"So shall ye reap..." (Closed; IC)

[Lydenburg]

Port Swettendam, Republic of Lydenburg

Vredendael, the Prime Minister's country estate, lay nestled at the very foot of the densely wooded hills which ringed historic Swettendam on three sides. Radiant sunlight filtered down through impassive gum trees - planted up and down this old wine and farm country by Frederik de Hertogh, the port's second governor, over four centuries before. Vredendael was his brainchild, fine vineyards extending their long tendrils across the basin floor as far as one could see.

The morning mist was beginning to clear, and Nicolaas le Roux was pleased to see it dispelled. Scenery here made enjoying that spot of fragrant air much more delightful.

A lofty, thatched, structure with massive stone columns flanking a deep verandah loomed on a high bluff to the north, white and grey against a blue Afrosian sky.

Surreal, ridiculously so.

Le Roux sipped his tea, slowly, deliberately. A typically Lydenburger paradox. De Hertogh was an incompetent fool who spent more time amassing fortunes and making wine than on running the affairs of the colony. Yet his house - with its absurd Greek pillars, grass kaffir roof, and polished dirt floor was now where Lydenburg's twenty-first century republic was ruled.

The thatch was replaced every ten years or so. The floors had been so meticulously waxed they might have been structured from some ancient marble. But it was recognisably Afrosian, beyond a doubt.

"Admiring the house, Meneer?"

"Hardly." Le Roux drained the silver teacup and placed it unceremoniously into the waiting hands of a black boy suddenly at his elbow. "Daar moet iets daaromtrent gedoen word."

"Trying to pass off your architectural critiques to the prime minister again?" The voice sounded amused. "Wanting him to move into a Moorish castle on Ruyven Straat or maybe van Riet's chateau?"

He was referencing Jacques Capelier, of course. That onetime prime minister had shunned Vredendael in favour of a home he built himself in one of Woenstroom's wealthier districts. The pink domes and warped arches made it so exotically Moslem it was laughable. Possibly why Capelier had not lasted a year in office, le Roux found himself thinking unkindly.

"Enough. We have more important business to discuss."

He turned to face the two men who had strolled through the estate's quiet grounds and gardens to reach him. "It was good of the Minister to see us all on such short notice. What did he say to you?"

"Enjoy the air. Read your Bible. Go to the braai he's hosting next weekend."

Le Roux had expected nothing less. He waited.

As anticipated, the other man could contain himself no longer. "He wants it done. I tried to convince him otherwise, but I'm afraid that Oloff's skill for presenting a case leaves little to be desired."

Oloff Winterboer allowed himself a slight smile at Kocky Minnaar's uncharacteristic compliment.

"Not at all, my friend. I have merely found it to be of great self-interest to cultivate strong friends in high places. I have known the Prime Minister for many years."

"It's a mistake." Minnaar's tone was blunt if resigned. "But at least we can do this discreetly."

"I would have nothing less."

Winterboer nodded. "With Victor Omeru, there was nothing but escalation with Kalumba and the balance of favour swung briefly towards the Songhians. But I felt it necessary to remind them all that we are facing a new government in Salisbury, now, the very same that held the first rebel tours back in the early '90s. They regard Sundiata and his corrupt regime as a far greater threat."

"We shouldn't even be dealing with these munts to begin with," Minnaar interjected. "As I likewise reminded Strydom, why should we continue to waste any investment or time on blacks whose money has been pouring into the coffers of terrorists who come across the border to kill our people? Not with a military solution so close at hand. Why, even the slightest force should have little trouble crushing them."

"And if that is the case, meneer - " Le Roux stood, eager to impose order once more. "Why haven't our paratroops, long-range artillery, and Mirage fighter-bombers destroyed both the kaffir-ruled states several times over?"

Embarrassed silence. Lydenburg's Minister of Foreign Affairs sniggered with satisfaction.

"Precisely. It isn't nearly as easy or as simple as it looks. And besides, escalation is what we want to avoid! A major international crisis, destabilisation of the entire continent, and Norvenian uitlanders dragged kicking and screaming back to protect their onetime possessions! Wars are expensive, gentlemen. Nobody here can afford one. And that leaves an equally futile and even more expensive option - retaining the status quo."

Winterboer was nodding. "Minister, you've seen my trade reports. Over $225,000,000 burgerpond on internal security in 2010 alone. If nothing changes that figure is expected to triple by the end of 2014. There will be more call-ups. And more soldiers patrolling the bush means fewer white men available to supervise a peacetime economy - individuals whose skills are badly needed at home."

He held his binder of industrial spreadsheets in front of him like a shield, measured tones riding over Minnaar's gruff rebuttal. "Which means a desperate race to match Kalumba's steady support for our own insurgent problem. And even as the BAPL wears down Abel Chimpota's security forces man by man, so would the MNP exhaust the state military machine: a race that may inevitably end in humiliating defeat. Our financial and manpower resources can only be pushed so far. As - I will concede - can theirs. But this is what we call a lose-lose situation.

"It's time to talk."

Baardwyk Stadium

Come on, blokes. We're here to see a rugby game, at least make it look convincing.

Though he had been born in Kalumba, Izaak Engelhart's Afrikaans ancestry showed in his looks. Sandy brown hair framed a round, pale, face and sun-warmed blue eyes. Of unimpressive height, Engelhart made up for it with a powerful build that served him well on the front row during his own days as a rugger.

He wondered if the others had any interest in the sport. They were all older than him: grey suits, grey hair, grey faces.

Although an Eastern Traksvaai fan through and through, Engelhart had no intention of flying all the way across the country from Steelpoort to see this game - not when it was on the telly in every local pub. But he wasn't about to pass up when Minister le Roux had offered him a flight in a government jet, a hotel room, and a seat in this private luxury box for some confidential exchanges.

Even at the best of times working a minor post in Foreign Affairs was pretty boring business. Engelhart decided he was fortunate.

Baardwyk itself seemed quiet, laid-back, and unspeakably ugly, trailing out like a drunken illusion across the open bushveldt. A few smelters rose from the rocky plain, breaking the monotony of thorn trees and cheerless yellow savanna. Around them were private homes owned by white residents: spacious, shaded, preposterously expensive. And towards the south were the black districts, a ramshackle collection of grimy concrete block and scrap wood buildings clapped together for several kilometres into an erratic jumble of shantytowns. Afrosian conscript workers lived there while fulfilling year-long labour obligations; though technically forbidden to own land near white-populated areas, necessity drove them to settle wherever they could.

Engelhart frowned, turning his mind back to the game. There were no slums that bad in Mutari - where he'd spent his happy childhood. Even gold settlements like Steelpoort managed to keep the black townships out of sight and under control.

"Who are we cheering on?" one of the others asked, an undistinguished brute who thumped an ever-growing pile of cigar ash onto the empty platter before him on the long oaken table.

"Die streeptruie," Engelhart spoke up. "Eastern Traksvaai." Christ, who didn't watch rugby at home like a good Boer? It was one of the few things white Lydenburg had in common with the English-speaking bloc in Aurora: Norvenia, Regnum Albion, Afalia, Kalumba.

"You don't have to shout," muttered the Cigar, detecting Izaak's annoyance. Pudgy Francois Joubert dropped the charred stump onto his empty dish. Peanuts they'd been served ten minutes earlier had already disappeared.

"Just be quiet and enjoy the game," instructed Petrus du Moulin, who reclined on the sofa nearest the full-length window which overlooked the field. "If our guests show, we have much to discuss. If they don't, we have all enjoyed an expenses-paid vacation."

No laughter greeted his heavy-handed attempt at humour. Everybody in the room knew why they were there.

Joubert, who sat on the board of directors for the Lydenburg Energy Corporation and incidentally, served as Deputy Minister of Railways.

Du Moulin, the former Kalumban intelligence operative who now ran in private security circles and worked for the state armament manufacturer.

Engelhart, Mutari native and junior bureaucrat in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.

Hubrecht Buys, who owned more than his share of Piemburg and answered in blank monosyllable whenever anybody questioned him further. Engelhart suspected sanctions-busting.

At least they all had one thing in common: their attachments to Kalumba, past or present, made them difficult for any Chimpota delegation to ignore. They knew how to talk like Kalumbans, appeal to them, and push their buttons. Two of them had even been born there, though they'd emigrated with the wave of disillusioned exiles who'd swept Lydenburg after 1972.

"We have made several subtle advances towards the Kalumban attache, and contacted their consulate," Nicolaas le Roux had explained during the briefing. "Right now, neither Strydom nor Chimpota are interested in diplomatic sentiments. Officially, that is. All they want are talks about talks. And remember - this isn't a conference. You were in town and I invited some Kalumban officials for a chummy get-together, watch the game, have a few beers. Enjoy yourselves. Any business conducted along the way is incidental. Ja?"

It didn't take a genius to read behind the lines: officially, this couldn't be happening. But off the record, it was important to test the water and get a feel for what the other side was looking for. Talks about talks, no preconditions. Just some men watching the Zebras run Lake Albert into the ground.

Engelhart suppressed a broad grin. There were spaces reserved for any Kalumban representatives in the VIP lot, and the laminated tickets mailed to the consul-general in Swettendam would let them past security and into the box. He hoped they would be arriving soon. Nobody would want to miss Kalumba's first crack at getting into the Wepener's Draught Semifinals for the first time in over a decade.

[Kalumba]

Kalumban Consulate, Port Swettendam

As Edward Peters looked around the first floor of the Kalumban Consulate in Port Swettendam he realised he was living in a literal time capsule, and it was not just the outdated computers and the like which lead to this impression. There was not a single black face to be seen in the entire building. Just as it was back when the Consulate was still the Kalumban Embassy under minority rule, but this was not due to a policy of racial discrimination but simply to keep relations with the Lydenburgers simple and avoid the tit for tat explulsions of respective diplomats on racial grounds that had blighted the years after independence.

As he pondered this, he remembered why he himself was here while many of his fellow back civil servents were still stuck in backwater jobs at home. He was white, and being asthmatic was excluded from National Service so had joined the Civil Service, and thanks to this he was seen as the perfect candidate for Cultural Attache in Lydenburg and so for the last year he had sat in his small office and done nothing. Omeru's government had cancelled all sporting ties with the Lydenburgers and other than rugby and cricket the two nations had little in common, so his job was effectively redundant. But since Chimpota had taken over he had been to the occasional game and had been invoved in a single effort by a Kalumban charity to introduce black Lydenburgers to cricket before the scheme was shut down by the Lydenburger Security Forces.

His daydream was interrupted by a tap on his door. "Come" he called and his secretary, an older but none the less attractive woman by the name of Frances, flounced into the room.

"CG wants you in his office now" She said as she dropped a wad of assorted letters and other correspondance onto his already piled desk. He flicked through these before rising to leave as Frances started to sort the various papers out. Stopping in the doorway he turned and asked " Did he say what he wanted me for?"

"No Eddie, but it sounded more urgent than for the weekly report." She replied and he hurried off.

As Peters climbed the stairs to the office of his boss he thought about the Consulate-General, David Smith. Smith had been in the post for eight years and prior to the apointment had been considered one of the Civil Service's greatest assests and hopes for the future. But since his appointment to the Lydenburg post he had appeared to fall off the radar, but Peters knew this was not true. Smith had long been involved in placating the Lydenburgers whilst standing up for black rights, and was rumoured to be deeply involved with the Morata National Party yet was still considered to be close with his counterparts in the minority government.

He knocked politley and opened the door in response to the gruff 'come in' that the Consulate-General had shouted, he nodded a greeting to the other two men in the room and took the only empty seat and waited for Smith to speak. "Gentleman stop looking so worried" he said looking up from his desk where he was furiously scribbling something. "None of you are in any trouble, in fact it is for that reason I have summoned you. Our Lydenburger colleagues have seen fit to invite us to watch the Lake Albert/Eastern Traksvaai game with them, and as you three have been doing sterling work I have decided you can have the day off to go." As he finished speaking he held up the piece of paper on which he had been writing, it read; 'Meet me in the secure room in five minutes'. "That is all gentlemen, please go and get yourselves ready for your little excursion" he concluded and dismissed them with a wave of his knarled hand.

Peters trotted out of the office and questioned why on earth such an innocuous thing as a rugby match could require use of the secure room. Like every embassy the Consulate had a single fully soundproofed room for discussions of the highest level of secrecy. As he made his way to the secure room he tried to recall all he knew about the other two men in Smith's office, in hope it could shed some light on the reason. The first man had been Jan Christianson, the deputy Consulate-General for the last two years. A solid man with few ambitions or political aspirations, but still an astute diplomat and an able understudy to the chief. The other man had been Tristan Spandler, the Consulates intelligence and security office on secondment from the State Intelligence and Defence Police. Spandler was a bit of a mystery and was rarely seen in the Consuate, rumours claimed everything from him being at work deep within the Lydenburger establishment, operating on the frontlines with the MNP and to him being an alcoholic who was always so drunk he was incapable of work and he had been sent to this post to keep him out the way. Reaching the two foot thick door of the secure room Peters took a deep breath before entering the murky darkness of the room and taking a seat.

The others joined him over the next few minutes and finally Smith arrived and leant against the far wall, and signaled to an aide that they should be sealed in the secure room.

"Now we can talk freely" he began. "The government at home has decided that the time has come to open the possibility of talks with the Lydenburgers about the terrorists who abound in both nations, and what can be done to stop them. However this cannot be done through official channels, for the obvious reasons. We, the multi-racial democracy, cannot be seen talking with these racists especially since we joined the ADTO; and they, the final bastion of freedom from the savage Afrosians, cannot be seen to be so weak that they have to talk with us.

But the fact is, we have to. Both sides are on a quick route to total collapse if things continue unabated, so the current meeting has been arranged. You may have noticed the Lake Albert team has four or five blokes from the national side? Strange for one of the poorer sides in our land, don't you think? Well it has all been a plan to facilitate a meeting that will go unnoticed by the international, and local, community.

So Jan you go as lead. The President has authorised you to reveal as much as you deem fit and offer what you think is right to get the Lydenburgers to sit down with us. Tristan, you're here to make sure what they offer is genuine and ensure we are not being taken for a ride. Eddie, well your Cultural Attache so your expected to be there lad, but help these two out in anyway you can alright?"

Without waiting for an answer from the men, Smith got up to leave the room and from his expression it was evident that he disliked the entire proposal but he knew it was his job. Just before he opened the door he turned back to the group and concluded "Try and talk from a position of strength, act as if we are at the meeting as a favour to them not because we need to be there. They will be trying the same thing, so it's all going to be a very slow painful process. Just give and take until it is clear the meeting will go nowhere, or if we can arrange a second meeting."

Baardwyk

That had been two days ago, and Peters was still surprised by such a sudden turn of events. His entire career up until this point had been based around opposing the Lydenburgers at every opportunity and doing everything to bring about the collapse of their state, now he was going to make niceties with them and negotiate an end to the proxy war between the two nations. Perhaps it was for the best, but he couldn't help feeling dirty as they approached the stadium in one of the Consulate cars.

He almost convulsed in disgust as they drove through the town of Baardwyk and its oppulence, clearly the locals here lived well off the natives sweat and blood. Just visible in the distance was the local township, or slum as it should be called. Peters swore in his head against the unfairness of it all when he felt a hand on his arm, it was Spandler.

"Don't let it show boy. Those bastards will exploit it and make your anger work against us. I know this deal seems grossly unfair on the natives, but it works for them in the long run." These were the first words Spandler had ever spoken to him and they left him confused, how could abandoning aid to them in their struggle for freedom help them in any timescale?

"How can abandoning the who trusted us ever help them?" he angrily demanded of the intelligence officer.

"Because the collapse of Kalumba will only strengthen Lydenburgs postion in Afrosia. Songhia and the other nations are too torn by internal strife to oppose them, only Kalumba can do this. But we can't do this if we collapse just like those states did. Now you will say 'but we are winning the war on BAPL' and you be right. But to do so we are spending 15% of our GDP on national security, and that is rising every year. If we carry on at this rate in two or three years the whole economy will collapse, and we will be as impotent as Songhia. Lydenburg wil remain and the oppression will continue with no oposition.

If, however, we can end their backing or BAPL we will be able to cut costs and still win. When peace arrives in Kalumba we can rebuild. ADTO loans, Port Wessex, all these things will quicken that process. We will become the strongest we have ever been, then we can help the native Lydenburgers. For they will not be able to keep pace with us. Resistance will continue with or without our backing, and as information and communication becomes easier popular resistance, strikes, demonstrations, etc will all grow. Lydenburg will lose power and will be to weak to oppose a rampant Kalumba. So bite your damn tongue, be courteous and make sure we get this done."

Peters was shocked by the vehmence with which the little intelligence officer spoke, and even more by the shrewd wisdom he revealed in his little speech. Perhaps there was some truth in what he had said, and Christianson had been nodding in agreement with Spandler. Maybe this was the answer, but he was still revolted by the callousness of it.

Before he could voice further opposition they had arrived at the stadium and their papers and tickets were being checked by an armed officer. Peters could not tell whether he was a military man or a civillian, but was fully aware of the heavy assault rifle at the mans hip. Perhaps Lydenburg was not as secure as they made out, even in Bechuaneland such security had not been required for nearly ten years. And as he climbed the stairs to the box in which their counterparts were waiting Spandler whispered to him "See, it is only censorship keeping the allusion of complete peace alive here. It is all the rule of the gun..."

