Age of the Machine (PRIVATE)

[New United States of Columbia]

Washington D.C., Columbian Mainland
MAY 29, 2030

The time had long since been predicted. All major religions had an idea about Judgement Day. Some said fire would rain from the heavens. Others, a massive, otherworldly army would assemble and do final battle with the apostates, heretics, and infidels, ushering in a golden age forever and ever. They all said this would be the final time sin would be allowed to be out of control and that God would judge humanity.

They were right. In a way.

Inside the Pentagon Fortress, a final plan was being put into place. The final hours of humanity were ticking away. Second by second. No one outside this room had any idea what was about to happen. No one. Not German, not Merican, not Capilean, not Chinese, not Capitalist, not Communist, not Christian, not Muslim, not Atheist. No one knew. Only in three hours time would they know what Golden Columbia had planned.
The room where it was being held was far bigger than necessary for the small group inhabiting it. Around a dozen suited men stood around a large brightly light orange table, the entire world unfurled before them. A thirteenth man as with them, his hazel eyes glazed over, his mind wandering to past days. This man was not a man. Biologically he was. Two X chromosomes and the right parts were where they needed to be. But he had no thrist. No hunger for anything except battle. He had no need to sleep; the drugs and stimulants that flowed through his veins and into his systems and mind did the trick. He was a true mountain of a man. Standing erect he, just by a few inches, stood shorter than eight feet in height. A true monster. Flesh and skin covered up wires, plastics, and metals. And even that skin and flesh weren't completely his either.

The dozen men stood around the map, the only noise being the quiet whirs and beeps and buzzing of various computers in the giant War Room. The men were identical in that they all had fine tailored suits on. Black mostly though the monster thought he saw one or two wearing a deep blue. Gold, crimson, and violet accents snaked around their coats and waist coats. Gold and silver pocket watches, rings, and other fine jewelery decorated them lavishly. Some were finely tanned while others were pale like vampires. He rolled his eyes somewhat. For men doing God's will, they sure looked like Pharasies.
"Gentlemen," one of the paler men said, straighteneing up, his grey eyes filled with a sadistic glee "it is time. In a few hours we shall burn away the old world and restart it, New and pure. We shall guide it to a Golden Age unavailable to the current one."
The hazel eyed man looked up, his mind now filled with a simple command: Obey theMaester.
"Foley," the Maester said in a soft voice "could you please get us all, yourself included, a fine bottle of Frisco 1955?"
Foley, as the monster was called, bowed deeply, his eyes averting the harsh grey ones of the man.
"As you command." His bass voice boomed, startling the other man.

He turned left and exited the "mosh pit" as that segment used to be nicknamed by the Old Columbian Military. He headed up the ebony black steps leading to one of the many catwalks in the room and called an elevator. In a few moments it arrived, greeting his ears with a bombastic propaganda speech form the Department of Information and Public Relations.
"Citizens of Columbia, Rejoice! For the German barbarians will soon be washed away by the might of our technology! We are inventing new wonderful thigns and through YOUR hard work! YOUR diligence and YOUR pride for the Fatherland, we shall wipe this scourge off the face of the Earth! Glory to Foley and the Founders!"

Foley rolled his eyes. He might have a lavish throne room but he vastly preferred the floor to be soaked and covered in the blood and corpses of his fallen foes. But he had to keep appearances up. The masses liked it. Kept them working in the mines and factories. If what the Inner Circle said was true the advances into South America had been stalled by the sheer scorched earth being implemented. That and the whole world being against them.
The elevator stopped and soon soft, pleasant colors of white walls, a comfortable cream carpet, and warm yellow lights greeted him. He walked forward, no spring in his step, merely a methodical and rhythmic march. He headed out to one of the many cubicle farms and found a series of stairs leading up to a very lavish office. He found a small fridge belonging to the overseer, opened it, saw a bottle of Frisco 55 and retraced his steps to the elevator. Down to the War Room he went, more propaganda blasting at his ears. He was about to smash his fist through one of the speakers when a ding brought his mind back.

