinese, but they are insatiable when their blood-lust rises. We can only hope to secure what is ours before the storm descends upon us, and to protect the innocent and the vulnerable." A stern finger was raised and its picture taken repeatedly as he finished to scattered applause. "When truckloads of Ethlorek gunmen arrive in our towns and cities, we will be ready!"
In Zitiar, as Andamonian soldiers began climbing out of Andamonian trucks, no one was ready.
Maybe four hundred CC-58s, that Confederate-produced staple of the Andamonian military, deployed in wrathful retribution now sped across the eastern marshes - if they hadn't broken down in the shallows after years of irregular maintenance. They'd been ferried quickly across the Baira, reaching the Txekri side even as Trellinese intelligence was setting off all of its alarms.
The military hierarchy of the Sidereal Crown had been almost painfully single-minded in laying their own plans, they were now realising. They hadn't forgotten the still-occupied Usmalím and Andamonia, per se, but beyond shoring up deployments in the south it had been put on the back burner while the Trophy Ports operation was carefully prepared. Dungeyland's diplomatic intervention had thrown some things into disarray and now Zitiar was directly in the line of fire.
A small town, compared to the still-relevant cities of Sasahiri, Iruska or Onostada, but pivotal nonetheless, Zitiar was the administrative centre for the Txekri half of the sundered Usmalím. Its fall would be a tremendous propaganda victory for Andamonia; much needed now by the regime, even more so than whatever tactical value it might hold. Trellin's commanders were not about to give it to them.
"The movements of the Trellinese navy in the early hours of this morning have proven their empire, once again, to be a menace to international stability," an Andamonian government spokesman read out before a press assault, even as waves of tanks tore across the Baira marshes. "Their continued aggression is too much for us; we cannot allow them to take away our rightfully-held territories and evict our citizens. Even if we stand alone, we stand defiant in the face of their imperialism." A few cameras flashed; nothing compared to the bright flashes east of Zitiar, where Trellinese fighter jets launched a desperate foray against the Andamonian tanks. "We are not the aggressor, nor were we when Trellin last went to war with us. What we do is in self defense and for the protection of the Andamonian people, whom Trellin's so-called emperor wishes to destroy. Our western defence forces have been mobilised with great urgency to protect our frontier in the Usmalím where we expect the next assault to come, as it did over eighty years ago. We will not there make the first move," he pledged, the first move long since made, "but by the gods we will make the last. We have never wished for war with the Trellinese, but they are insatiable when their blood-lust rises. We can only hope to secure what is ours before the storm descends upon us, and to protect the innocent and the vulnerable." A stern finger was raised and its picture taken repeatedly as he finished to scattered applause. "When truckloads of Ethlorek gunmen arrive in our towns and cities, we will be ready!"
In Zitiar, as Andamonian soldiers began climbing out of Andamonian trucks, no one was ready.