He was cut off by Christianson with a gentle tap on the shoulder. They had arrived at the box. The deputy Consulate-General put on a broad smile and entered the room, and Peters and Spandler followed each putting on an expression of friendly contentment. They shook hands all around and swapped introductions, athough Peters noticed the SIDP man's face twitch and go cold when he shook hands with the man introduced as Du Moulin. The look quickly passed and he wondered if he had imagined it, but Spandler pointedly moved as far from the man as he could as both sides moved to the sofas to watch the kick-off.

[Lydenburg]

Baardwyk Stadium

Izaak Engelhart didn't need to glance up when three Kalumbans appeared around the curve of the hallway and in the open door. Du Moulin was already standing. Joubert rose, with some difficulty, and Buys remained seated. Their expressions were utterly unreadable.

Edward Peters, Cultural Attache from the consulate in Swettendam.

Jan Christianson, Kalumba's deputy Consul-General.

Tristan Spandler. He didn't state his business, but Engelhart could spot any cloak-and-dagger boy at a distance. Afrosian intelligence types - at least, white Afrosian intelligence types - always conformed to cliche.

Joubert greeted them unenthusiastically and didn't offer his fleshy paw. Buys shook hands from his chair, muttering a perfunctory introduction that was barely audible. Du Moulin was courteous enough, but when his hand reached Spandler's he smiled knowingly: a bloodless grin that disclosed large, yellow, teeth between thin blue lips. Engelhart could hardly believe it. The man looked like the Cheshire Cat. Spandler responded with an expression of undisguised hatred.

Any fool could see no good would come of this.

As the Kalumbans sat down a very thin black man in a starched white jacket and matching gloves emerged from the shadows and placed a large gin and tonic on the table.

"Excellent, my son - see to our guests, would you?" Joubert was already fumbling with his glass.

The servant swung towards Peters and bowed courteously. "May I offer you some refreshment, baas?"

Engelhart spoke up, hoping to lighten the mood. "Since this is a game I think a beer is in order. Baardwyk Lager's outstanding, but we stock all the Kalumban mass produced as well."

After taking their orders, the Afrosian hurried off, discreetly closing the door behind him. "If there is anything else, sirs, please ring."

Outside, the stadium crowd was predominantly white. There was no legislation barring blacks from attending; more often than not private guards simply stopped them at the door. Coloureds were out in greater force - but then again everything in Lydenburg was racial, especially sport. Whites did rugby, others contented themselves with football.

Izaak spread his hands towards the window. "Pleased to see you all here. Was a bit worried that this might not be your cup of tea. But as you can see - " He gave an appreciate grin, index finger extended towards the attractive blondes prancing on the half way line. " - some things have changed since '91. Never thought you would see cheerleaders at a Lydenburg match, hey? We do try to be civilised. And it takes sponsorship to the next level."

For those who cared to look, Wepener's Drought, Telkom Nasionale, and Air Lydenburg had all won the most prominent places on each uniform, printed on white sailor caps or across bared seats of tights just visible underneath those outrageous skirts.

"Anybody here play at university?" It was a shot in the dark, perhaps, but Engelhart recalled his prop days at the University of Kalumba with nothing but fondness. He hoped one of the others would, too. There was nothing to get Kalumbans - even uptight ministry officials - going like talking their rugby.

Especially after that nasty first impression.

[Lydenburg]

Sekhukhuneland Reserves, Southern Traksvaai

What the Marota National Party's political commissars darkly referred to as "the Southern Front" and members of the security forces more simply as the "ops zones", was mainly Bapedi territory - reserves allocated to the largest in a country of divided tribes. After nearly five hundred years, they were still the least developed, economically and socially, for the Boer did not favour their independent spirit. Only a government has the ability to drain malarial swamps, control epidemics, or instruct on principles of balanced diets and personal hygiene on a nationwide basis.

This government, for well over four and half centuries, had done nothing.

It brought cold rage surging back through Goodwill Malakia's bones, driving him to carry on despite the chafing pack and the awkward SAM-12 rifle which always seemed to be getting in his way or snagging on clawing jesse bush. He remembered the last kraal his cadre had visited, nearly two days before. A friendly, peace-loving, people who accepted the MNP men without question as the soldiers of liberation they were. He had engaged the headman in frank conversation, telling him about fruits and vegetables which were aplenty in Kalumba.

Fruits and vegetables, ha! The headman believed that magical mirages had cursed Goodwill. How does one tell the people to eat fresh greens when they weren't any, or educate them overnight out of medieval thinking when they couldn't even read?

How he hated this accursed country. Once they'd left Kahali there was no vegetation anywhere - the border forests gave way to flat, empty, Traaksvai countryside carpeted with long yellow grass. Yellow grass, yellow plains, yellow hills, yellow sky. Until one got to the mosquito-infested lowveldt near Gryvlei, there was nothing but scorched ground. And then where there was once jungle the army had gone through with the torch, flamethrowers and bombs and frantan, trying to flush out any "swart communiste bliksems" during Afrosia's humid monsoons.

The Boers were paranoid. Rightfully, so, in fact. Denied easy cover, MNP cadres were now having to cross what was essentially hundreds of kilometres of underpopulated wasteland to the east coming off the border in order to penetrate the Sekhukhuneland Reserves.

After the fourth day, nobody spoke any more. Speaking or running meant lost water. Water was life.

And Goodwill Malakia was not one to complain. In the beginning, when the war first started, heliborne police troops had attacked his family's kraal, searching for weapons hidden by guerrillas. They seized primitive spears as "contraband", burning down the huts. Malakia remembered. He had been only twelve then.

"Do not move, man, or we'll blow your blerrie brains over the girl there."

Black constable holding a gun to his father, white friend doing all the talking. The Inglis Hi-Power barrel looked to be ten inches across.

"You will learn to say no when the boys in the bush come. You will learn to fear us more."

Malakia could feel his mother holding him again, her arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders.

A match to flame. Thatch started crackling.

"Face the fire."

They had stood there dumbly, watching hungry orange spirits eat their pitiful pole-and-dagga. Watching everything they had ever owned in the world go up like so much refuse, and learning just how alone in the world they were.

Goodwill was immediately choking on thick, stinging, smoke. Eyes watering. It was so hot now that both lungs felt like steel wool. His skin was going dry. If anybody moved the police clubbed them sadistically.

"Face front, kaffir!"

He had never forgiven or forgotten. That flat, mocking, voice - the roar of a madman or a devil - was what pushed him to combat mindless hate. It was what had driven him over this same ground fleeing across the border, walking painful distances every day to attend a Kalumban refugee school. The revolution was his only soul now.

And, like him, the others in his unit - Sabelo, Ndaba, Thokozile - lived lives that spurned comfort, stability, or a woman's embrace. There were no airs or vanity in the MNP's armed wing. Among themselves, no malice, no envy, no hoarding. They had forsaken decent clothes and food to go into the bush. Party fatigues were reduced to rags in a matter of months. There was little opportunity to wash, fewer still to shave. One learned to notice the man first, later their appearance. Gauge the determination in his eyes, the strength in his shoulder, how practised hands cradled his weapon. Know that this is a fellow you want in your cadre; know that if he starves or collapses from fatigue and thirst he will pick himself up again. Know that if the enemy closes in he can be depended upon.

Without consulting Sabelo or Thokozile Malakia knew it was time for rest. Ndaba was slowing down, and given that he carried their single support weapon, a drum-fed RPD light machine gun, it was unacceptable to let him fall too far behind.

"Eli?"

Eh? Goodwill pivoted in mid-stride. Sabelo's voice held a note of uncharacteristically frightened concern. "What is it, Maboye?"

Ndaba was on his knees, clawing the air. He jerked suddenly forward, coughed thickly, face paling.

"Oh my God."

The RPD gunner's jaw had gone slack and his hands fluttered at the front of his tattered oatmeal jacket. Retching noises, then a torrent of thick black blood flowing from his mouth. Not good.

Thokozile, who carried morphine in his bergen, was already rushing forward when the sight of what was happening to his comrade stopped him cold.

"Hurts...hu...hu...hu...urts..."

Malakia realised he should have followed when Sabelo ran screaming into the long grass like a man possessed, or looked away instead of standing there like a fool, eyes bulging, helpless to intervene.

What he saw he knew he'd be seeing again in nightmares until he was ninety.

"You will learn to fear us more."

* * *

Thirty-five kilometres.

Thirty-five kilometres a day. They'd worked it out, back when the exercise first began. Six days to reach a destination one hundred and ten kilometres south of Twisfontein. Thirty-five klicks, that's all. Not so bad, and a welcome break from rigid camp discipline.

Craig Westhuizen learned to focus only on the pack of his stick leader. If it moved, he moved. He found he could will himself to keep going as long as he ran this simple philosophy through his mind. How long and painful the trek would be, nobody could guess. This was unlike any other country they'd encountered during basics or at School of Infantry. There were few villages, few fields, parched terrain without rivers and only the rare puddle inevitably muddied by animal waste.

It seemed impossible to march through the middle of the day. The Afrosian sun burned all the worse the further they advanced, staring at the cracked ground, until by noon nobody could see anything at all - just a red mist before their eyes. It seemed a wonder that bush flies didn't drop dead from the heat, but they followed in thick black clouds, getting into one's hair and his beard and even up nostrils....Westhuizen wondered where they came from, there were so many. His salvation was in the three sips of water per hour. He could hold each mouthful on his tongue as long as possible and come to life again, though his face was on fire and sweat running out of his hair, body sticky, khaki uniform soaked, and neck burned by the sun.

Thirty-five kays.

They had been driven to the middle of nowhere - a stinking little hellhole of a vlei not even marked on a map - and unloaded from seven-ton WYK trucks in combat order. The squad was ordered to form up into three ranks while instructors checked each lad had his rifle and his forty-kilogram load. The instructors had briefed Stick Leader Koos Myburgh, who in turn briefed Westhuizen and his fellows.

Ten rounds of ammunition to each man....in case of a contact. No magazines permitted on the rifles, though. Typical pointless bloody army.

A senior operational officer got on a loudspeaker and informed the squads that the exercise was part of "conventional war" training, intended to test endurance and team ability to carry out specific tasks or navigate over long distances while working in a four-man unit. Right. Westhuizen could already feel the cumbersome pack biting into his shoulders. Typical pointless bloody army.

The LDF always carried heavy kit on bospatrollies, and this was certainly no exception. One foot in front of the other. Eyes on the ground, head and torso stooped forward.

Thirty-five blasted kays. Carrying a freezer on your back.

Westhuizen raised his eyes. Myburgh had inexplicably stopped, and he nearly stumbled trying to stop in time.

"What the hell's going on?"

Koos slid a finger across his throat, abruptly shutting off the annoyed chatter. Then he locked eyes with other troepies in turn, signalling an all-around defence.

Exhaustion was forgotten as the men obediently crouched. Myburgh summoned Westhuizen to his side with a hoarse whisper. "Shit, Craig, I think there's something over there."

"Anything happening?"

Myburgh licked his lips. "I think it's a body."

"What?"

Westhuizen peered into the open savanna. He could vaguely make out a distorted crumpled heap lying in the dust no more than thirty metres away. Blue denim jeans.

"Nice eyes."

"Maybe it's a pile of rags."

"Clothes do not put themselves in the veldt."

"Gook?" Myburgh's eyes were scanning the area. He was clutching his unloaded Heckler with white knuckles.

"Dunno." Westhuizen whistled softly, gesturing to his left. Trooper Delarey caught the signal and cautiously scrambled forward, Robinet following.

"What is it?"

"Koos thinks there's a dead coon over there."

"Christ, I need a smoke." With trembling fingers Delarey absently reached for a cigarette.

Myburgh flicked his single magazine into the G3 rifle. "Okay," he muttered to Westhuizen. "Let's go."

"Wait....oh, hell with it!"

Craig crossed himself. He briefly imagined a flag-draped casket back home on a lonely little farm, or a black-faced terrorist standing over his bullet-riddled corpse, AK-47 smoking. Then he snapped the safety catch off his G3.

Ons Vader wat in die hemel is -

"Check that bush."

laat u Naam geheilig word -

"Clear."

Laat u koninkryk kom.

Westhuizen could hear his heart thumping in his chest. He looked at Koos. Myburgh's body was taut with concentration, weapon shouldered.

Laat u wil geskied -

National service couldn't end this way. It wouldn't!

soos in die hemel net so ook op die aarde.

Myburgh was gagging violently. With an audible phworrhh! he heaved and heaved again, then lay gasping for breath. Westhuizen felt a twinge of tight-laced panic.

The seconds stretched into centuries as he rose quietly from the undergrowth and stared at an apparition. There were no words.

Craig felt nothing. Myburgh, chalk-faced, stared back at him.

It took several hours for either to be able to speak and many more after that before they were able to give Special Branch debriefers any coherent statements. What Westhuizen could not describe for them, what he would carry with him forever, was the face of Philemon Ndaba.

Ndaba's skull had been utterly hollowed. His teeth were broken in his mouth: a bloody, severed, tongue still clenched loosely between them. Both eyes had popped out and literally barbecued on swollen cheeks. Wisps of smoke still drifted idly from the unseeing sockets, beneath them a beard red and sticky as though torn out in handfuls. The guerrilla was burned all over, neck and shoulders and chest, remains of his clothing still clinging to ragged flesh. All terrible, but perhaps the most terrible thing was Ndaba's frozen expression, the look of howling terror, of a desperate creature still impossibly alive - shrieking in silent agony.

[Lydenburg]

Ministry of Information, Lydenburg City

Nicolaas le Roux hated downtown Lydenburg with a passion that far outweighed his desire to report very often to the government offices there. Gold wealth ensured it remained fairly upper crust and exclusive these days, too stifling to be a vibrant continental city. Clean avenues ordered with almost military precision, wide, tree-lined boulevards and charming little coffee shops. But even these were normally empty on weekends; Boer Calvinism ensured they were positively deserted on Sundays. Ordinarily tourists would have populated the streets even then, but right now they were staying away, discouraged by draconian race laws, visa restrictions, or a combination of both. Only a growing army of black urban migrants was increasing in the capital. And they weren't permitted to go sauntering through the main districts.

Shops and kiosks which normally sold books, tribal oddities, and postcards were closed - padlocked, no doubt for good. A few elderly chain smokers still sat on their stoeps, counting the cars. Bored policemen in city browns vainly patrolled the sidewalks in search of illegal hawkers or Afrosian toughs to harass.

Atmosphere was, as usual, glowering.

Le Roux had never liked the Ministry of Information headquarters, either. It was housed in the old Telkom tower, lit from within by art-deco wall sconces and one or two Draper desk lamps. Too dark for his taste, and he could swear they had been using the same odious brand of polish in that building since 1965. The buzz of the noisy air conditioner didn't help, either.

"Go on ahead, Meneer Minister. You are expected."

Lizette, the stick-thin secretary with the face of an overeager mouse, gestured towards an open office door. Le Roux went in with the ease of a man who owned the place. The performance was wasted. Tall, balding, Ryk Neeltje was scrawling busily on a notepad, deliberately ignored his younger colleague for precisely two minutes, and feigned surprise with a contented smirk.

"Ah, Nicolaas. I see you're looking well."

He had not been invited to sit, so le Roux remained standing. "As you are, Ryk."

With a flourish, Neeltje dropped his quill into an alabaster inkwell resting atop the dusty Bible on his desk. Le Roux noted with interest that this was the only personal item the Information Minister had made obvious provision for. Aside from the usual baaskap posters which seem to wallpaper every other room the rest of Neeltje's spacious, wasted, office was noticeably empty.

"You've seen my proposal, no doubt."

"I read it." Neeltje kept his face purposefully blank, prompting an unintentional scowl from le Roux. Neither men liked each other personally, but Neeltje's control of the Republic's propaganda superstructure either made him a worthy friend or a dreaded foe. Unless he wished to tempt universally hostile media coverage of his own policies in Foreign Affairs, le Roux knew he had to endure bandying pointless niceties.

"And what did you think?"

"It is very ambitious, Nicolaas. If this all works out I shall warmly shake you by the hand." A touch of dry Afrikaans mockery.

"I obtained approval from the PM's office."

"With Winterboer's assistance, no doubt."

"Come now, in no such way did - "

Neeltje squinted through his thick spectacles. "I highly doubt that this was Minnaar's idea. And some of your boys weren't too happy about it, either. Oloff Winterboer fits in somewhere, mark my words."

"Ever the detective."

Modest inclination. "If you insist. But what's all this about the preliminary report? I don't have to see it. I understand that all of this is 'hush, hush', so to speak."

"If you want to put it that way." Le Roux leaned forward. Now for the kill. "But the press hasn't been exactly engaging of Kalumba lately, has it?"

"It's never been particularly engaging of Kalumba. Particularly with this rugby business involving Lake Albert. If they get into the semifinals there may be a few skulls cracked here and there."

"And that's just what I don't need! Bad enough we had to heap rubbish on them when Omeru - that kaffir bastard - was around. But now we've got KUM looking to do a deal and I could use your support, not your active opposition."

Neeltje smiled. "Incidentally, it's not the first I've heard of this. You see, Minnaar called me about an hour ago. Du Moulin, too. I know the whole story, chapter and verse."

"And...?"

"And quite frankly I see no reason to get off my fat arse and do anything about it."

Le Roux was giving the Ministry of Information a frank reappraisal. At least they were blunt about it. "You mean, what's in it for you?"

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to, meneer."

Ah, things were finally getting dirty. The other man was just sitting there looking smug. If they were in Sokassa this would have been the time when bribes were exchanged.

But even among Lydenburg's elite bribes weren't worth the guaranteed twenty years in an Afrosian prison for corruption charges. The Foreign Minister wasn't above pleading yet.