He greeted the twelve men with the wine in hand. He noticed a silver platter with thriteen fine crystal wine glasses. He poured each glass full as can be and carefully handed each one to each man of the Holy Order. When all were served the Maester stood up. This time he really was bombastic. Foley was surprised by that and the announcement.
"Friends! Comrades! Brothers! Today shall be a day remembered forevermore! Today we wipe away the scourges of humanity! Today we will rebirth the world through a wave of fire and steel! We shall burn away the old, the museums, the palaces, the churches and temples, all of it! And when they have been thourghly wiped away we shall replace them with something better. Something purer. Something... orderly. The Age of Man is done. Tomorrow we begin The Age of the Machine!"
He then proudly held forward his glass, splashing fine ruby liquid everywhere, dripping onto the glass table below.
"PROST!"
The eleven other men responded in kind.
One man didn't.
All eyes soon were on the monster they had created all those years ago.
"Well, Foley? Aren't you excited to be an agent in creating a new and pure age?" The Maester asked, his voice filled with suspicion and doubt.
The Emperor’s mind was on the race. There was something... off. But he couldn't quite tell what. His mind soon reached one conclusion: what was about to happen would be good. He raised his own glass.
"Prost!" He shouted.
They all cheered. Foley smiled as he deliberately let the glass fall and shatter on the cold metal floor below, reminding the group he had no need for the liquid. His eyes began to widen as he saw the men head up the stairs onto the catwalk.
Judgement Day would begin...

---

The button was pressed. The keys turned in time. Another button was pressed. Soon, all across North America, every single atomic, neutron, and nuclear missile, bomb, and rocket were launched. From even the most remote of norms in the tundras of Alaska or the deserts of the Mojave, everyone could see what was happening. All around the world frantic, sobbing, absolutely terrified reporters miserably ticked off city after city. Berlin. Statesboro. Valitora. Shanghi. Paris. Motor City. Kongsburg. London. Even some reporters noted that New York and Los Angeles were wiped off the map. In other cities, not reported or unable to be reported due to the sheer numbers of cities and lives vaporized by the nuclear hellstorm, the most agonizing of deaths were occurring.
The flash was intense enough to blind anyone who caught the tiniest glimpse of it.The shockwave ripping flesh from bone and shattering the bones in the process. The deafening boom ruptured ears and caused blood and other liquids to pour from them. No voice could be heard as the bombs went off. The heat was hotter than even the surface of the sun and was capable of melting tongues and eyes even when shut tight as possible. Buildings were flatted, trees burned away and then ripped from the ground. The force of multiple bombs literally ripped apart chunks of the Earth, changing the geography quite literally. Sirens could be heard, AA fire, lasers, and SAMs going off, attempting to shoot down the bombers and missiles in flight. Tanks and artillery were dragged and drivel to the beaches, hoping to maybe sink a few of the nuclear submarines.
Few, if any, were shot down or sunk.
But the worst was yet to come...

The automated factory doors opened. Inside all was obscenely sterile and clean. Sparkling white, really. Dozens of massive mechanical arms hung from the ceiling or shot upon through the floor. High above racks of robots hung limply, their legs and arms moving very slowly, gently, nothing powering it but the slight swinging. Then all at once, intense LED lights shot on, illuminating the bright white paint of the factory. The arms sprang into action, assembling more of these robots by the minute. The robots stiffened and red eyes powered on.

And so begins The Age of the Machine...

[The Grand Duchy Of Nova Capile]

GROSSHERZOGBURG MILITARY BUNKER
NOVA CAPILE

MAY 29, 2030

---

Civilization begins with order, grows with liberty, and dies with chaos.
Will Durant

---

Private Max Busch sat loftily in a desk chair, boots propped up on the sterile counter before him, his hands tucked behind his head, eyes closed blissfully. The counter in question was covered in dials, monitors, and countless other gadgets that monitored the airspace of Nova Capile. In particular, they were used to identify incoming nuclear missiles- not that that will ever happen, the man thought to himself. He had just been settling into sleep when the door burst open. Max cracked open an eyelid to see a frightening figure hovering above him.

Clad in the red-trimmed gray uniform of a Capilean officer, Colonel Axel Thielmann towered over his subordinate, his long face contorted into rigid lines, his chest heaving. The man's blue eyes burned with an icy fire, a flaming gaze that was currently pointing straight at Corporal Busch. The man looked like an asylum escapee who'd just found his captor.

Swallowing, Busch slowly straightened and stood up, looking away from his commanding officer.