"Look, all I need is one weekend. Pull your men off Kalumba a while. Let them sink their teeth in Sundiata -"

"We all know Sundiata is a dictator and Songhia is a bastion of nepotism, corruption, and fraud. That's not news. You may as well print tosh about how the sky is blue."

" - or Norvenia, or one of the insignificant little coolie states to our north! I'm saying that universally hostile press coverage is not what I need right now, not with the delicate talks about talks that may be going on this moment."

Neeltje was obviously tiring of the game. He gave a very Dutch shrug. "What precisely is it you want me to do?"

"As I've been saying, I don't want to see the headlines blaring about Kalumban incompetence or villainy."

"It sells blerrie papers. Stirring stuff. Circle the wagons, friends, the Anglo uitlanders are coming!"

"What I would suggest as an alternative is a lot of coverage on the Zebras match."

"In Baardwyk?"

"Yes, dammit! Both teams standing together at the prayer. The fans mixing. Some old-fashioned brotherliness with our Kalumban neighbours. And we want as many Kalumban news sources as possible, to take these images back to Salisbury. I need the same favourable impression in both nations. Influence the men at the top, they might. Public opinion if nothing else."

"Impossible."

"It's one weekend. Loosen the censorship code for a week. Let them come here and snap away at whatever they want. We can't afford to be seen as anything but open."

"You don't think they'll run to the black townships and start filming the conditions there, or covering a political demonstration? More fodder for their own propaganda?"

It was a valid point.

"Ah, but we won't loosen the restrictions on all foreign journalists. Just Kalumbans. White Kalumbans; even their media knows better than to send anybody over here who isn't. And white Kalumbans will go to the rugby match. That's their primary concern with Lydenburg at the moment.

"Anybody with a Kalumban press card gets free rein."

[Kalumba]

The Herald, Head Office

Jack Jafumbi, editor of The Herald, Kalumba's premier newspaper, was in a conundrum. He had been shocked that morning to recieve confirmation from the Lydenburg Ministry of Information that a press pass had been issued to one of his journalist to cover Lake Alberts match in Baardwyk, but was now stuck as to who to send to cover the game.

With the Word Cup about to begin his head sports writer, Bruce Mtwetwe, was abroad, not that he was an option to send due to his skin colour. But along with Mtwetwe had gone his deputy, Wrex Tarrson, and most of the other members of the sports team leaving Jafumbi with few options, narrowed further by the predominantly black make up of the papers writing staff and the low populalrity of either form of rugby in Kalumba.

In the end he decided upon Ian Tennant, more through neccessity than choice as he was practically the only remaining member of white staff left in the office. Jafumbi wasn't Tennant's greatest fan in the office, as he stood for all Jafumbi despised. He was young, entitled and born into money. He got his job through his father and treated it as a hobby more than anything else seldom producing anything of note, but now was his time.

"Tennant, my office" he called to the young man.

"What's up boss?"

"I have a job for you. The Lydenburgers have granted us a press pass to cover the match with Lake Albert and the Eastern Traksvaai, and you're the only qualified writer I have to send."

With that said and done Tennant had packed an overnight bag, drawn 200 Shillings from the expense account and booked a ticket to Kumakomoyo Airstrip, the nearest to Lydenburg and then a taxi to the border. And as he sat in the battered old turboprop he thought back to that brief converation with his editor. 'Qualified' he had said, and by that he meant white and that upset Tennant. Despite his carefree exterior Ian enjoyed his job and was desperate to please his boss and prove himself as a true journalist. that was why he had turned down the offer of a job at his fathers legal practice and taken a job at the very bottom of the paper.

And he was looking forward to this excursion, not as a rugby fan but as the chance to expose the human rights abuses that were rampant in Kalumba's northern neighbour. He hoped that his press pass would allow him to get a chance to talk with the native Afrosians and confirm the suspicions that the Lydenburgers were cracking down with even harsher repression than ever before.

With this still in mind he climbed into his taxi and began the arduous journey to the border, over what were perhaps the worst roads in Kalumba at least if not all of southern Afrosia. As he tried to formulate plan to expose the racism rife in Lydenburg the taxi drew to a halt and Ian realised that they were stopping at a military checkpoint. My God he thought to himself, it's been years since things have been this bad and fumbled for his papers as a Territorial trotted over to the car.

"Papers please Sir" the grey haired troopie asked of Ian and examined them.

"What's the emergency?"

"No emergency Sir, just regular checks" the older man replied handing back the driver and Ian's papers. As the driver prepared to set off Tennant put a hand on his shoulder to stop him and peered closer at the parked military truck. There were men lying in the back.

"If there's no emergency who are they?" He called after the retreating troopie, gesturing towards the men. "BAPL?"

The soldier strolled back to the car and leaned in with a conspirational whisper. "Off the record mate?"

"Of course" Ian grinned back, sensing something was about to come out.

"Go fuck yourself" the troopie chuckled and wandered back to his comrades laughing so much he was shaking in his boots. And as he recounted the tale to his comrades Ian's ears were filled with their loud guffaws and ordered the taxi to drive on. Fuming at himself he tried to think of a way to humilate those ignorant grunts, when the taxi driver told him they were at the border. He paid his fare and walked into the border post, and made small talk with the Afrosian troopie guarding the post as his bag was searched by Customs.

"Anything going on?" he enquired, expecting no response.

"Well actually for once, yes. The Terries were out in force earlier and carted off a load of men trying to cross the border."

"I thought we welcomed refugees with open arms these days?"

"They are, but these were trying to cross into Lydenburg" replied the troopie taking the cigarette Tennant had offered, and continued "They grabbed them in the middle of 'The Cutline', and it looked like they were armed. Normally we turn a blind eye to that sort of thing, but apparenty orders have changed."

Before Ian could continue the conversation he was called forwards and sent accross the border. As he walked into Lydenburger customs and the obligatory search this entailed. But his mind wasn't on the invasive hands and eyes but the shocking revalation from the troopie. Chimpota was abandoning the MNP. He was betraying the ADTO. The people of Afrosia, and the very ideals Kalumba stood for. This was the story he was looking for. Now he could enjoy the rugger and when he got home he could write the most explosive expose for decades.

[Norvenia]

Morgan Tower
Norvenian Central Broadcasting Headquarters
Wrenwatch
Commonwealth of Norvenia

"They don't let in journalists." Alex Sadowski glanced around the room, and he didn't seem to like what he saw. The young, skinny, dark-haired man spread his hands. "They would smash my cameras," he said slowly. "I don't understand what you're talking about."

Paul Samuels leaned back on his desk. He was every inch the old newshound: his suit jacket hung on the back of his chair, and the gentle swell of his belly was contained by trousers, dress shirt, and bright red suspenders. But his face was still lean, long and seamed, and his bone-white hair was combed neatly back from a high forehead. Alert, intelligent blue eyes studied Alex from under heavy brows. There was a moment's pause, and then the foreign news editor of NCB spoke. "They've changed their policy," he announced. "News just in this morning."

Alex shook his head in disbelief. At thirty-five, he'd spent more than a decade reporting on Lydenburg. He'd started out by talking to refugees and activists in Norvenia, and then followed that up by self-financed trips on a shoestring budget to Kalumba, to see the situation closer at hand. His parents, born in Bratvit, had never understood their son's fascination with Afrosia. But to Alex, Lydenburg was one of the last great bastions of injustice in Aurora. He believed with all his heart that it was due to fall, and he wanted to be the man on the ground when it did, telling the story of a people free at last.

But he had never believed that he'd actually be able to make it into Lydenburg - not legally, at any rate. And Alex wasn't like some Norvenian journalists, who spent months embedded with platoons in Underium or walked three hundred miles through the jungle to get into Skorzenia. He had even opted out of his National Year; he'd never held a gun. So Lydenburg itself had always been a land of the imagination for him, never a potential reality.

"That...doesn't make sense," Alex said briefly, shaking his head. "They don't want people from the outside sneaking around taking pictures. Unless..." Alex saw a woman standing in the corner of the room, tall and with blonde hair pulled back into a bun; she leaned forward, her green eyes intensely watchful. For a moment, Alex wondered who she was, but most of his mind was dedicated to unravelling the puzzle with which he'd just been presented. "Unless...the policy wasn't changed for everyone." Alex looked at Samuels. "Was it?"

Samuels smiled with a faint avuncular pride and shook his head. "No."

Alex nodded, and his eyes widened slightly as the pieces fell into place. "Kalumba. It's Kalumba, right? They have to reach detente, or the MNP and the BPLA will destroy both governments - a proxy war to mutual destruction. So they're letting Kalumbans in." Alex frowned and glanced around. "But what does this have to do with us?"

The woman in the corner of the room stepped forward; she was strikingly pretty, almost beautiful, aged somewhere in her early thirties. She was classic Old Anglo: tall, with an elegant figure that didn't conceal long bones and powerful muscles. Her skin was very fair, her hair pale gold, her eyes a striking grass-green. She wore a conservative grey suit with a high mandarin collar. Alex felt an odd mix of emotions in the pit of his stomach: desire mingled with wariness. This woman looked like she could eat him alive in one bite, like a python.

Now, she walked forward to stand in front of Alex, smiling cooly. "Very good," she purred, then glanced at Samuels. "You were right," she remarked. "He does know the territory." The woman turned back to Alex. "Hello," she said cheerfully. "My name is Elaine Michaels. Tell me, Alex: you've spent a lot of time in Kalumba. Have you ever considered dual citizenship?"

Alex glanced back and forth between Elaine and Samuels. "You can't be serious," he managed.

Elaine chuckled good-naturedly. "All right," she said mildly. "Cards on the table, then. I work for the National Intelligence Service."

"Big fucking surprise," Alex muttered under his breath, and Elaine laughed again.

"I can be more subtle when I need to," she assured the journalist. "But right now, I'm offering you the opportunity of a lifetime. You can get inside the country you've spent your life studying - legally, no less - and come back with a story that could hasten or even precipitate the downfall of one of the most oppressive regimes in Aurora. It would be the journalistic triumph of the decade. And you would serve your country, the people you love, and the cause of all humanity."

"Uh-huh," Alex replied unconvincedly. But even he could hear the yearning in his voice. "And how would all of this be legal, actually? In case we all forgot, I'm not Kalumban."

"Sure you are," Elaine replied calmly. "Thousands of Kalumban whites also hold Norvenian citizenship and spend most of their lives here, after all - so your manners and accent aren't an issue. As for legality - just look at this." She tossed a manila folder to Alex, who examined its contents. "Passport - it's quite real, made using the same process as Kalumban originals, and registered with the Kalumban database. And press card, for the Salisbury Foreign Crier."

"There is no Salisbury Foreign Crier!" Alex exclaimed, almost shouting. "You can't just invent a whole newspaper!"

Elaine grinned. "Alex, there is a Salisbury Foreign Crier." She produced a newspaper, which the dumbfounded journalist studied in silence. "See? Yesterday's issue. It was only actually founded a few hours ago, but the registration in Kalumba shows that it's been in circulation - limited circulation, aimed mostly at dual-citizenship white expatriates like you - for six years. We have back issues for every day of that period." Elaine shrugged. "Once again, it's a real paper," she remarked. "So far, six hundred people have bought today's issue. It's impossible to doubt that your Kalumban press credentials are legitimate."

Alex flung the paper to the ground. "For Christ's sake!" he exclaimed. "I'm not a spy! I'm a reporter! This isn't what I do!"

"Nobody's asking you to be a spy," Paul Samuels said quietly. Alex snorted, and the editor shook his head. "Really, lad. That's not what this is about. We can't get you in-country without the help of the Service, but it's still NCB news that is sending you. We want you to report. We want you to get the story: what life is like on the inside, what the MNP is really like, what Kalumba is up to with the baaskap regime. We want pictures and interviews. And then we want you to come back out, and tell the story on national television, with syndicated broadcasts to every other country with free press in Aurora and beyond." Samuels leaned forward. "This is cloak-and-dagger, sure. But not for its own sake, Sadowski. This is journalism at its finest, journalism that can change the world. We need you to be a part of it."

Alex glanced between Elaine and Samuels, and then sighed heavily, shook his head, and slammed the heel of his palm into his forehead. "Fuck me," he groaned, defeated. "All right. When you put it like that - well, fuck. It's not like I can walk away, is it? I'd be kicking myself for the rest of my life. So fine." Alex glared at Elaine. "Where do I sign up?"

The NIS agent grinned again and walked toward the door. "Oh, don't worry," she said breezily. "You already have."

* * *

Kumakomoyo Airstrip
Northern Kalumba

They were Kalumbans now, so they couldn't fly into Port Swettendam from Norvenia; they had to enter Lydenburg by land. As Alex had learned, that meant a twelve-hour flight into Salisbury, and then forty-eight hours cooling his heels in a hotel room while Elaine roamed about doing various cloak-and-dagger things which, he'd later learned, amounted to erasing any trace of their travel from Norvenia to Salisbury and cutting any connection between Alex Peters, Anglo-Kalumban journalist with Norvenian citizenship, and Alex Sadowsky, Brato-Norvenian journalist with a record of work with black Lydenburger exiles. After that, it was easy; Alex Peters' life in Salisbury had already been created, complete with apartment (well-furnished), rent payments (on time and backdated for fifteen years), and employment (all income taxes paid). Elaine gave them a few days to get over jet lag, and then put them on a bush plane to Kumakomoyo. After that, they clambered into a battered two-seat Cookish pickup truck, and rattled over the veldt toward the border.

They drove along in uncomfortable silence for a while, staring around at the desolate landscape. Elaine was at the wheel, dressed now in a light khaki overshirt, a white tank top, khaki cargo trousers, and combat boots. A grey ball cap shaded her head, and her blonde hair was up in a pony tail. Alex wore much the same outfit, but with a photographer's vest over a polo shirt instead of overshirt and tank top. He sat in the passenger seat of the truck; the air conditioner was broken, and whenever the heat got too stifling, he was forced to open his window and swallow a mouthful of fine, clinging dust. Elaine's gaze never left the road, but he could see the sweat beading slowly on her pale skin, running down under the collar of her undershirt.

"Uh...so." Alex cleared his throat. "I didn't think you'd actually be coming with me."

"Yeah," Elaine replied. "I figured. Honestly, though, I'm not your handler. I won't steer you, or get in your way. I'm just going to try to keep you alive, and out of prison. That's all."

Alex absorbed this for a moment. "You really think that will be necessary?"

"You won't last a day without me," Elaine replied simply.

The journalist sat up a little straighter. "I'm not unused to Afrosia," he protested. "I know this country."

"This one," Elaine agreed. "Kalumba. Not Lydenburg." She shook her head. "It's different. You've never worked in a police state before. Until you have, you've got no idea what it involves."

"And you have?" Alex asked. He didn't particularly expect a response, but it was worth a try.

To his surprise, Elaine nodded. "Yes," she said. "This isn't my first time in Lydenburg. My cover was never broken, though, so there's no reason why anyone should remember my face."

Alex absorbed that, too, for a while. "I thought you weren't supposed to talk about - you know - operations," he finally remarked.

"We're not," Elaine replied easily. "But we're a long way from the Cave here." Alex recognized the reference to the NIS headquarters, a massive underground compound beneath Mount Putnam that had begun as an artificially expanded natural cavern system. Elaine shrugged. "You're trusting your life to me, whether you realize it or not. I figure that you deserve at least a little trust in return."

Alex turned to his companion. "In that case," he asked, "is Elaine Michaels your real name?"

The agent smiled. "Of course," she replied, and her voice and manner were entirely relaxed and natural. Alex studied her for a long moment, and then slumped, frustrated and bewildered, back against the burning-hot fake leather of his seat.

* * *

They reached the border a little under an hour later. Alex felt his mouth go dry as he reached into his vest for his passport and press card. Elaine seemed - well, not quite relaxed, but calm, with a kind of ready expectation graven into every line of her posture. When they approached the Lydenburger border guards, she brought the truck to a halt, her window already rolled down. "Hallo," she said easily, leaning out the window with her Kalumban passport in her hand. "Press, ja? For the rugby game."

[Lydenburg]

Kraalspruit Border Post

Behind the open chain-link gates which separated the Kalumban guards from their Lydenburger counterparts was the welcome committee: a line of compact, granite-faced, Afrosians in pressed tan uniforms. Three sat behind the counter, poking through bags and examining paperwork with brisk, impersonal, efficiency. A fourth stood just outside, manning a striped road barrier; he was backed by a double rank of bulky white reservists in oatmeal-hued camouflage and full battledress - G3A3 rifles slung but nerves obviously quartered like wire.

Sergeant David Bayoli found himself looking up at the tall Kalumban, eyes everywhere but his own. The work-calloused hands which accepted the passport seemed more at home on a broad-chested farm labourer than the gaunt, haggard, old black man in an ill-fitting cobalt tie and a faded Police Auxiliary Unit patch on his shoulder.

"Welcome to the Republic, sir. Have you anything to declare?" Bayoli's voice was low, held in check by a lifetime of discipline. He seemed more intent on studying the floor than Ian Tennant's blurred photograph. Boers had been showing up in droves from Kalumba every day of the past week. The NCO had seen too much of these dull people and their 'RIP ZEBRAS 2013' shirts to find them very interesting. "Any fruits, vegetables, animals or gold products?"

By this time, the other two were rifling through Tennant's bag. One of the white sentries outside watched with obvious interest. Lydenburgers were all too wordly-wise about corruption in their southern neighbours to let their own kaffirs get away with nicking anything.

"And what is your business?"

Once his eyes flickered over the Kalumban press card, it was a foregone conclusion. Bayoli abruptly stamped the passport, scribbled something down, dropped the papers back on the table, and politely waved Tennant on.

"If you have no car, you will please to need one. There are no minibuses or cabs from here. Pleasant stay in Lydenburg, baas."

The officer examining Elaine Michaels' faux passport at that very moment was either less lenient, less respectful, or both. Squat, bowlegged, constable Masithembe Jabulisiwu had a gap-toothed overbite, the rictus of a grinning corpse, and the eye of every cheeky Afrosian who was overdue a beating in his country.

Jabulisiwu was a powerless native on a traditionally authoritarian and brutal continent. So even though issued by the hated white state, his uniform still pleased him in its status - at least he could lord it over somebody, anybody, lower. More than once he had clocked one too many beers at a shebeen simply by way of his badge and a few vague threats which grew increasingly stronger as the drinks hesitantly continued.

"Any other purpose of visit?"

This followed by rudely waving anybody who answered into silence while purporting to study the stamps on the back pages. Interest aroused, he looked up from it and studied the baasjie closer. Battered Cookish bakkie. Woman driving, man seated. Thus not married. Miss had handed him the passport, she was very clearly the one in charge.

Jabulisiwu gave Elaine a twisted off-centre leer. A well thought-out, fair-haired, girl looking back at him from beneath a billed cap. He could do whatever he wished.

"So. You say you are press."

Clearly, the policeman had his doubts. Most of the writers and reporters coming in were nervous third-rate stringers either trying to claw their way to the top or bit losers looking to cruise the pub circuit at the expense of their small-time news outlets. With the World Cup in full swing, Kalumban papers simply did not enough of the sports crowd on hand who thought catching the Eastern Traksvaai game was a better use of their resources. Fewer still who could credibly pass for white.

"This is a security zone, nooie." That in a condescending tone edged in masked contempt. "An ops area. You go only to Baardwyk. Cannot stay near the border. There are big troubles down in the valleys. Bush bandits. Foreigners disappear. Foreigners die. No civilians. No journalist. No press."

Again, abrupt change of subject. "You have a laptop computer, you must show. Mobile phone? Give to me." He held an outstretched hand. "You have a hotel? How long you stay?"

The column of reservists wafted ominously closer, attracted by Jabulisiwu's animated motions. At this distance it was clear that the oldest couldn't have been more than twenty. The LDF accepted 'satisfactory' volunteers at sixteen, and school leavers were conscripted at seventeen; it wasn't uncommon for white males to have more combat experience by their twenty-third birthday than the average New Model Army trooper. Theirs was an austere existence of landmines, ambush, and sudden death at muzzle distance.

After two months on patrol, this banishment to an obscure crossing bred resentment and boredom. Any opportunity for action was acted upon.

And Jabulisiwu must have realised so, because his smile widened. He had been waiting all day for somebody's patience to wear thin.

[Kalumba]

Baardwyk Stadium

It was Peters who responded to the Lydenburgers question. "I knew I recognised you from somewhere" he exclaimed. "You played for the Nyonis, or whatever they were called back in your day. I've seen your photo in one of the old team yearbooks. You must have been quite good as well judging by the number of caps you won, more than I ever did in three years as the second choice hooker."

As he awaited a response he took a Baardwyk Lager from the small table beside him and took a deep draught, then swallowed with difficulty and did all he could to stop it showing. As an ale drinker the stuff was bad enough, but it was far different from the barely palatable Kalumban mass produced swill. Unlike the drink of his homeland, a weak brew best described as warm piss unless chilled inerited from the Norvenians, this possessed a strength not unlike the millet beer so loved by the black Kalumbans and had a similar kick in the tail. Not wanting to offend he took another swig and smiled to his companions.

"I bet you still made a few shillings though, eh?" Chuckled Spandler from the chair he had taken. He was aware it was a poor attempt at humour, and a joke probably made hundreds of times in the rugby community, but he was trying to appear at ease and to relax the room. For inside he was seething with hate.

He was unsure of the circumstances which had ended up with Petrus De Moulin working in Lydenburg in whatever shifty role he had within the state armaments industry, but he did know that he had worked for the State Intelligence and Defence Police's predecessor the much hated CIO. He also knew that even within veteran members of both organisations he was viewed with vehement hatred. For Tristan he was a simply a traitor and that was worthy of his hate, but there was something deeper with De Moulin that had only been deepened by the cynical smile he had greeted them with.

Jan Christianson chuckled at the joke and turned to the larger gentleman seated beside him, "So how do you think the match will go today? I've tried to watch what I can of the Lassies but have only caught the odd game this season, but we are looking damned better than we have in the last ten or fifteen years. James Jones is the key, our new fly-half. He has completely turned the side around, his kicking and Dougie Smythe's pace on the wing have given us a real edge."

Without waiting for a response he continued "And Eastern Traksvaai haven't exactly been brilliant this season, have they? You looked almost complacent last time out and this is the first time you'd be playing Kalumban opposition in five or six years isn't it. They cannot have seen much of our boys and I'd question if mentally they are in the right place for today." But he wished the game was in Kalumba so the rock of the front row, Blessing Nkolsi, coud have played. But needs must, he suppossed and hoped this wasn't a wasted trip, from both the political and rugby point of view.

Baardwyck Stadium, Press Box

Ian Tennant sat in the corner and sighed. His day had gone from an exciting start with the discovery of the new legislation put in effect at the border and the obvious implications that it carried, to one of downright miserableness. First at Kraalspruit he had been forced to hitch a ride with a hard-nosed Lydenburger trucker, who had demanded 100 Shillings for the joy of sitting in the cab and the twin stenches of his bodily odour and foul roll-ups, then the ignominity of having his credentials questioned at the ground. He was a bloody journalist not some sort of terrorist or spy, for crying out loud he was a white man in a 'white country'.

But then he had got into the press itself, while it may have been considered plush twenty or thirty years ago, it was now far below the standards he was expecting. And worse than that all the ther journalists were Lydenburgers and were obstinatley refusing to speak in anything other than Afrikaans, leaving him in the dark. So bad had things got he had actually started reading the few English language papers that littered the small tables, before casting it aside and wandering to the large window which seperated them from the pitch.

He cast his eyes around the stadium and mentally noted the absense of any black faces in the crowd or on the pitch, even amongst the Lake Albert side as they warmed up. He wished he could visit the township near to the stadium but the number of armed guards around the place told him this would be impossible, but at least another line for his story. He noticed at the other end of the pitch there was another box like the press one, but only filled with a handful of men, directors he assumed until he thought he recognised a face. Wasn't that one of the men from the consulate? He couldn't tell from this distance, but made a careful note to find out.

State Intelligence and Defence Police Head Quarters, Salisbury

Lieutenant Roger Mbeki flicked through the small cards which were rapidly accumulating on his desk with increasing disinterest. Each one carried the name and other details of everybody to cross the border into Lydenburg or Songhia from Kalumba. The system had been established at the first sign of unrest in the late 1950's to prevent insurgencies forming and criminals moving freely between borders, and even then Mbeki thought how ridiculous the whole system was. Those who didn't want to be caught by the authorities woud simply not use border crossings, nor woud they use their real passport.

But he had messed up his last field assignment in the border area with Lydenburg and actually ended up in custody of the Bechuaneland Constabulary with his whole cadre. And now he was here, in the depths of what purported to be the Kalumban Accountants Society head office, doing what most accoutants actually did and spending the day buried in paperwork. Unlike many intelligence agencies the SIDP still hid their main office and the extent of their reach by having only a small public office in the main police HQ, but the real work happened here. Although not often from Roger's current office.

Finally he reached the end of todays Songhian crossings, almost entirely workers who managed a job accross the border returning home or going to work. No weapons or illegal literature discovered came the report, as it had for the last month he had sat on the desk, and judging by his predecessors demanour not for ages before that either. He remembered the man's snide comment "The only excitment I got was you getting captured".

With that bitterness he moved onto the crossings from Lydenburg, at least there were less cards here. No one really moved accross that border until the spring. He started with the crossings in the east, but nothing of note only the odd trawler or tramp steamer taking someone aboard for whatever reason. Nothing suspicious, just boring cheap travel or some scientific study.

An hour later he got onto the last few crossings in the mountains and the border with Songhia, and here was something of 'interest'. Well at least something which meant he had something to do. Three journalists had crossed the border with press passes, apparently to cover the game in Baardwyk. This would need reporting, mainy to ensure they didn't get in trouble over there and 'disappear', but also in case they were likely to write something that could cause an issue between the respective governments.

One was from The Herald, and he made a note to send Jack Jafumbi to submit the story to the SIDP before publication, and moved onto the other two journalists cards. The Salisbury Foreign Crier? Didn't ring a bell, but it was probably one of the small private papers for expats and the like. Still he had nothing else to do so he called in his secretary.

"Doris rustle me up as many copies of the Salisbury Foreign Crier as you can please." As she toddled off, he steeled his mind. Most of thee papers were full of crap and lefty nonsense that jarred him to read. But that's what he was looking for, anything that could muck up what was currently going on between Kalumba and Lydenburg, was to be supressed. So he also prepared a message to the nearby border posts to detain the two journalists for the odd question. "What an exciting afternoon!" he thought to himself and headed to the staff lounge to make himself another coffee.

[Lydenburg]

Baardwyk Stadium

"Ach." Izaak Engelhart waved off Edward Peters' comment about his caps nonchalantly, but it was clear that the praise had hit home. He took a long swallow from his laager, clearly lost in a fantasy world of memories, dreaming of a life that had vanished decades before.

"Izaak, Izaak, he's our man! If he can't do it no one can!"

Drifting out of the daydream, the petty diplomat gave Peters a fisted thump on the back. For an instant, they were young again, basking in the camaraderie from a forgotten era - not so far away though the times had irrevocably changed. "Hey! You're sharp. Your name's sharp! That's a good one." Engelhart rubbed his own thigh and winced slightly. "They do say I still have the look of the front row. Tell me, Meneer Peters, did you play any afterward?"

Although at least one Lydenburger had taken rather quickly to his guests, Francois Joubert shifted uneasily when Jan Christianson addressed him. He cast a wary eye towards Petrus du Moulin, who stared back with a series of unreadable expressions.

"And Eastern Traksvaai haven't exactly been brilliant this season, have they? You looked almost complacent last time out and this is the first time you'd be playing Kalumban opposition in five or six years isn't it. They cannot have seen much of our boys and I'd question if mentally they are in the right place for today."

"Oh? Ja, ja." Joubert nodded twice, afraid to let on he'd missed most of the chat. Reclining on the sofa, he downed his drink and reached for the bottle again.

It was Buys who let out a disapproving growl and Engelhart who bellowed heartily, "Not exactly brilliant this season? Let me tell you something man, we were brilliant enough to see Northern Traaksvai out of the championship last weekend. And what about the Bonteboks? Swettendam. They'd had our measure lately, but if we won their match we knew we were in the Wepener's Draught Semifinals." Almost wistfully, Izaak peered out at the field below. "You know, the last time we played a Kalumban team we still had collared jerseys. You'd have a better opinion of our lads if they looked smarter and not like those modern dancers the wife drags you to the opera to see."

Buys gnawed on his tongue as the colour returned to his flushed cheeks. He contented himself with a dismissive wave at the opposition. Everybody should've known that this would be a national match all the way. Jones. Smythe. Lake Albert had improved their squad by stacking the decks with national players. They were no doubt rested and determined. Eastern Traaksvai already had a season behind them with the same faces. They'd played hard for Northern Traaksvai and the Bontebok fans nearly rioted at the Droomdorp debacle, but Buys had followed the Zebras enough to know when they were being played into the ground. He couldn't fault Engelhart's enthusiasm - the man was clearly a proven loyalist - but without a little luck Lydenburg would lose this one.

Evidently pleased to see the ice had been broken, du Moulin kept his eyes on Joubert as he stood. "Happy to see you're all settled in, gentlemen. Welcome to Baardwyk. I rather think the time has come to get down to business."

Joubert smiled. "Good. That means we don't have to spend the next hour mucking about."

"I understand all three of you have served here - in whatever capacity - for some time now. Everybody understand the rules of the game as well as I. You know that we favour blunt speaking over triple contortionism. That is to say, there are no preconditions, so out with it. Now, do you have any clue why you've been asked here?"

[Norvenia]

Kraalspruit Border Post

Elaine's expression did not change as Jabulisiwu walked up to the window. She smiled politely as the constable glanced over the truck. Alex sat and sweated, but the heat was explanation enough of that; his hands were held tightly in his lap, and he twitched ever so slightly when Jabulisiwu spoke: "Any other purpose of visit?"

Elaine opened her mouth to reply, only to be waved to silence. She cast a look of long-suffering amusement at Alex, who managed a tight smile in reply. In the meantime, Jabulisiwu studied the truck, and Elaine's papers, and then finally fixed the woman with a kind of spastic leer. Alex felt hot anger flare in his gut; he might be just a skinny immigrant journalist, but he was still a Norvenian, and Norvenian men didn't stand for behavior like that. But Elaine just gave a low chuckle, and patted Alex gently, restrainingly, on the shoulder.

"So," the constable announced with clear incredulity. "You say you are press." His tone turned condescending. "This is a security zone, nooie. An ops area. You go only to Baardwyk. Cannot stay near the border. There are big troubles down in the valleys. Bush bandits. Foreigners disappear. Foreigners die. No civilians. No journalist. No press."

"I understand," Elaine said calmly. "We're only here for the match. We have no interest in the valleys."

Jabulisiwu seemed to have his doubts, but he abruptly changed the subject. "You have a laptop computer, you must show. Mobile phone? Give to me." He held an outstretched hand. "You have a hotel? How long you stay?"

"We have a reservation at a guest house in Baardwyk," Elaine replied calmly. "I have the card here." She handed over a bit of cheap pasteboard on which was printed: "Anders Farm - Fine Hospitality - Reasonable Rates", and a Baardwyk address. It was clearly a white man's business. "We stay one night," Elaine continued. "Just for the match, you see." She reached for her backpack. "Here is our laptop" - a Norvenian toughbook that looked like it could survive being trampled by a herd of elephants, and indeed appeared to have done so - "and my phone." It was a smartphone in an equally armored case. "Alex?"

The journalist gave a small smile and offered his own phone, which had been given to him back in Salisbury, pre-loaded with all of "Alex Peters's" contacts and phone numbers. The Norvenian glanced around the approaching crowd of reservists, none of them older than twenty, but all of them with a kind of hard-faced violence to their body language, like attack dogs on leashes. Alex felt a tightening in his gut, and Jabulisiwu gave a broad, yellow-toothed smile.

But Elaine Michaels' own smile never wavered. She inclined her head slightly. "Everything in order, constable? Or are there any fees which we've forgotten to pay?" Alex was confused by that for a second, and then realized that Elaine had to be offering a bribe - albeit in a way that could be instantly denied with total credibility. She's been here before, the journalist reminded himself. Hopefully she knows what she's doing.

* * *

Main Office, Salisbury Foreign Crier, Salisbury

Whenever anyone wanted to find back issues of a given newspaper, they went to one of two places. One of those places was the library: many libraries preserved extensive archives for major news sources. But the Foreign Crier was anything but a major news source, and while most of Salisbury's libraries would have a few, carefully supplied back issues, no one would expect such a small paper to be included in library archives on a regular basis.

The other place to find back issues was newspaper offices themselves, each of which - for obvious reasons - kept a fairly complete archive of its own publications. And so Peter Sonani, the NIS agent who had been running the Foreign Crier for the last year - as a real newspaper, no less, with a few thousand dedicated customers who had no idea that the paper was an NIS shell - was not remotely surprised when the secretary of Roger Mbeki called him up to request as many back issues as he could provide.

"Mhm-hmm," Sonani murmured into the telephone, waving at his own secretary, who rapidly began to record the call and trace its source. It was obviously State Intelligence, and there was no use in letting whatever information might be gleaned from the conversation go to waste. "Back issues? Of course, miss. How many? For the last year? Two years? Five years? My goodness, you are dedicated! Oh, your boss? Well, he's a dedicated man too, then. Absolutely. Shall I fax them to you? Otherwise there will be enough boxes to fill a truck. Oh, no trouble at all. Well, thank you so very much for your time. Yes, you too."

Sonami hung up and glanced over at the secretary, a young man named Xavier Dlomo. "Anything?"

"Maybe," Dlomo replied. "I'll send it back to the Cave, see if they can make anything out of the recording and the incomplete triangulation. You never know. The fax address itself will obviously be a dead end."

"Fax those back issues off first," Sonami instructed. "Then send the data." The older man smiled. "After all, we are running a newspaper here."

[Kalumba]

Baardwyck Stadium

The Kalumbans were slightly taken aback by the Lydenburgers direct manner, but quickly overcame their suprise. As Joubert had said they had all served here for some time and had grown use to their hosts no-nonsense approach which was taken in nearly all situations. Peters and Spandler both looked to their nominal boss, Jan Christianson, who after a momentary pause responded.

"I was lead to believe we are all here" he indicated all the men in the room with a sweep of his arm "to discuss talks about the talks, or talks about the talks about The Talks." He put heavy emphasis upon the last mention of talks and allowed himself a little chuckle, before continuing. "Now you must be aware that the Bechuane Army of Peoples Liberation have in the last few years really stepped up their attacks. This helped to bring down the government of Victor Omeru, and has led to ridiculous levels of media hype about an oncoming civil war in our nation.