"This is abhorrent behavior!" Thielmann thundered suddenly, pale face quivering in rage. "Do you realize how important your job is, Busch? Has it occured to you that you are our nation's last and only line of defense against a nuclear attack? Answer me, Corporal!"

"Yes, sir. I realize my behavior is-"

"Disgusting, and unacceptable!" the Colonel finished. "What has our military come to? We used to be the pride of the world- and now we are filled with incompetent louts like yourself! I have no words, except that I will be immediately requesting your discharge from our military. Your career until now was distinguished, Busch. I am sorry that it will end here." He sighed.

"People like you will be the death of us, Busch. The death of us all!"

With that, the Colonel left the room. Max slumped back into his seat, dumbfounded. Behind him he heard a small noise, yet one that conveyed urgency. He turned to face the monitor, and his brown eyes widened in shock and alarm as a chorus of more "beeps" rang out. Hundreds of dark red blips were hurtling towards the minature map of Nova Capile. Each one represented an individual nuclear missile.

Turning, Max ran at full speed and burst out into the hallway. "Colonel!" he shouted. Thielmann, a distance down the corridor, turned.

"It's no use. There's nothing you can say-"

"No, sir- sir, there's nuclear bombs- they're about to detonate all over the nation!"

There was a moment's silence. Then Thielmann began striding forward with a speed Busch hadn't know he possessed, until he was past Max and had gone into the monitoring station.

"Confirmed detonations in Kongsburg, Rochefort, Neue Wien- and Colditz. All of our missile sites have been destroyed, except the silos here. And there's a missile bound straight for us," Thielmann said calmly as Busch came up behind him.

"Launch all missiles, Busch," Thielmann ordered.

"To intercept the one headed for us?"

"No. To intercept those bound for the capital. Do it, now. Gott mit uns, Busch, Gott mit uns."

SAXTONBURG
NOVA CAPILE

JUNE 20, 2030

---

War does not determine who is right- only who is left.
Bertrand Russell

---

Field Marshal Walther Nemetz peered through his binoculars at the frothing, tumultuous sea expanding endlessly before him. It was difficult to make out much, due to the thick layer of filth covering each of the instrument's lenses. Slowly lowering them, the officer turned to the man beside him, reluctant to look away from the ocean. Henrik von Ravenstein looked back at him, the Lieutenant General's face streaked with grime and dirt and his usually spotless feldgrau uniform splotchy and tattered. Even his collection of patches and medals, usually kept pristine, were ingrained with filth.

"Nothing, Feldmarschall?" he asked, his voice hoarse and throaty.

Nemetz just shook his head. Handing the binoculars back to his subordinate, he turned to look behind him. There, arrayed along the coast, was the last of Capile's military. A paltry 250,000 men and less than three thousand tanks, armored vehicles, and aircraft combined, was all that was left after the devastating nuclear attacks on the Duchy- and the rest of the world, for that matter. They had blotted out all life in the metropolises of Kongsburg, New Marseilles, and Orangetown, completely leveling cities of millions of people, bastions of industry, culture, the arts and sciences- all turned to ash in seconds. By the grace of God, the capital city, Saxtonburg, had avoided such a grim, unfitting end, having intercepted each of the many warheads bound for it in the nick of time.

Was it even worth it, to survive the nuclear war, just to endure this?

An unbroken line of soldiers, crouched behind piles of rubble, mountains of sandbags, and hulking jeeps and tanks, stood there before Nemetz; the last of the once mighty Capilean war machine. Behind them loomed the city: A mass of burnt-out, blackened skyscrapers and flattened houses and buildings. The destruction wrought by the enemy's firebombings had done what the missiles could not.
Suddenly Henrik stirred.

"Sir... I... I could've sworn I saw the water... Move."

"What?" Nemetz whirled around, scanning the sea with restless blue eyes.

"A trick of my eyes," von Ravenstein muttered, slumping back down.

"No. I saw it too." Nemetz' eyes had stopped wandering, now fixated on a small ripple in the distance which was growing ever closer. There was a far-off noise; it sounded rather like the groan of God- and then, rising above the water, was a small metal pipe. The pipe elongated, rising swiftly above the water, and eventually there came a platform as well. The platform grew and grew and grew as more of it was uncovered- and then, as if someone had sped up time, the entire warship bounced above the waves for all to see.
At first glance, it looked as if someone had welded two exceptionally large submarines to the underside of the deck of an aircraft carrier; but, as the Capileans took in the vessel, they realized that it was all one structure, gargantuan as it was.

"It's a catamaran," Nemetz gasped.

Cascades of water were falling from it, the residue of its subaquatic journey- but that was not what concerned them. It was the massive hatch slowly breaking away from the middle of the ship's underbelly, between its parallel hulls, revealing a dark, cavernous stomach. Beside Nemetz, a young conscript, no older than fifteen, raised his assault rifle and began shooting, the rapport of the gun breaking the uneasy silence. The Field Marshal turned to him.

"What are you shooting at, son?"

The boy blanched. Slowly, he lowered the gun, pale cheeks red with embarrassment. There were several more moments of thunderous silence as the ramp finally came to a halt, gently splashing with the waves. And then, with a thunderclap of sound, hundreds of sleek black shapes shot out from the inside of the colossal catamaran, zooming into the sky like a horde of ink-colored bats, and proceeding to circle around the humans like boomerang-shaped birds of prey.

"Now you can fire!" Nemetz shouted, throwing himself and the two men around him to the ground as these otherworldly craft opened fire. Torrents of bullets tore through the sand, sending showers of it flying through the air- and gutting any man in its path, soaking the beach with blood. A hail of bombs fell in quick succession, dozens each second, slaughtering companies at a time and shaking the earth which each landfall.

But already, with the same dogged resistance humanity had summoned when faced with every other challenge in its history, they were fighting back. Anti-Aircraft batteries fired nonstop, shredding the peaceful afternoon sky with their ammunition and managing to fell some of the bombers. Capilean fighter jets, scrambled hastily from the last undamaged airfield for hundreds of miles around, raced into the sky, engaging their enemy in pitched dogfights.

Nemetz slowly raised his head, peeping out from the top of the sandbag position and towards the one-ship armada. He cursed. Huge jet-black vehicles, resembling armored personal carriers designed to transport elephants instead of men, were rolling down the ramp in the dozens and, apparently amphibious, cutting through the water and towards the beaches. The commander glanced around; his men were already occupied with the air battle above. Snatching an abandoned bullhorn, Nemetz cleared his throat and stood up.

"Come on men, they're about to storm the beach! Give them hell!"

This caught their attention. Turning to look for themselves, they regained their wits and dove for their makeshift redoubts and trenches, some procuring heavy weaponry and firing rockets at the oncoming motorcade. Nemetz braced himself, and turned to look at von Ravenstein- to see that he lay dead in a puddle of blood, his head and back punctured by bullet-holes. Another casualty of this war to end all wars, just like Hinkle and Winser and Schulz, all military men of great importance and skill, all now dead because of this infernal conflict. But there was no time to mourn those great men, just as there was no time to grieve over Henrik von Ravenstein, his old friend. All that was left was to fight for his life.

Steeling himself for whatever came, Nemetz slowly rose and looked once again out to sea. To his horror, the black APCs were now rolling across the sand, their mounted machine guns spitting violet laser fire and eviscerating the defenders. Their back hatches lowered, and figures spilled out, forming ranks in seconds and beginning to march, slowly but surely, against the Capilean entrenchments. Nemetz studied them, and, as he was expecting, found that they weren't human at all.

Each had a black, skeletal body and a thin, vampiric face accented by slit-like eyes and borehole "nostrils." Their spidery hands kept a firm grip on their weapons- sleek, modern laser rifles, outclassing whatever the Capileans were using by a mile. The worst part of all, perhaps, were the two red pinpricks encased behind each of their eye-slits, growing larger with each step their owner took, burning endlessly like the superhot core of Earth, and utterly inhuman.

On they came, thousands, smashing bunkers and tanks and helicopters with their piercing laser rifles and showing no mercy to anyone in their path. The defense ebbed away almost instantly; whole brigades began fleeing, leaving only a few hundred brave men, who evidently had no more to lose. Nemetz was just beginning to think he might join them when he heard a familiar voice behind him.

"Come on, Walther. Let's get out of here."