Now that is frankly, tosh. There is no danger of a governmental collapse and our Security Forces are dealing with the increased threat level with relative ease. However it is leading to unneccessary Kalumban deaths, deaths that President Chimpota would like to stop. You are of course fully aware that the Morata National Party grows in strength year after year, and we are sure you would like that to stop.

All of us in this room are fully aware that..." A cough from Tristan Spandler stopped him and he returned to his seat, slightly chastened by the glare which the SIDP man had fixed on him. Spandler now spoke from his chair.

"You are fully aware of what my colleague was about to state, however I do not wish him or any member of our delegation to be recorded stating such a fact, as it would bring a good deal of embarrasment upon our government. Just as I am certain you do not want to be implicated in a helping something so contrary to your own cause.

President Chimpota believe it is time for the violence to stop. Kalumba does not like Lydenburg, and you do not like us. But we consider ourselves to be pragmatists and that is why we are here. We both face a greater danger from Songhia, which is on the brink of collapse and civil war, than from our own internal strrife. The situation there is only going to lead to a great deal of disruption and death for our nations if we cannot fully address the threat due to avoidable annoyances.

Today we come to see if such a solution is agreeable to your government. Hopefully it will be and tomorrow our superiors can meet, and if that goes well then we can both see peace returned to our lands."

Spandler leant back in his chair and steepled his palms. Your move he thought to himself and turned his gave upon Joubert, before focusing an angry stare upon De Moulin.


State Intelligence and Defence Police Head Quarters, Salisbury

Mbeki's secretary had brought in the first batch of five years worth of the Foreign Crier from the main Police headquarters, disguised in the back of a grocers van. A ridiculous precaution he mused as he flicked through the still slightly moist issues of the paper. He sighed, this was going to be a long day.

The paper was filled with the usual stories of atrocities, corruption and sport. After the second batch of papers arrived Roger began to enjoy himself. The back pages we recounting the glories of old, the magnificent Baptism of Fire campaign which had ended in victory. He recalled save after save from Ottbourne in goal and of course the brilliance of Ollie Roberts in the middle of the park, but it was the veteran striker Kevin Davis who had won them the tournament.

Remembering his goal, searching for any evidence of a subversive attitude to the Kalumban government, he returned to the main pages. Judging by content most of the papers were sold in Norvenia, but that was hardly suprising with the large expat community who lived there. And nothing suggested this was a paper for enemies of the government, just those interested in the fates and fortunes of their motherland.

Still better safe than sorry, thought Mbeki as he ploughed on. He decided, in the middle of a peace about the corruption scandal which rocked the Security Forces, to put in a call to the Border Guards. He would ak them to detain the two Crier journalists at the border to ensure their report had nothing damaging in it about Kalumba. He wasn't fully sure of the details but from a colleague at the Consulate in Port Swettendam he was aware something was going down, and after his last cock up he didn't want to be on the recieving end of the bosses wrath once more.

[Lydenburg]

Baardwyk Stadium

Petrus du Moulin refrained from comment while Jan Christianson discussed the talks about talks, nodding with half-closed eyes as the senior Kalumban consul mentioned the ongoing troubles in Bechuanaland. He was aware that everybody's attention was on him, the only KF-era serviceman present who could remember the bad 1970s. Before the media storm about the BAPL had reached fever pitch, before the 1986 attacks which rocked Afrosia, and before a black man ever had a prayer in hell of occupying the prime minister's seat in Salisbury.

"Today we come to see if such a solution is agreeable to your government. Hopefully it will be and tomorrow our superiors can meet, and if that goes well then we can both see peace returned to our lands."

Du Moulin's eyes fixed Christianson with a dead fish stare.

"If you will allow me to complete that thought, meneer. All of us are certainly aware that there is an inexcusable lapse in border security. Too many political undesirables are finding their way into Lydenburg from Kalumba. And then there is the issue of the BAPL." A hardened expression now, jawline tightening. The ex-CIO officer rounded on Spandler. "I fought the terrorists in Bechuaneland as well. They were my enemy. And regardless of the rubbish we're being served in the tabloids with our morning tea, I do have powerful friends in the Special Branch and the Directorate."

Nods from the Lydenburgers. Under Hendrik Strydom's direction the old Directorate of Military Intelligence had recently been merged with the police Special Branch, although their respective divisions continued to operate on an independent basis. It was rumoured that both retained an extensive informant network in the Bechuane districts, a hangover from earlier days when the Kalumban Security Forces cooperated freely with their northern counterparts.

"I probably get status reports from the front before you people see them. I know how many millions of shillings it's costing your sons daily in bombs, expended ammunition, and artillery shells to kill a single Hita insurgent. I know about military vehicles being fireballed by RPGs, of indiscriminate landmines, and ambush. Over thirty-five years ago I had to live it."

Du Moulin folded his hands, and as he paused his closed mouth resembled nothing less than a neatly healed incision. "Now it's our problem as much as yours. Just as I receive snatches from the bush, you've undoubtedly heard that here the situation is much the same. But Lydenburg has only just begun to fight. Her resources are vastly superior to anything Kalumba has at her disposal. We occupy the position of strength, though only a fool would refuse to accept that prolonging the status quo is inexcusable."

Francois Joubert cleared his throat with audible apprehension; Petrus fell silent once more. "Quite so. As my esteemed colleague has just explained to you in no uncertain terms, your priorities have been noted. Now it's time to listen to ours."

Izaak Engelhart rested his feet wearily on the Regency coffee table. Well, at least now things were getting interesting.

"I will draw your attention to another matter which has received the utmost 'hype' from the local press." Joubert produced several newspaper clippings from his meeting dossier, spreading them on the desktop where the others could view them. "Towards the end of his term, Victor Omeru started spouting nonsense about taking steps to sever the economic ties which both our nations hold dear. Namely, those maintained by the predominantly white expat community here in Lydenburg, and Lydenburger interests embedded in Salisbury. Your government - President Chimpota's government - has promised to safeguard private initiative. Omeru's rhetoric was eroding confidence. Our investors weren't happy; they have yet to regain that confidence. Here is some additional paperwork we received from various firms based in Selukwe, Muzera, and Gwelo regarding most alarming gestures made by the UANC, suggesting moves to force their incorporation into the public sector."

Joubert pointed an accusing finger at Christianson. "Chimpota must agree to give us your word that Lydenburger property will be protected, in the interests of said private initiative. We poured hundreds of millions of burgerpond into your growing industry during UDI. Surely it would be suicidal to try extricating them now. The prime minister - to say nothing for your own expatriates - is genuinely worried. This could cost both sides dearly. Accept that whatever our political differences, Lydenburg will always play a role in cementing Kalumba's future."

Kraalspruit Border Post

Masithembe Jabulisiwu took the laptop in both hands, grunting at its unexpectedly lightweight construction. The black constable swung the machine over and shook it hard.

Perhaps it would rattle the way that bombs in laptops always rattled at hot, dusty, Afrosian border posts.

Jabulisiwu dropped Elaine's toughbook on the bakkie's hood and began turning both smartphones over in his orange, tobacco-stained, fingers.

"Everything in order, constable? Or are there any fees which we've forgotten to pay?"

If Alex Sadowski had been listening, he would have detected a low hum of amusement from the gauntlet of white soldiers as they turned their pit-bull attention towards Masithembe. The reservists were now close enough for both Norvenians to make out the overheated contempt on their broad, deeply tanned, faces. Well muscled, hair cropped short enough for mohawks. Light armoured reconnaissance by their markings, at least two combat lifers by their ribbons.

"Only staying for one night? Baardwyk can be very nice place for lonely white man and woman." Jabulisiwu stared at the Anders Farm address. "Not far from Marlowe Place. You want no leprosy, HIV? No roaches. Bed for three, four in there. Very clean girls. There will be boys also." He gave a conspiratorial wink. "From the Macatese reserve. They not speak good the English, but who needs?"

As smug as the linus who'd bagged the antelope, the policeman handed back laptop, phones, and address card. There was no indication that he'd been offered a golden opportunity to collect a few hefty shillings seconds earlier. The white guards were already turning away to watch the next vehicle.

Elaine Michaels had just cleared customs. By the time grey-haired David Bayoli got past all the excited shouting on his extension to the Kalumban side of Kraalspruit and hobbled out to stop them, she and her accomplice would be long gone.

* * *

The tarred roads were narrow and endless, all surrounding savanna country losing focus until it become a yellow blur upon which were painted the occasional village in shades of muddy brown or burned mustard of pitiful thatch. Here, National Route 12 was far more pronounced and maintained than its Kalumban counterparts, having been structured in an orderly fashion west to Gryvlei and north towards Baardwyk and Droomdorp. All the better, after all, for facilitating the rapid deployment of military vehicles.

Marks of war scarred the passing countryside occasionally, a telling reminder of the fortress society Lydenburg had become. Here and there twisted signs warned in sober Afrikaans of landmines, restricting access to LDF vehicles after dark and urging civilian traffic to travel under armed convoy. Fields once sown by peasants for millet were now overrun with painful Mexican sisal and crisscrossed by barbed wire. At a single junction, the blackened wreck of a police Land Rover - all of its axles blown out by a TM57 - rested abandoned in a yawning ditch.

Nearly all the villages were abandoned, the LDF and Landwacht having ordered thousands inland to prevent their subversion by MNP guerrillas. These forced removals had ironically accelerated what Strydom had been desperately trying to stop: mass black emigration to urban centres. Seizure of rural homes and the pressure of living in vulnerable conditions had in fact contributed to the mushrooming shantytown in Baardwyk, where in unbelievable slum conditions close to 200,000 persons lived.

At those communities which remained, Alex and Elaine would find themselves greeted by the smallest children swarming the road, offering fruit, soft drinks in old-fashioned glass bottles, or even pornography for sale. If they were unfortunate enough to be caught with their windows down, long skewers of unrecognisable meat, rancid and burned nearly black, were thrust into the pickup. Worldly wise visitors always declined. The fish had been caught in the Bwaanga River, and it was said they were feeding on corpses. Not nice to eat, bad luck to eat - it was better to fob them off for a valuable penny on some sympathetic Boers.

[Kalumba]

Spandler continued his stare at De Moulin, then spoke "You may think you operate from a position of strength verraaier" this drew a sharp look from his colleagues but he continued. "But you would be wrong. The ADTO has already earmarked eight billion dollars of aid to Kalumba, and is preparing sanctions against Lydenburg. You may think you are well equipped for the forthcoming struggle but so did my forebears. And back then the world was far more tolerant of minority rule than it is today.

And all the while ADTO membership brings money and trade into Kalumba, and as such our strength grows while yours wains. And as you are so well informed you will be fully aware that the Port Wessex facility is under re-development and soon Kalumba will no longer require the oil we import from you. Lydenburg is a setting sun..."

"Please Tristan" cut in Jan Chritianson. "Gentleman we could spend hours arguing about who is in the position of strength, but frankly it does not matter. We both want Kalumban and Lydenburger lives to be safeguarded. Despite the claims of both BAPL and the MNP to be armies who only kill soldiers, their main victims are innocent civilians and civilian deaths are a major political issue. Together we can bring an end to the suffering of our people. I doubt our superiors will end up with the deal they are looking for without making concessions they don't want to make. This is not, however, our argument. We are here to see if a deal is possible, not to make it.

As such the question of who negotiates from the position of strength is irrelevant" he pointedly glanced at Spandler and De Moulin. "What is important is we address each others immediate concerns.

Regarding Lydenburger economic interests in Kalumba, we cannot ensure your interests are protected by law but we can give you the word of the Kalumban Unity Movement that no actions to remove or nationalise Lydenburger buisnesses will be taken. That guarantees you three years of security and with the UANC in chaos after their routing and Omeru's resignation, I am sure we can offer you at least another 4 year term of Chimpota and security. But beyond that we cannot take any action to protect your interests."

Edward Peters turned his eyes from the game and returned to the converstion around him. "The Lassies are looking so strong in the scrum, but I'm not seeing the cutting edge we've shown in the last couple of games." Recognising his naivety in watching the game instead of following the talks he quickly continued "Kalumba is extremely concerned about the restrictions placed by your authorities upon migrant workers, you know full well that seasonal labour is crucial to the large farms on both sides of the border. Making working accross the border more difficult only costs both our nations in tax and export revenues. As much as you want you buisnesses to be secured we want ours secured. We would want guarantees that migrant labourers would be allowed to continue cross border work without these increased restrictions."

[Lydenburg]

Baardwyk Stadium

With so much attention being directed to feet, the carpet, or the view outside the window, Izaak Engelhart grunted. He'd missed most of du Moulin's monologue, having glazed over during the details, but in any case was back on board in time to hear Spandler's retort.

"You may think you operate from a position of strength, verraaier -"

Buys winced. The other Kalumbans glared daggers at their talkative colleague. Du Moulin recoiled as though he'd been struck.

...eight billion dollars of aid to Kalumba, and is preparing sanctions against Lydenburg. You may think you are well equipped for the forthcoming struggle, but so did my forebears. And back then the world was far more tolerant of minority rule than it is today."

Engelhart, clutching his bottle of beer, sighed impatiently in the manner of a commoner whose accurate prediction of disaster had gone unnoticed.

"And all the while ADTO membership brings money and trade into Kalumba, and as such our strength grows while yours wanes. And as you are so well informed, you will be fully aware that the Port Wessex facility is under re-development and soon Kalumba will no longer require the oil we import from you. Lydenburg is a setting sun -"

Port Wessex, hmm? Interesting. Engelhart recalled seeing it somewhere on the briefing he'd been handed by Minister le Roux. Since nobody else appeared to be paying attention to theirs, he fumbled it onto the table and started scanning.

Rather unsurprising that Jan Christianson soon came to the rescue and restored order before du Moulin could continue the sniping. Well, both sides had hurled subtle insults and everybody was still present. That in itself spoke volumes for Lydenburger-Kalumban relations - whatever was going down, they needed each other badly.

"The Lassies are looking so strong in the scrum, but I'm not seeing the cutting edge we've shown in the last couple of games."

Voice of reason's attempt to lighten the mood. It was working; Engelhart smiled as he returned to the game. A Bronkhorst box kick by Eastern Traaksvai fell flat, but true to Christianson's word Lake Albert didn't follow up quite soon enough and the Zebras were soon powering the right wing. There was also a lot of singing, now - fans really showing it. Izaak noted with amusement that even the windows to this luxury box were vibrating.

Aware that Joubert had run out, Buys was white-knuckled, while du Moulin was looking minutely at him, somebody's insignificant little undersecretary in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs rose to take charge and address the room. "Ah, yes. If I might get in a word: I'd thank all here today to remember that our conference isn't officially happening. They were established precisely because no preconditions are involved. Talks about talks. The real deal will be sealed by others tomorrow, later in this week, or sometime during the next. But while it will be another delegate making a final decision, all the groundwork must be laid by what we say here and now. So please, gentlemen - for now let's just focus on getting an agenda hacked out."

He wheeled towards Peters. "I'm afraid that the issue of the migrant workers must be referred to in detail to our er, respective security experts. The problem may be again traced to border instability. I understand that there are illegal combatants from third parties who leave with villagers seeking work elsewhere for guerrilla training. They return with other labourers, toting arms and the knowledge to use them. If such individuals are no longer a serious threat I give you my word that Foreign Affairs for one will do its utmost to see all restrictions lifted."

Francois Joubert, clearly intent on reasserting himself, interrupted.

"Yes, yes, fine. We honestly don't care what kaffir workers do unless they pose an internal risk. But back to our main concerns. I'm afraid that these are troubled times, my friends. It is a sad reflection of the dysfunctional world we live in to-day that a man's word is worth little in diplomacy. You - Christianson - claim that KUM has no incentive or plans to nationalise our businesses. But we didn't come here for vague promises that can be conveniently denied at a later date. We came here for securing your pledge on paper."

His interest elsewhere, Engelhart returned to his beer. Joubert was clearly in full flow, and in no mood to be stopped.

"Investor relations, that's what I'm worried about. UNAC's maneuvering upset confidence. And if you cannot restore that balance of confidence, it's exceedingly bad news for Lydenburg. The Republic needs all the investment she can get. You've noticed the cut last year in strategic minerals across Aurora. It hurt us economically. People started asking too many questions. Now we need more than ever before impressions of an undeniably stable economy in consistent progression or we could see interest in Lydenburg and Afrosia at large declining on the world stage. I want a renewed bilateral trade agreement, like the ones you rather naively believe expired at transition, 1972. Guarantees for at least ten years by which any future Kalumban governments will be bound to observe, no matter if Salisbury gets another Omeru in office, which neither of us can afford."

Documents spilled across the Regency. "Take a look at these if you need proof of how serious we are. Then take a look at us."

What? Buys and du Moulin looked up sharply, realisation dawning in their eyes.

Joubert was the Deputy Minister of Railways. He knew more than most just how much Lydenburg stood to lose if Port Wessex were allowed to function as Kalumba's salvation.

Du Moulin held considerable influence in Temple Group, Afrosia's latest answer to the murky Auroran arms trade.

Buys personally the largest import-export business in Piemburg and undoubtedly did more with regional trade networks than he would care to disclose.

"You think these faces are a coincidence, ja? But we were chosen for a very specific reason to be your hosts: each of us has either everything to lose if things proceed as they may, or possesses the ability to make it very worth your while if Chimpota will entertain our offer. No concessions. Just quid pro quo."

The paperwork on the desktop near Engelhart's feet indicated drafts of various proposals, though most were initialed by Nicolaas le Roux and stamped by Foreign Affairs. If Kalumba was willing to grant written protection to Lydenburger firms and encourage them to further their existing assets, their neighbour's largest enterprises would pour in with subsidiaries. Undisclosed "charitable organisations" for redevelopment of infrastructure on the border, including free clean water supplies and de-mining equipment. Open sale of automotive parts and military hardware at nominal sums. Moreover, Joubert's trump card: a complete privatisation effort aimed at the Salisbury-Swettendam rail link, including joint ownership on several levels, giving Kalumba important say in how her lifeline was managed and forever barring any regime attempts to simply throttle it.

It was now clear what stakes Christianson was looking at. To Strydom, the insurgencies were no more than an irritating sideshow. Here was what he was truly interested in, the cards he'd been playing for all along.

[Kalumba]

Baardwyk Stadium

The Kalumban delegation paused and examined closely all the documents before them. And Jan Christianson began to sweat. These were nearly unbelievable proposals, privatisation of the vital railway link! That meant Kalumba would forever have control of her oil imports, never again could the Lydenburgers threaten to cut off supplies, never again would Kalumba have to kow-tow to these racists.

And the other proposals, increased investment, subsidised military equipment. And, inevitably, an end to Lydenburger support of BAPL and vice versa with regard to the Morata National Party. These were decisions of the highest order and Christianson was cracking under the pressure, he was still a relatively junior member of the Civil Service in spite of over twenty years of service. These were decisions for the highest levels of government not a minor official.

A roar from the crowd in the background brought him back from his thoughts and he focused again on the Lydenburger proposals. They truly were extraordinary, why were they offering up so much? And all for 10 years of guaranteed protection for Lydenburger assests in Kalumba. Perhaps in spite of all of De Moulin's bluster Lydenburg really was feeling the pressure of international sanctions and needed the income in gained from investments in Kalumba more than they were letting on.

Wiping his brow as casually as he could, he decided to stall the Lydenburgers and see what else they would offer or reveal about their true intentions. They were giving up too much for too little for this to be their true intentions. "Gentlemen" he began. "You are as aware as I that Kalumba cannot sign any trade deal with Lydenburg. This would be in violation of international sanctions, and would lead to the possibility of Kalumba being ejected from the ADTO and other aid ceasing. Even if signed in secret, you could reveal them and severly damage the reputation of my nation.

That said these proposals have a great deal of merit in them, and promise a peaceful and secure Southern Afrosia. Despite our permission to negotiate for a deal here, this goes far beyond my remit. This is a decision that will have to be run passed the highest authority, I have no doubt they would be seriously debated. But it is beyond me to agree to sign such a deal."

Spandler now cut in "This is all well and good, but it does not address our main concern. The Bechuane Army of People's Liberation is still recieving arms and training. They are still killing members of the Kalumban Security Forces. That is what we are here to end. Perhaps your economic proposals can follow an end to the violence, or even precede it. But we require a commitment from you Lydenburger to combat BAPL and in return we shall commit to preventing any atrocities carried out by the Morata National Party originating from Kalumban soil.

We are prepared to signed a joint defence agreement, if this would satisfy your government." Both Edwards and Christianson stared at him as he offered such a extraordinary deal. They were both aware the SIDP would be more informed of what Kalumba was prepared to offer, but neither of them had suspected the intelligence services were prepared to go so far. "I assume such a deal would include sharing of intelligence, co-ordinated border operations and in cases sharing of bases and equipment to combat local threats."

[Norvenia]

Southern Lydenburg

"So that was it, huh?" Alex Sadowski shook his head. "That easy."

Elaine Michaels chuckled. The two Norvenians were back in their battered truck, sweating and breathing in the clinging dust through the cracked windows. The tarred road stretched on ahead, straight as a die, off into the shimmering horizon; the land all around was sun-blasted, all yellow and brown, without the slight roll of Norvenian cornfields. And the old fields were twisted with thorns and barbed wire, and dotted with abandoned villages falling slowly apart, stick by stick, their demise witnessed only by the remorseless sun.

There was a long moment of silence. "Cheerful country," Alex muttered. "It's like a grave."

"That's because this is a once and future war zone," Elaine replied grimly. She nodded at the blackened wreck of a Land Cruiser painted in the colors of the Lydenburger national police. "An anti-tank mine took that out. See how the undercarriage is completely shredded?"

Alex felt a sick tightening in his gut. "Do you think there are any more of those mines around?"

Elaine snorted gently. "Of course," she replied briefly.

Alex considered that a little longer, and then sank back into the burning fake-leather of his seat.

After a few hours, the pickup rolled into a village. Elaine cranked hard on her window control, sealing the pickup's cab. Alex immediately felt himself begin to sweat even more; without the suffocatingly dusty breeze, the truck turned into a pure oven. The journalist opened his mouth to protest, but Elaine shot him a grim look. "Trust me."

Soon enough, children came swarming out to surround the truck, which barely slowed down. Alex saw one little boy wave a grapefruit, while another, sprinting along as his skinny legs could carry him, brandished a long-necked glass bottle of cola. And then there was one -

"Is that a lad mag?" Alex cried, recoiling from the window.

Elaine didn't take her eyes off the road, trying to keep the truck from running down any children while not meaningfully slowing. "Would not be surprised," she grunted back. A skewer of some blackened beat beat against her closed window. "Don't take any of the food," the agent advised.

"I have been to Afrosia before, you know," Alex snapped unhappily. "I do know something."

"The fish eat corpses," Elaine announced simply.

Alex felt his stomach, not for the first time that day, do a slow flip-flop. "Ah," he murmured.

"A-yup."

A few more minutes, and they were out of the village, and the next three settlements that the car drove through were completely abandoned. Elaine grunted quietly under her breath. "Huh." She nodded at a particularly large hut. "There were still people here three years ago."

"They were deported," Alex said suddenly. "Military and paramilitary have been clearing this area for years, to try to starve out the MNP. Drive away their popular support, force them to operate in a wasteland."

Elaine raised her eyebrows. "You know your stuff."

The journalist grinned. "You know the irony, though? It's all backfiring. All it means is that pretty soon they're going to have the MNP operating in strength in urban areas, in the slums. Because all of these deportees end up in Baardwyk, with a serious axe to grind against the regime. Presto: urban insurgency."

Elaine's mouth twisted bitterly, and she opened her mouth to say something, but apparently then thought better of it. "Well," she murmured. "Let's go to Baardwyk, then, and see if anyone has some stories to tell us about where we can find the MNP. It's better than driving around the countryside waiting for the guerrillas to try to kill us."

Alex nodded. "That makes sense to me." He glanced out at the road. I wonder if a land-mine is - right - there? Somehow, the thought didn't seem to provoke the same squirming fear as it had before. The journalist glanced over at Elaine. "Wake me when we get to Baardwyk, all right?"

The blonde woman nodded. "A-yup," she drawled slowly. And Alex closed his eyes, and felt his head drop slowly against the burning glass of the window as he fell softly to sleep.

[Lydenburg]

Sekhukhuneland Reserves, Southern Traksvaai

"What's your hurry?"

Corporal Jannie Zietsman took a long drag on his cigarette, inhaling deeply.

"It's not my hurry," insisted the flustered blue-jacketed constable who looked so laughably out of place among the sober khakis and spotted camouflage of his colleagues gawking at something in the tall grass nearby. "The colonel wants to see it."

"See what?"

"The stiffs, damn you. This is a police matter now. I'll thank your men kindly to leave."

Thank? The bastard. Zietsman poked the smaller man in the chest with a single stubby paw. "It is a police matter when I say it's a police matter, fuzz."

"Excuse me!"

This in a tone that did not warrant argument. The two police reservists standing next to Zietsman hastily wheeled around and tossed off awkward salutes that were nearly grounds for insubordination as a yellow Range Rover with LNP markings pulled up, braking hard in a cloud of dust. Eyes already drinking the situation with a critical air, a wiry officer in the uniform of the district police eased open the passenger door and swung two booted feet into the sand.

Zietsman nearly snorted. This wasn't a parade ground, but Colonel Roelof Wochlert returned his characteristically blade-sharp salute as though it were.

Constable Duerkop stiffened to attention. "Kolonel Wochlert. Goemore -"

"Take me."

"Yes, sir. Corporal!"

Zietsman gave a heavy sigh, turned, and trudged towards the onlookers - veldskoens crunching on the packed dirt. Sand and dust boiled towards the sun in dense clouds while ancient Alouette helicopters circled overhead, searching for spoor. The corporal doubted they'd find any. Based on the bodies he'd recovered so far they'd been looking at a raiding party, no more than four MNP, one carrying the landmine and another carrying the light machine gun.

The late morning stank of fresh, sweet, blood.

"You want to see what we found."

"And why do you think I came, corporal?" Wochlert's voice was acid contempt.

"You were informed -"

"I was informed that it wouldn't do any good. No visual identification is possible. Word spreads quickly in this country. The kaffirs on the last hut were screaming about the bush boys being witched by a fiti. I don't believe in sorcery, corporal. What I need is one good report for transfer out of this Godforsaken wilderness. This little tidbit will do nicely."

He followed the young soldier past the idle reservists, down a short path, where a slender, dark-haired, troopie was overseeing two black men whose shirts were stenciled with police medical markings. Everybody could see the crimson now, spattered and streaked over the grass, so much red that it didn't seem real.

The next thing Wochlert heard was the sound of Duerkop retching violently. He pushed past Zietman, hurried ahead, and found the constable staring at a man-shaped lump, half hidden beneath the shrubbery. "Sir, look at that...." His voice was hoarse.

Wochlert looked down, shuddering involuntarily. Christ, don't let me get sick!

"Let me put it this way," Zeitman called. "My stick leader took one look and screamed."

* * *

Although the body had been moved, a horde of blue flies still feasted on the pooled, now coagulated, blood which marked Goodwill Malakia's untimely demise.

Afrosians had refused to go anywhere near the corpses. More white personnel - including a doctor from Wochlert's HQ - had to be choppered in to do the dirty work, which no man could have relished. The police colonel watched in silence as one of the soldiers lifted a leg and, straining with effort, forced it into the zippered rubber bag.

Wochlert extended the still-shaking doctor a Madison, which he accepted gratefully. Several minutes passed before either spoke.

"Well?"

"Fantastic."

"Special Branch will want fingerprints and face for their records."

"Surely you....that man didn't even have a face left!"

"I know."

"We can't lift ID from any other identifying marks because the carnage is too complete. That thing may as well not have been a living human being. Speaking of which, could you smell it?"

"What?"

"I've seen the end of the road for a guerrilla before, Lieutenant. This stench is ghastly. Like rotten meat and old grease and burned hair." Roelof let that sink in, willing away his nausea.

"It's possible. He was carrying two belts of ammunition, by the looks of it. Bandolier for one of the .303 SAM-12s we recovered. Rounds seem to have ignited and started cooking off, which is possible given exceptional heat. But that isn't the strangest part...."

"Cause of death?"

"I'd guess at this point, shock and blunt trauma."

"Blunt trauma. Are you suggesting that somebody beat him to death?"

The doctor backed away, hurling his cigarette into the bush with sudden frustration. "Hell, man - you saw him as well as I did! He looks compacted, crushed. Same for the other two."

"I saw. Smashed and torn and flayed -"

"More than that," he insisted. "Crushed."

"What?"

"I saw over a hundred overlapping contusions, each crisscrossed from a different angle. The bones have been visibly splintered much too much. There isn't a sjambok, a rifle butt, or a knobkerrie in the world capable of dealing such damage from impact alone. Impact doesn't crush except under tremendous pressure, like one would find near the bottom of an ocean or in an auto accident involving tremendous speeds."

"So you're telling me that this silvery was beaten to death by thin air?"

"Looks that way."

"It makes no sense. And I'm the one who has to spend the rest of his week filing lengthy reports."

"Whatever it was, he knew it was coming. Even without the blood, I can follow his tracks easily enough."

Careful to stay on either side of the zigzag, haphazard, path torn by Gideon during his flight through the vegetation, the two men slowly made their way towards the little clearing where the first corpse was found.

"Charlie Tango stood here, facing his friend, then turned and lit. Look at the impression of his toes. Something put the fear of God into him. It became a mad plunge as he stumbled down the slight incline. The zigzags tell us that he had no idea where he was going, so reason was no longer with him. You're looking at the last sixty seconds of a man driven only by stark terror."

Wochlert squeezed his eyes shut. He began to see.

"The gook fell here, plunged into the sand where we see the first blood."

"Where he was struck?"

"No. The blood seems to be where his forehead made contact with the ground. But then, whatever it was caught up with him. He was crawling. We suddenly see a lot of blood here and here and here..."

"Until finally -"

"The inevitable end." A vague gesture in the direction of Malakia's lifeless cadaver.

"Colonel?"

It was one of the reservists, snapping smartly to attention. "Special Branch is here now."

"Good morning, Colonel Wochlert." The grey suit didn't even wait for a lengthy introduction. A type not seen very often in the ops areas - slight built, meticulously groomed, a clean shave. "We represent the State." He flashed a wallet - ID and National Coat of Arms.

"You are Special Branch?"

Suit blithely ignored the question. "We are now taking possession of the bodies recovered here this morning. Your assistance is appreciated but no longer needed. My men will see to it from here. How many?"

The doctor from HQ spoke up. "Three, sir. The squaddies seem to think there may have been a fourth."

"Very well. Find him and do what you people do best: kill him."

Wochlert was appalled. "This is my investigation. You have no right -"

"We have an order from the Director himself. A copy will be on your desk by noon."

"Assuming there was another man, he may be able to tell us what in the name of heaven happened here -"

"My orders are quite clear...Colonel." The Special Branch inspector's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "If you can't handle this, you will be relieved of your command and excepted with somebody who can. We want no prisoners."

[Lydenburg]

Baardwyk

Baardwyk's central district was still under construction, and with the ever-expanding mass of humanity on its doorstep, probably would ever be - so it was a common sight to see deserted lots littered with weeds and unused construction debris between shiny pink office buildings and even more of the same still cloaked by green scaffolding. Every white-owned establishment had a wall around it, which most foreigners immediately comprehended when they witnessed the chaos outside: prefabricated aluminum shacks and impromptu nailed-together open-air stalls swarming with black vendors hawking everything from basketball sneaks to pirated DVDs. At the central district's only overpass, minibuses filled with migrant workers on their hot, dusty, commutes hurtled beneath the bridges oblivious to the churning crowds of Afrosians milling in the streets - township women shopping for bargains, gangster types in their neon T-shirts and aviator sunglasses, labourers with their distinctive yellow hard hats or menial office workers on their meagre lunch breaks. Everybody parted and formed a narrow lane for these sixteen-passenger vans, the occasional metred taxi, and the horrific two seat rattletrap driven by a certain NIS agent and her sleepy companion. Traditional native music butchered by youthful wannabes blared from the rooftops. The air was tinted blue with diesel fumes and choked by the lingering scent of raw sewage. Nobody observed stoplights, pedestrians wandered freely, and traffic signs, mostly in 'meaningless' Afrikaans, were regarded as suggestions to be ignored.

By the time they had reached the town's modest little centre, Elaine and Alex would have likely had to decline pots, pans, purses, clothing, homemade beer, dagga, ecstasy, and cocaine. Every open space was used by vendors selling everything to everybody, as living quarters, or as a latrine. One of many areas in Lydenburg where social services or government protection was unheard of, so locals just made do. The central district was women walking down the street toting baskets on their heads while their children peddled illegal petrol to passing motorists in empty water bottles. Aside from those who managed the few legitimate establishments white Lydenburgers obviously kept to themselves in the northern districts. Very exclusive and expensive, also where Baardwyk's steelworks and stadium were located.

Entering into a glitzy suburb in the north from Baardwyk Central was like fording the gap between First to Third Worlds; these were subsidised showcases of just how good things could really be in an Afrosian city. After the riot of the streets prior the unnatural stillness was profound. New houses, new money. Grounds landscaped to within an inch of their life. Fast food, shopping centres, relatively safe sidewalks, the abrupt, overbearing, presence of armed policemen on every corner, and the total absence of poverty made vain promises to the few blacks allowed inside such well-ordered neighbourhoods. Perhaps the servants and garden boys who swept the streets, kept unnaturally Parisian lawns manicured and cleaned swimming pools entertained unfounded hopes that if they pleased their big boss enough they would be allowed to share in this affluence. Discounting support staff, nonwhites didn't exist unless one went looking for them. Or they went looking for you.

At an entirely different end of the rainbow, the notorious black townships teetering on Baardwyk's outskirts rose hideously from southwestern savanna country like an open wound. Nonwhites who worked in the settlement proper still retired every evening to their homes there: technically outside urban limits, but within reasonable commuting distance. Residents had to carry the hated registration certificates and be back inside the designated slums by dark. If they lost their job, they lost their certificate and were evicted by police raids. The influx of homeless refugees streaming from the border had added a housing shortage to the problem: entire families of six or seven now slept in single-room shacks cobbled together from the refuse of white society - glass and lumber recycled like gold. Less fortunate slept in makeshift shelters fashioned from blue sheet plastic to keep out inclement weather, or in cars, while local notables claimed rusting shipping containers. Rural Traaksvai society had been grafted all too swiftly into urban life; gangrene inevitably set in. Murder and sexual assault rates spiraled upwards. Inexperienced peasants were now growing maize at bus stops to stave off starvation while their offspring were assimilated by the roving gangs which controlled the streets. Venereal diseases became unbelievably common. Putting such an enormous concentration of any people in extremely squalid conditions was an endemic recipe for bubonic plague, malaria, typhoid, and tuberculosis on a catastrophic scale.

That the townships already posed an alarming public health threat to the surrounding area was of little interest to municipal authorities. As far as they were concerned, they could still write checks, so there was no problem.