The Field Marshal turned to see John Hancock, the mysterious man who, all those years ago, had promised the Fatherland Front, Nemetz' political party, endless sources of funds, weapons, and materials if they would hide him. Back then John Hancock was a war criminal, about to be tried for the most heinous of crimes by a military tribunal- but it didn't matter. The Fatherland Front accepted, sheltering him in their headquarters and allowing him to gradually take over and dictate their political strategy. They had won the election, of course- and promptly stripped away whatever powers the Grand Duke had left, transforming the Duchy into a nationalistic dictatorship overnight. That had been years ago, almost a distant memory.

"I'm already organizing the evacuation of whatever forces and civilians are left," Hancock continued, putting his hand on Nemetz' shoulder. "Come on, Walther. We need you." Nemetz, seeming to return to consciousness, slowly nodded. "Alright, let's go then!" Hancock ordered, nearly drowned out by the sudden whirring of propeller blades. Nemetz, surprised, whirled around, to see nearly four dozen military helicopters hovering a few feet above the beach, all of them overcome by tidal waves of fleeing soldiers desperate for a ticket out. Hancock scrabbled aboard the one closest to them, and then helped the Field Marshal in. Instantly the aircraft rushed away, followed by its brothers and sisters, who, as Nemetz watched, came under murderous fire from the enemy air forces.

"Where are we going!" Nemetz shouted over the din.

"To rendezvous with Admiral Reuter's fleet!" Hancock yelled back. "At Jaroburg," he added.

"The city is lost," Nemetz muttered sadly, so low that no one could hear him. "What of the Royal Family?" he said, louder.

"Those that are left?" Hancock laughed. "We got them out days ago." He cocked his head. "You still have a soft spot for them, don't you?" Nemetz just shrugged, and sat in silence for the rest of the two-hour long helicopter ride.

What a month. In the last few weeks, the entirety of the Duchy, considered one of the great four superpowers on Earth, had been wiped off the map, as simple as that. Its military, envied by at least two of the other three powers, had been absolutely and totally destroyed by a handful of the enemy's soldiers. And its cities, its people- nearly all had perished in the nuclear hellfire and subsequent, merciless air raids. Perhaps pride does come before the fall, the man mused.

DER ZAHN PRISON
NOVA CAPILE

FEBRUARY 11, 2024

---

In my country we go to prison first and then become President.
Nelson Mandela

---

Inspector Paul Körver walked slowly, purposefully down the dimly-lit hallway, his boots clicking softly with each step. The tunnel-like corridor seemed to extend forever, tapering off into blackness in the distance. Beside him was Kommandant Hanssen, a cheery lad who seemed out of place in this dark and forbidding prison. They walked in silence, passing gloomy prison bars every ten or so paces. Hanssen broke the silence, eventually.

"So... Hancock," he said, placing a certain amount of disgust on the name. Körver couldn't possibly blame him. John Hancock was perhaps the person most responsible for the series of all-consuming, worldwide wars which began in Columbia and quickly spread to affect the international community. From the beginning of Columbia's downward spiral to the most recent- and decisive- of the conflicts, almost half a million Capileans had died for the monarchist cause.
And now, it seemed, they had all died for nothing.

"I take it you would rather me kill him now than take him away?" the inspector said lightly. His companion shrugged.

"He'll get what's coming to him. I'm sure of that."

"I can't help but agree. It seems the odds are stacked against him, what with two Germans, two Capileans, and three Columbians on the tribunal. After what he did to us and to the Reich, they'll make sure he pays."

The end of the hallway was coming into sight now. A single, flickering lamp hung over a reinforced steel door, itself guarded by a pair of burly sentries that carried shotguns. When they caught view of the officers they snapped off a quick salute before stepping away from the door- and cocking their shotguns. Paul's hand brushed the Luger strapped snugly to his hip; he had never had to use it before, but perhaps today...

Hanssen, a permanent smile now engraved on his lips, stepped towards the door and his fingers flitted over a keypad Paul hadn't noticed. The panel slid aside to reveal a keyhole. Smirking at Körver, Hanssen lifted an iron key out of his breast pocket and slid it into place.
"Primitive- but impossible to replicate," he said jauntily, just as the door swung open.

The room inside was tiny, barely large enough to house a toilet and rough metal bench. An ever-watchful camera was on the lookout, perched above the door and slowly scanning the room. The walls were grey and bare; no barred window offered a glimpse of the thrashing waves and coarse rocks over which Der Zahn loomed, of the outside world. It was then that Paul caught sight of this cage's prisoner.