If Elaine Michaels had visited Baardwyk more than three years before, she would hardly recognise its swollen carcass now. Unless they stayed in the white areas two foreigners weren't likely to last long.

Mpangalala

Emmanuel Sikhakhane did not hear the familiar call of Mpangalala anymore - the eternal braying of township strays, the rowdy shouting of groups going to the shebeen, the sputter of a dying motor in a backyard garage, the beat of a bass stereo somewhere too far off. He removed his spectacles and let his worn, lined, features slide slowly into both hands.

"Teacher, is there something wrong?"

Sikhakhane opened his eyes and blinked twice, hard. "Ntokozo, what are you still doing here?"

She peered at him, the smile never leaving her face, as that round head tilted slightly.

"Have you been crying again?"

"No, no. I just have much work to finish before tomorrow."

A true Mpangalala oddity, Emmanuel Sikhakhane had never married. Unlike the few acquaintances he continued to maintain the schoolteacher didn't seek security in a woman or children. His classroom was his only family now. The students could always sense it, he knew, and some of them always understood when he needed them most.

"Really?"

"Mother and father will be worried, hey? Don't worry about me, little sister. I will be fine."

A mischievous pout. Ntokozo's nose wrinkled and her lips turned up slightly. Emmanuel chuckled; he always believed she would make a beautiful young woman someday.

"Go on, now."

"Yes, teacher."

Sikhakhane made it a point of gathering his books as he watched Ntokozo hurry off down the narrow dirt path towards home. Some of the other pupils had stayed to kick their football in the schoolyard or play on the seesaw, and for a moment he merely stood there - listening to the laughter.

This is what I live for.

Every morning, Sikhakhane arrived at the township's only school, his heart waiting to be stirred by over fifty small faces with their great wide eyes gazing up at him. Nobody in this rubbish heap had much, but they all wanted their sons and daughters to be something. It was an aspiration Emmanuel could understand, one he sympathised with, and one which he devoted all his tireless energies to furthering. Never mind that there were never enough desks, that the boys had to kneel on the peeling linoleum or fight for space on the filthy walls. Never mind that there were no books and no pencils. Never mind that most knew that this was the only education economic necessity would allow.

Rage suddenly erupted in Sikhakhane's heart as he scrubbed his blackboard clean. Ntokozo wanted far more than he could ever give her in this sodden excuse for a school. He didn't have any materials beyond his own knowledge, a few precious slates, this board, and a journal for notes to teach them the most basic reading, writing, or arithmetic. Appeals to local government went unanswered. It was a profoundly sad situation.

Vandals had already come and gone once, breaking the windows. And there were thugs in police employ that occasionally threatened to torch his school. All for what? Because a "bloody kaffir" wasn't allowed to get any licence to teach? Because there were no teacher training centres and fewer resources for establishing them? Because baaskap rested on keeping black Lydenburgers unskilled and out of a race-oriented job market? He knew he wouldn't be long before the police themselves showed on his doorstep. And then it was over. Handcuffs, a stick to the head, interrogation, imprisonment - the road ahead would hold nothing good.

But each morning at precisely 7:15 AM he collected his briefcase and walked to school, stood behind his desk, and his pupils watched him with expressions of such aching anticipation Emmanuel knew he could not say no. If a system of injustice threatened his world, it was his duty to resist.

Which was why the starred red and black banner of the Morota National Party flew over the cardboard tumbledown he called home and why the same icon went to school pinned to his breast. Even the neighbourhood toughs were awestruck when they saw it. Displaying this taboo openly made him a human target if he was ever spotted by the security forces.

"Why do you wear the sign?" someone had asked him once. "Do you realise they may take your life?"

"Mpangalala."

Indeed. A name synonymous with corruption. Apathy. Greed. Hate.

Sikhakhane remembered Ntokozo.

And hope for the future.

The Stadium

"...I assume such a deal would include sharing of intelligence, co-ordinated border operations and in cases sharing of bases and equipment to combat local threats."

Aware that the others were doing the same Izaak Engelhart was watching Spandler carefully, searching for any cracks in the dam. This was such a marked departure from the Kalumbans' earlier line of speech that it was natural to be guarded. But either the man was sincere as sincere could get, or he had a bloody good poker face.

Engelhart's money was on the poker face.

Joubert merely squared his shoulders. "We're at a bit of a stalemate then, it seems. None of us here -" His gaze swept over du Moulin and Buys, "- are qualified to approve a bilateral defence agreement. However, we do have direct authorisation from Foreign Affairs to make proposals so I will give this my best. Pete?"

Du Moulin cleared his throat and pretended to study the dossier in his shaking hands. It was evident that he'd never intended on making it this far.

"We cannot commit to fighting the BAPL. What the Lydenburg Defence Force can do is commit to extraditing suspects during border violations. Which means if any illegal combatants are sighted crossing into Lydenburg, we'll be in radio contact to ensure they are apprehended and sent right back. It would be damaging to..." Searching for the right word and finding none, du Moulin continued: "...the uh, prestige of both nations if we begin working in open concert with the Kalumban Security Forces. I'm certain your government is inclined to agree. But that doesn't mean we can't pursue integration in some unofficial capacity."

Aware that the other man was deliberately picking and choosing words, Engelhart consulted his own folder carefully. "It seems we had the same idea. Intelligence sharing is workable. As for equipment -"

"We're willing to give you everything you need to fight the BAPL," Buys said.

Eyes turned uneasily. It was the first contribution the other Lydenburgers had heard Buys make, and that alone was making them nervous. Du Moulin was clearly flustered. "Meneer Buys, please."

"It works like this," Buys went on, unwavering: "Kalumba's inability to deal a decisive blow to her insurgency after several decades has generated the impression of a weakened state susceptible to military pressure. In turn, you know that most of your hardware is outdated. To make up for that, Salisbury has been forced to bring her troops to higher and higher states of alert. Small countries with this peculiar complex must make sure all operational equipment is ready for active deployment, making up for their numerical or technological disadvantage. By now Chimpota must know that perceived weakness, not foreign strength, is aggravating this state. Your officer corps has already seen what the Norvenian War College for one thinks of them. So Lydenburg is in a position to build confidence in Kalumba. It is Foreign Minister le Roux's belief that the more certain a country is of her own army, the more likely she is to pull her forces back from the border and reduce alerts."

Engelhart listened, intrigued. His respect for Buys climbed a notch when he recalled that none of this had been relayed to them in the briefing.

"We can negotiate a contract to supply and modernise any Kalumban military equipment either shared with the LDF or of Lydenburger origin. As you must realise, most of this hardware is very old and predates majority rule. But if it's in any recognisable condition, Meneer du Moulin over there is perfectly capable of fixing it and guaranteeing an endless supply of necessary parts. Armoured cars. Helicopters. Radar. This is how we help defeat the BAPL. Joubert?"

"It was also put to us very clearly -" Joubert stared at Christianson as he spread his arms, " - that any bilateral defence agreement must be preceded by a bilateral trade agreement. If all you're doing is guaranteeing the safety of our investments, Kalumba is not breaking sanctions in any way that can be proven. Whether we use the agreement to circumvent sanctions outside its legal coverage is solely our decision, and thus our problem. If you're concerned about us revealing these economic terms to the world, keep in mind that your people could do equal damage to our standing with the Skorzenian bloc by revealing any joint security niceties. Everybody would have each other over a barrel, so there's no chance of treachery."

Engelhart sat forward, his face suddenly older than his years. "Excuse me, but there is something my colleagues have neglected to mention. We've all discussed the advantages of accepting our proposal. We've all discussed how any concessions with regards to security or defence must be tied in with economics. But I'm afraid that the Minister also insisted we discuss the disadvantages of refusing this offer as well."

His face smug, du Moulin eyed each of the Kalumbans with a chilling rictus. "I have no problem compromising or negotiating our proposal. But you may wish to inform Chimpota that if it is rejected out of hand, he should be very careful where he treads in the future."

"Keep an eye on Port Wessex," Buys suggested. "Make the necessary liquidations and lay off as many rail workers as you can."

The smirk wasn't gone from du Moulin's face. "You don't have to like us. But we can either be pragmatists, or we can be enemies."

[Norvenia]

Anders Farm Bed and Breakfast
North Baardwyk

Elaine Michaels parked the old Cookish truck in front of a big old whitewashed house that sat well back from the quiet suburban road, up on a slight hill behind a vast lawn landscaped to look like an old-fashioned farmyard. Anders Farm, a nearby sign proclaimed in unbearably cute rustic green letters. Elaine snorted softly and shoved Alex. "We're here," she announced.

"I know," Alex Sadowski murmured. He turned back to Elaine. "This place is insane," the journalist said numbly. "Worse than Songhia. The level of disparity is just -"

"-unbelievable," Elaine agreed, a bit impatiently. "Yes." She raised a pale-gold eyebrow. "So you were awake after all."

"Too hot to sleep," Alex replied briefly. He pinched the bridge of his nose momentarily. "This whole city is on the verge of a meltdown." Elaine was already getting out of the truck, and Alex followed. "Was it this bad when you were last here?"

Abruptly, Elaine rounded on her companion. "First," she hissed under her breath, "I was never last here, because Lydenburg didn't let in journalists until a week ago, and that is what we are, you and I: journalists, here for the goddamn rugby game. We are in public, Mr. Peters. Try to remember that." Elaine paused, took a deep breath. "And second," she continued, "no. It was bad, but nowhere near this bad. Last time I stayed here, you could at least see the edge of the city from this hill. Now the townships just go on forever." The tall woman shook her head. "And that's a very bad sign."

"Wait a minute," Alex remarked suddenly, hurrying after Elaine toward the entrance to the farmhouse, "the last time you stayed here?" His voice was so low as to be barely audible. "Anders Farm?"

Elaine smiled briefly. "That's right," she agreed, equally quietly. "The owner is a friend of mine."

* * *

Paul Anders, as it happened, was both more and less than a friend. When Alex Sadowski met him, Anders was in his sixties. He had worked in business and been very successful, and so he had retired in his early fifties to run a bed and breakfast with his wife, Famke. Famke fell ill not long thereafter; Lydenburger doctors struggled to diagnose her, but it was clearly some kind of cancer, and she was obviously dying. In the course of this ordeal, Mr. Anders was quietly contacted by a local NIS asset: a government mailman who took regular low-value checks from a bank manager in Baardwyk, who took slightly higher-value wire transfers from a shell company in Zanborian, which was run by the Cave. The NIS promised that they could get Paul's wife out of the country to a top-quality Norvenian hospital, and then back in, without anyone ever knowing that she had been gone.

Anders took the bargain, and it went off seamlessly; Famke checked out of the hospital, and was smuggled out of the country by sea and flown to Edwardstown. The doctors managed to diagnose her condition as malignant mesothelioma, operated, and shipped the woman back home again - all in less than a week. Anders told everyone that his wife was bedridden, and unable to receive visitors. Shortly thereafter, though - after Paul Anders did some hard praying, he always said - Famke's condition began to miraculously improve. The doctors were puzzled, but in public Famke chalked up her recovery to divine intervention, and refused to have this miracle subjected to medical analysis. Within a few years, everyone forgot all about it. It was just another retired couple, after all, no one important. Just one of those things.

But Paul Anders found that the return of his wife had a whole lot of strings attached. After all, the NIS could at any time reveal exactly how Famke's miraculous recovery had in fact been managed - they had photos of the whole process. And then Anders would find himself in a great deal of trouble indeed. So every now and again, when random people or packages showed up at his door, he didn't ask questions and didn't think too hard. He just let it all slide, and did whatever he could to help.

Sitting on one of the twin beds in the Norvenians' clean, homey room, Alex Sadowski shook his head. "That's unbelievable," he said flatly. "The poor guy."

Elaine shrugged lightly. "The Cave giveth," she mused, "and the Cave taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Director."

Alex ran a hand through his hair. "Jesus," he muttered. "Remind me never to get on your bad side."

The agent didn't respond. Instead, she opened up the room's closet, rummaged around inside, and eventually came out with a large brown cardboard package, wrapped about in packing tape and marked with domestic Lydenburger stamps. "Paul handles packages too, remember?" Elaine remarked, as she pulled a small knife from her vest and cut the package open.

"What is that?" Alex asked, in a tone of voice that suggested he already knew the answer.

"You came here to get the real story, right?" Elaine said grimly. "The plight of the oppressed, the cruelty of the oppressor, the courage of the downtrodden, the sacrifice of the resister. The beating heart of Norvenian ideals shedding its blood into the dusty soil of a far-off land. Good stuff."

"Yes," Alex replied guardedly. Beating heart of Norvenian ideals shedding blood into dusty soil of far-off land? That's actually pretty good. The journalist made a mental note of the phrase.

"Well," Elaine concluded, "that story is not to be found in this particular neighborhood. You want to see true suffering? You want to meet the MNP? Then we need to head to the townships."

"And that's why - " Alex nodded at the package.

"Yep." Elaine stepped back, staring in satisfaction at the gleam of gunmetal that shone within the brown packing materials. "Good old Paul," she announced to no one in particular. "Guess you aren't going to get burned today after all, old man."

* * *

Mpangalala Township
Outskirts of Baardwyk

Alex Sadowski was faintly awestruck and alarmed by just how many weapons, when you disassembled them into their component parts, could be crammed into a not-particularly-large mail package. When they were reassembled, Elaine had a boxy black handgun in a shoulder holster - which she identified as a Sig Sauer P229 - and an odd-looking revolver called a Taurus Judge in a pocket of her vest. More dramatically still, she had a full-size submachine gun which she tucked, stock folded, into a backpack. "UMP45," she announced, as if that meant anything to Alex.

"Do you really think we'll need all of this?" the journalist had asked.

"Better to have and not need," Elaine had replied. "Serial numbers are filed off, ammunition is locally made. It won't trace back."

Having the weapons traced was not foremost among Alex Sadowski's concerns, but he did not mention this. "Um, okay," he had said. Elaine had given a small smile, flung the backpack over one shoulder, and headed back out to the truck.

Alex followed. "Uh, Elaine?" he called. "You've forgotten something."

The tall woman turned. "Yeah?" Her eyes were hidden in shadow beneath the brim of her cap.

Alex had tossed her a camera. "We're chasing a story," he reminded her.

Elaine deftly caught the camera, a grudging smile playing on her lips. "Right." She hung the device around her neck. "Now let's go."

From that moment, it had taken less than an hour to reach Mpangalala. Intellectually, Alex understood that; it was all the same city, after all. But in his gut, he couldn't help but feel that it should take longer than an hour to descend into the uttermost pit of human misery. I guess it's just not as far down as I thought.

Most of that time had been spent driving through the endless maze of the townships. Elaine, at the wheel, had kept the windows of the truck rolled firmly all the way up, and by fifteen minutes in, she had been muttering furiously to herself, sweat beading her face, hands clenching and unclenching on the wheel. She had a map open on the dashboard, and kept looking at it, then back at the dirt roads that wound at random between the single-room shacks build from garbage and rusting vehicles picked clean for parts. Alex could periodically hear her say things like: "None of this should be here" and "That road doesn't exist, it just doesn't exist."

The journalist wasn't surprised. A few years ago, by the look of things, all of this would have been open land. The roads that the Norvenians were driving on were just those few open spaces that had not yet been taken over by the wretched mass of humanity. They wouldn't appear on any map. None of this would. It was all some netherworld, a shadow city from nightmares, a place that was so thoroughly ignored that its very existence seemed doubtful until you were personally in it, surrounded by its squalor, met by its hateful gaze, transfixed by its undeniable reality.

Elaine had said that they were going to a place called Mpangalala, because it was supposedly an MNP stronghold; Paul Anders had heard a few government types quietly discussing the township at his club a few weeks ago. What Elaine had not said, but what was becoming increasingly clear, was that she had only the vaguest of ideas about how to get there. Twice the agent had looked at a compass, and then at her map, and had abruptly decided that the two Norvenians had taken a wrong turn somewhere. Once when this had happened, Alex had looked up out his window to see a man reaching for a battered rifle in one of the shacks. Elaine's jaw hardened, she flung the truck into reverse, and accelerated back up the street, sending stray dogs and small children leaping out of the way.

Which was why Alex Sadowski was quite surprised when he felt the truck come to an abrupt stop at yet another of the interminable stretches of dirt road and cobbled-together shacks. "We're here," Elaine said briefly.

Alex glanced around. He had been taking pictures all through the ride: a starved-looking child with a deflated soccer ball, a mangy dog digging through a mountain of garbage, teenagers with sullen expressions and decrepit weapons. He looked up, now, from his viewfinder. "How do you know?"

Elaine nodded at a shack, built mostly from cardboard, set a little back from the road. A dowel rod protruded from its roof. And from that dowel rod fluttered a black and red starry banner. Alex's jaw dropped a little when he saw it. "My God," he managed. "That's - "

"The Morota National Party," Elaine agreed grimly. She parked the car and took a deep breath. "You still want your story, Mr. Peters?"

Alex's mouth worked silently for a few moments, and then he nodded. "Yeah."

"Then stick close," Elaine instructed. She unzipped the backpack just enough to be able to withdraw the UMP, and then slung it over one shoulder. "And let's go meet that story."

The agent opened the truck door, and got out. Alex followed, camera in his hands, staring around the street. He felt his stomach clench. If we die here, no one will ever know. Behind him, he heard Elaine slap a heavy-duty padlock onto both of the truck doors; one of her hands was already in her vest pocket. She nodded at the hut. "Let's go."