John Hancock was a shadow of his former self. He seemed to be suspended in midair, but upon closer inspection Paul realized that his arms and legs were chained in opposite directions to the corners of the room, leaving him hanging limply in the center. Hancock's body was cadaverously thin, so that every one of his ribs poked through the tattered orange rags of his prison uniform. His shaved head hung low to his chest, but as they entered it inched upwards. The face was hideous. It was covered in bruises, scars, and layers of dried blood and filth. But when he saw them, his chapped lips trembled into a smile.

"He's in lockup right now," Hanssen explained casually. "We let him out of those twice a day. We're not monsters." Hancock snorted loudly.
In an instant, Hanssen snapped. Lurching forward and whipping out a baton, he thwacked the man in the ribs, hard. The beating continued, growing more and more savage, but Hancock didn't even flinch. In fact, the war criminal began to laugh. As the torture went on the laughter grew, becoming louder and more deranged, filling the room and bouncing off the walls.

"Enough!" Hanssen finally shouted, walloping the baton across Hancock's face. The man fell quiet, and Hanssen turned back to Paul. "He's an animal, as you can see."

I see two, Körver thought to himself. "Well, now that you've gotten that out of the way," Paul said, trying to gloss over the attack, "perhaps you could unchain him?"

"Yes, of course," the man muttered. He took the key out of his breast pocket again and unfastened the heavy chains. When the last lock had clicked open, Hancock fell to the floor with a thud. Hanssen started forward, taking a pair of handcuffs from his belt- but stopped when he heard the crack of a cocked gun.

Slowly straightening forward, he was greeted with the worst end of Paul's Luger. "Put your weapons on the floor, and then shackle yourself to that toilet."

Hanssen stared at him with intense, burning eyes full of confusion, anger, and betrayal. "But- what?" he stammered, not moving.

"I said, drop your weapons and shackle yourself to that toilet!" Körver shouted. Hancock began to bay laughter again. Hanssen looked around, and slowly began to chuckle too, as if he thought he was experiencing a bizarre dream. "I'm tired of this," Körver said resignedly. Lowering his gun a half-inch, he shot Hanssen in-between the legs.
That was a wake-up call. Screaming and whimpering like a scolded child, he threw his baton and pistol to the floor and danced over to the toilet, handcuffing himself to it and clutching his bleeding groin.

Paul helped Hancock up. "The guards outside are with us. We can walk out."

"And him?" Hancock stared darkly at Hanssen, now rocking back and forth in the fetal position and completely oblivious to them.

"We'll lock him in. I doubt they'll check this cell for a few hours. Maybe even not for a few days." Hancock smiled sadistically, and allowed himself to be handcuffed by Paul.

"And now we walk out," John said, his smile stretching wide across his face.

"And win the election," Körver added, opening the door and escorting his leader out of the cell and into the empty corridor.

"Not just the election. Tomorrow we win the world."

[New United States of Columbia]

Aboard the Eiserne Jungfrau
New Marseilles
JUNE 20, 2030

---

There is something in the human spirit that will survive and prevail, there is a tiny and brilliant light burning in the heart of man that will not go out no matter how dark the world becomes.
— Leo Tolstoy

---

The pink afternoon sky gave a cheery feeling, though it didn't impact the gloom they all felt when they arrived at Reuter's "refugee fleet". Already, with the three week war having ended only two hours ago, the men and women aboard the ships and helicopters had converted these once mighty warships into a glorified floating tent city. Already the hangers of the mighty Prinz-Karl class super battleship-carrier were being turned into hospitals and living quarters. The rest of the fleet, Hancock imagined, was doing the same thing. Frigates, supply ships, carriers, destroyers, submarines. That was merely the military escort. Yachts, freighters, luxury cruise liners, down to the smallest of sailboats were also taken. All 4,221 evacuees (minus the naval personnel in charge of Reuter's fleet) were taking a one way cruise to Panama. This would be what they'd have to call home for a fair bit of time.