The two Norvenians walked up to the door of the shack. Alex glanced at Elaine, who stepped aside. The journalist nodded, swallowed hard, and rapped lightly on the door. "Er, excuse me, sir." I assume it's a sir. How would I know? "My name is Alex Peters; I'm a foreign reporter. I'm not here from the government. Could I talk to you?"

[Lydenburg]

Mpangalala

Careful to skirt each mammoth pothole in the narrow dirt alleys, Emmanuel Sikhakhane walked home to certain rest - eyelids drooping with exhaustion as he absorbed the filth and decay around him. Every day, it was getting more taxing to cover this distance on foot, even if it was a route he'd trodden over a thousand times.

In keeping with the rest of the townships Mpangalala had no order or sense of coherence. Occasionally Sikhakhane found himself having to detour baffling mounds of broken machine, heaped rattan bags, empty bottles, and auto parts which hadn't existed the morning prior. The utter lack of running water or a coherent road plan meant raw sewage oozed out under his shoes with every step. Then there were the Mpangalala motorists, who drove like madmen. Most township residents were desperately poor, but there were a few with jobs that did not pay too badly who preferred the low cost of living here. Not to mention pimps who either claimed this particular district or used it as a hideout. And although everybody lived in shacks, all of the above dressed reasonably enough and owned cars.

Sikhakhane had never dreamed of owning an automobile himself. As age caught up with him, he'd learned to appreciate the long hikes to school. One could see and hear so much more than from riding a bus. There was the shoeshine man with whom he'd stop and chat for no apparent reason, while they'd sit there and good-naturedly mock passerby in Pedi. There was the mechanic with the Sony FM, too - and Emmanuel liked to visit with him just to hear Radio Lydenburg in English.

"This is the English-language service for the Lydenburg Broadcasting Corporation," that unspeakably dull monotone would begin following the latest preposterous soda advertisement, "The time is one o'clock."

"These is harr Engelish-langwage ser-veece for die Lydenburg brought-carsting co-ooperation," the mechanic echoed, laughing. "De tahm es one o'clock."

Once in a blue moon they would get the announcer's precise, textbook-perfect, English just right: flat Afrikaans aftertaste to boot. Boers here spoke English most like white Kalumbans, only their voices were pitched lower, and through one's chest rather than the nose.

Sikhakhane's street was like many others: a ragged row of board and corrugated tin huts dotted with rusting vehicles, serviceable or otherwise, and Mpangalala's omnipresent chickens which fled squawking from an unfamiliar advance. Teenagers weren't lounging on the corner as usual, and unease crept over the schoolteacher when he approached. He'd glimpsed the bakkie in front of his house. Not a minibus or a sedan - a faded pickup looking more at home in Baardwyk's walled and burglar-protected white farms than what Afrosia passed for hell.

Then he spotted the usual boys approaching, fast. Whoever owned the truck must not have comprehended how hopelessly out of place it was there.

Emmanuel had never properly adjusted to the brutal realities of township life. He'd been fortunate in mostly skirting the daily robberies, casual murder, and desultory rapes. But nobody who lived in Mpangalala ever avoided the gangs entirely. Few had not been mugged. Rapes were as common as romance. Missing persons went unreported. In a slum where over half the population was unemployed, the disaffected quickly became the violent.

* * *

Even before the first rock struck the windshield of the Norvenians' bakkie, Marcus Thokwane could hear the child's revertebrating cry:

"Amaboere! Amaboere!"

It came from another street, further away, in another quarter. Thokwane had been reclining on the concrete steps of his shack, idly thumping dice to his dirty Walkman's strain of township funk. Nothing important.

But if what the boy was saying was really true, this couldn't wait. Thokwane studied the others.

"Amaboere? Is that...?"

The cry was closer now: "Maboereies!"

Serobi Dantile grinned, baring his crudely filed teeth.

"It sounds like they've got one."

The other boys were already getting hyped. One of them had his kapmesse out, a Lydenburg township's take on the ever-useful panga. Serobi had one in the shack, a curved metre-long blade sharpened on concrete until he could shave with it. He'd already hurried off.

Thokwane was on his feet, listening. Amaboere. The whites. Policemen? No, if the police were coming through again they would be driving noisy armoured trucks and shooting everything in sight.

Four whistles, both shrill.

One man and a woman.

Serobi's tongue flashed pink over his fearsome homemade schimitar. "Well boss, let's go get them."

From the closed door where Alex Sadowski stood, feet on stoep, the five young studs probably looked harmless. Silver jewelry, dark jeans. There were no visible weapons out, yet.

That would come later.

"Hey, Senwamadi."

The first warning. Senwamadi was Pedi for bloodsucker, specifically white ones. It told Elaine and Alex that these people didn't like them at all.

"Gifts, hey? Gifts to us."

It was black Lydenburg. Of course everybody wanted gifts.

Thokwane passed the others a gloating expression. Now for the kill. An excuse, any excuse.

It didn't matter if these lekgowa came up with anything. They would shred the man first, gut him like a fish and then Thokwane would ram his bicycle spoke into the spine, prolonging the agony...

[Norvenia]

Mpangalala

Alex Sadowski knocked on the door again. "Sir? Sir, I'm a foreign journalist, I swear to God. I just want to talk, I just - "

"Alex." Elaine Michaels laid a hand gently on the young man's arm. "Alex, we've got a problem."

Alex turned around to find the street empty. Even the children who had been hollering "Amaboere, amaboere" were gone. There was one old man still standing, half-hidden, near the street corner, with a cryptic expression on his face. But clearly, Elaine wasn't paying any attention at all to that gentlemen. Her gaze was resting steadily on the five young men in silver jewelry and dark jeans who had fanned out loosely across the street; the agent looked away from those men only to scan briefly for other threats.

"Oh," Alex managed quietly. He could see the threat, sure enough, clear as day. But there was still something about that old man, the old man who refused to just leave like all the others, that drew the reporter's eye back to him. Who is that man?

"Hey, Senwamadi." One of the young men stepped forward, and Alex swallowed hard. His back was already to the locked door of the shack; he had nowhere to retreat to. Elaine still stood a few feet in front of him, between the reporter and the gangers. Senwamadi? Alex didn't know what the word meant, but from the dangerous smile that it provoked from Elaine, it couldn't be anything good.

"Gifts, hey?" It was the same young man. "Gifts to us." There was nothing veiled about the threat in his voice as he made the demand. Alex felt tension creak in the muscles of his back, and he looked quietly at Elaine.

There was a long pause, and then the agent suddenly broke into a broad grin, as if the whole situation amused her greatly. "Of course," she said, speaking slowly and clearly. "Of course we have gifts for you, gentlemen." One of her hands went into a pocket of her vest, and she pulled out a small canvas wallet, which she threw at the feet of Marcus Thokwane. On examination, it would be found to contain several hundred dollars in local bills. "You can take our silver," Elaine began calmly - and then, in one smooth motion, she reached into the half-open backpack, pulled out the UMP (letting the bag fall to the ground), worked the cocking handle, flipped the stock open, and pulled the weapon into her shoulder at the low ready. The motion was entirely fluid and continuous, and finished in about two and a half seconds; Elaine did not so much as look away from Thokwane the entire time. "Or you can take our lead," the NIS agent concluded. "These are our gifts. We have plenty of both." Elaine arched one pale-gold eyebrow. "You can be rich, or you can be dead, gentlemen. Your choice."

Alex swallowed hard for a second time, and his gaze once again darted to the old man. Why are you still here? Why don't you do anything? Suddenly, before he quite realized what he was doing, Alex was waving at the man. "Sir! Sir, do you live here? We didn't come here to cause trouble. We are journalists from abroad. We just want to talk to you!"

[Lydenburg]

Mpangalala

The sudden appearance of a firearm, as it normally did, had an immediate and electrifying effect. Aware now that a weapon was following Elaine's line of sight, Marcus Thokwane pivoted to the left and backtracked slowly, his eyes never leaving the UMP. The other township regulars simply stood there, frozen by shock and indecision.

Elaine had made a good call. Serious lowlifes would have already brandished Hecklers of their own. These boys weren't that far up Mpangalala's ladder yet - they just weren't about to let an opportunity for fun or profit pass them by.

Consternation from Serobi, who continued edging away. The homemade machete clattered noisily into the dirt as he let it slip through his fingers. Nobody bothered to pick it up. Michaels' wallet was another matter. Thokwane's eyes darted to that fallen purse and back, unwilling to take both eyes off the NIS agent long enough but not happy to be leaving so much premise, either.

"You can be rich, or you can be dead, gentlemen. Your choice."

Pride finally overcame desperation after a long three minutes.

It was always the oldest in any pack who had the most to lose. Wordlessly, Thokwane started pushing everybody else out of the way. Some, like Serobi, stumbled in their haste joining him, the more defiant allowed themselves to be pulled until all five had disappeared into the landscape as swiftly as they'd come.

As silence reigned on that empty street once more, Sadowski's words rang painfully off the aluminum and cardboard-sided shacks. Nobody responded. Long-tailed rodents paused to cock their head at the Norvenians before scampering behind a mound of rotting, uncollected, rubbish.

Grimacing at this, Emmanuel Sikhakhane approached, finger to his lips.

"I am sorry for the poor reception," he murmured. "But not all the animals in Mpangalala are rats."

* * *

The door to Sikhakhane's tired and sagging excuse for a home wasn't locked, merely lodged into place. The schoolteacher gave it a hard shove and it buckled where all three hinges had been - kicked in or shattered during a police sweep but never repaired.

Home. What to any civilised Auroran was no more than a dump; stale, unmistakable stench of split boards, cheap paint, and poverty wafting from every crevice despite an otherwise immaculate interior. Usual clamour from the street outside muted by two plank walls nailed haphazardly to the frame. Dirt floor. An iron-framed bed with a swaybacked mattress covered with greasy yellow sheets, packing crate furniture, and one or two leatherbound books.

Large by township standards, approximate dimensions of a maximum security cell in Astor-of-Stone.

Sikhakhane paused in the threshold, nodded at Elaine. "Well done then, meis. You have survived the streets. And you're not even government. But look at that expensive jewelry around your neck -" he gave a circular motion, pantomiming a camera strap. " - the sort of thing people will follow you across Baardwyk and hack off the head to get their hands upon."

He hadn't invited them in. Whoever these people were, they couldn't be foreign journalists. The liberal press at home was a different story, but everybody knew how strict Boer censorship was on uitlanders. As far as Hendrik Strydom was concerned, outside media probably ranked somewhere between Karl Marx and 'the Anarchist's Cookbook'.

"Sir! Sir, do you live here? We didn't come here to cause trouble. We are journalists from abroad. We just want to talk to you!"

No, that wasn't like Afrikaans at all.
It wasn't white Kalumban, either. Songhians?

Struggling to hide his discomfort, Sikhakhane tried anyway. "Hoe kan ek help? So what does press want with Mister Emmanuel now? You're speaking to a dead man, baas."

[Kalumba]

Spandler's face twitched just below the left eye, to those who knew him well like Christianson did this was a sign he was about to let his temper get the better of him. De Moulin's smug mannerisms were riling the intelligence man and even the usually implacable and easy going Peters' gaze had hardened at that mans voice. The meeting was hanging by a thread and at any moment the continued arrogance some of the Lydenburgers were showing could bring it to an end. But in his mind things were too far gone to abandon at this point.

"Gentlemen please, enough with the jibes, the snipes and the threats. We are all grown men and we all have our differences, but let us settle them in a civil manner. I am sure we both have our ideological problems with each others nations, but what we are discussing is far more important than ideology. It is survival we are discussing and that must come first.

If it is alright I would ask for an adjournment, so that tempers can cool and both sides can discuss the proposals in private. Would that be alright gentlemen?"

After the Lydenburger delegates nodded their agreement, the Kalumbans were shown into an ante-room by the coloured butler, and as soon as the had door closed behind them Spandler exploded with anger, slamming his fist into the arm of his chair. "Those arrogant bastards! How dare they sit there and threaten us. We come here to try and settle our fucking differences, and the just try and exploit our generosity."

"Oh just shut up Tris" yelled Christianson. Sometimes he wished Kalumban blood wasn't so firey and that they had the restraint of their Lydenburger cousins. "Bite your Goddamned tongue once in a while, we need this as you well know. It is SIDP intelligence which says BAPL is growing and that the MNP are going nowhere. Despite our outside appearance of stability we are one crisis away from civil war, if we can get the Lydenburgers to stop arming BAPL the threat goes. If all it costs us is support of the MNP and letting them run a few buisnesses in Salisbury I am willing to let them do it."

"The pipeline deal concerns me though" interjected Peters. "Why would they be willing to give up their stranglehold over us? Either they are planning something or they are desperate, this deal seems far too sweet for us." The two other men paused to consider this, the deal indeed did seem strange. All the Kalumbans had come looking for was an end to Port Swettendams funding and arming of BAPL and were now offered almost complete economic independence from Lydenburg and a near entire refurbishment of the Security Forces inventory.

"You may be onto something there Ted" mused Spandler. "As soon as we are back at the consulate I'll wire HQ and get them to try and look further into any economic woes in the land of baaskap."

"Do that Tris, and I'll look into the prospects of purchasing full control of the pipeline by the government, or Kalumban investors. The deal on the table now is good, let's try and keep our heads" Christianson looked hard at his SIDP colleague "and stall a little. We will see if they give anything else up, or away."

"But we are ready to take the deal as it is?" Peters asked.

"Yes. I am happy to agree to it as a provisional idea. Once we have gone away and checked the facts and figures it is up to our superiors. Now I propose we wait until they call us back, let them sweat a little as we 'discuss' our options. Remember we are here as a favour to them, not because we need to be.

[Norvenia]

Mpangalala

Elaine Michaels grunted softly as Thokwane and his thugs stormed off. Without taking her eyes off the road, she knelt and picked up her wallet, replacing it in her vest. "They'll be back," the agent said quietly, straightening. Her vigilant gaze swept over the rats, the rubbish piles, the huts. "Or more like them will come. We can't stay here long, Alex."

Impatiently, Alex Sadowski nodded. His gaze was fixed upon the old Afrosian man who approached with a grimace, holding one finger to his lips. "I am sorry for the poor reception," the man murmured. "But not all the animals in Mpangalala are rats."

Alex glanced at Elaine, who raised her eyebrows. Then the journalist turned back to Emmanuel Sikhakhane and followed him into his home, recoiling slightly when the old man shoved the door off its shattered hinges. Elaine followed warily at the Alex's heels, her face a closed book.

Alex Sadowski - Peters, he thought, Alex Peters, Salisbury Foreign Crier - had been expecting a hovel. After all, this was a township, and even from the outside a man could see that Emmanuel Sikhakhane's home was built mostly from garbage. And Alex, too, had taken so many trips to Kalumba that he knew Salisbury like the back of his hand. So he understood something about what Afrosian poverty looked like, up close and personal. But the reality - packing crate furniture, the stench of rot, and somehow, most of all, the precious leatherbound books preserved like relics - was still shocking. People live like this, Alex reminded himself, and they still don't give up hope. And that's why I'm here.

Sikhakhane, now, turned and nodded at Elaine. "Well done then, meis," he remarked; his accent was surprisingly clear, to Alex's ears - the reporter had no trouble understanding the old man. "You have survived the streets. And you're not even government. But look at that expensive jewelry around your neck -" Sikhakhane gave a circular motion, pantomiming a camera strap " - the sort of thing people will follow you across Baardwyk and hack off the head to get their hands upon."

Alex said nothing, and neither did Elaine, but the big blonde woman just smiled quietly and gently patted her submachine gun. Alex shook his head in disbelief, and turned back to Sikhakhane.

The old man seemed nonplussed by Elaine's response, and Alex could see the tension in his shoulders, in his gnarled fingers. But Sikhakhane held himself erect, and his gaze was direct; a brave man, Alex thought. "Hoe kan ek help?" the old man asked. Alex frowned, trying to make sense of that; Elaine chuckled briefly. "So what does press want with Mister Emmanuel now?" Sikhakhane's defiance was palpable. "You're speaking to a dead man, baas."

Alex said nothing for a moment. What do I want to know? The truth. The whole story. Everything. I'm the first Norvenian journalist to visit Lydenburg in decades. But most of all...

"A dead man, eh?" Alex sat down easily on a packing crate. "Then there's not much point in calling me baas, is there, Mister Emmanuel?" The journalist studied Sikhakhane for a moment. "Besides," he added quietly, "I never gave you ought so as I would deserve that title. No need for it."

"I am also - surprised, I guess," Alex continued, "to hear that particular formality from a man who flies the MNP banner in the open above his home." The journalist shrugged. "No wonder you're a dead man walking. But that's actually why I'm here." Alex leaned forward. "My name is Alex Peters, of the Salisbury Foreign Crier." The lie fell so smoothly from Alex's lips that for a moment the journalist himself believed it. "The Foreign Crier is a paper that caters to Kalumban expatriates, mostly Kalumbans living in Norvenia or Norvenians living in Kalumba. We bring Afrosia's stories to the world."

Alex took a deep breath. "A few weeks ago, for the first time in decades, Lydenburg allowed Kalumban journalists to come to Baardwyk to cover the cross-border rugby match. So my partner and I came to Baardwyk. But we didn't come to watch rugby. We came to find the MNU, to talk to real people, and to tell their stories. When we saw your flag, we thought that this was as good a place as any to begin."

"Now, I understand that you may be suspicious, and you may have questions." Alex spread his hands. "That's fine. Ask away. And when you're done asking, I have two questions of my own: Mr. Emmanuel, will you tell me your story? And will you tell me where I can find other stories that deserve to be told?"