As the helicopter landed Hancock was greeted by the Admiral Vidkun Reuter and the officers of the former War Criminal's group The New Order. Hancock saluted them back, his tattered and gritty black suit showing signs of wear and tear. He, like everyone else, had fought in The Three Day War, and he, like everyone else, was worried about the future of humanity.
Turning his gaze from man to man, Hancock surveyed the group of soldiers, sailors, and officers.
"Have we made contact with anyone yet, Folsom?"
"No sir," one of the New Order officers said, as he straightened his back and puffed out his chest "not a soul on the radio. Not yet anyway."
Hancock sighed bitterly.
"Keep trying. Someone has to have made it."
Folsom grimmaced. Radio work was the new janitorial or kitchen duty. It was long hours on a series of various radios. You mostly got static. They were probably knocked out by any EMPs from the nuclear blasts. If not that then he doubted any survived the onslaught and fighting by those... those... downright demonic machines. Even if that didn't destroy, damage, or shift focus from radioing outsiders to staying alive, what the hell could they do? Give moral support? Folsom hated it. Then again, he got lucky. Better radio work than twenty lashes for stealing food.
"Yes, sir." Folsom said, clear irritation in his voice.
Hancock nodded and dismissed the greeting party.

As the party left he caught sight of four particular individuals. Hard to not notice them when a literal giant and super soldier was with them: The Exiled Royal Family. He watched as the two elegant princess’, the Princely Monk, and Giant headed to wherever they were going, perhaps off to mope about their lost status. Good, he thought, royal brats need to pay for ruining Columbia and creating this mess in the first place.

Hancock then gestured for Nemetz to follow him, attempting to ignore the obvious look of hate the giant bodyguard was giving him.
"Best keep an eye on Folsom. I'm not saying I don't trust your men. I'm saying if we make contact with survivors better us greeting them than that bundle of joy."
He grinned slightly at his blatant jab at the officer's character. His dusty and grimy dress shoes clicked on the metal hull of the super battleship as the two friends kept pace with Folsom. The trench-coated officer stopped and abruptly turned, glaring at them.
"The hell do you want?" He barked, his face resembling an angry pit bull.
"Just waiting incase anyone contacts us. I mean don't you reckon I should speak first to them? You're not in the best of moods."
"Yeah I'm not. Why the hell do I get twenty lashes for taking a bar of chocolate! I mean, Christ, you're acting like I stole milk from one of the babies!"
Hancock's face went from a slightly pleasant smile to looking like he had just been called a son of a whore.
"I can barely give anyone food that's not the most bare minimum to keep one alive and breathing!" He shouted, his voice echoing off the ship and drilling into Nemetz and Folsom's ears "We've got newborns and toddlers onboard, we've got barely a month's worth of food onboard, and you are surprised I'm harsh on everyone for stealing a scrap of food!?"
The pit bull faced man grimmaced. He cowed slightly but quickly straightened up and snarled at Hancock.
"Understood, sir. I'm just saying a bar of chocolate isn't essential for living."
"And I'm saying if I let you get away with taking more than your daily rations, everyone will fight for food and we'll all be dead long before those machines catch us. Am I clear?"
"Yes."
"Yes, what?"
"Yes it is understood."
"Yes it is understood, what?"
The two men stared each other down for what felt like an eternity. Nemetz was left scratching his head at the sight. For a group of desperate survivors they sure weren't exactly bound together in brotherhood.
"Yes it is understood... sir." Folsom finally said, hissing out 'sir' as if he'd rather call Hancock anything but that.
Hancock nodded.
"Good. Now get to work. We will be with you incase you do make contact."
The New Order officer nodded before turning abruptly and heading down to the radio room with the two leaders in tow.

As they headed down Spartan like corridors of harsh lights, plain grey steel walls, and down dirty and dusty floors, the three men reflected on the past years before this hell became their daily life. Before that Hancock was a wanted man. The worst War Criminal one could find who gleefully ordered the destruction and firebombing of German Reich towns and cities up in Greenland. After he lost the Second Great Division to a surprisingly revitalized and powerful Emperor Paul Foley and his horde of robots and mutant horrors, he was imprisoned in one of the most secure prisons in the Grand Duchy, awaiting trial by a jury of victors. Justice, they called it. He laughed at their blatant biased kangaroo court. They just wanted them dead. Foley was right when he shouted at these surviving men to just kill the man least they make a mockery of 'justice'.
But he never faced trial. Instead, he found a friend in prison, one of the Wardens who helped him escape and, in exchange for what money and weapons he and his formerly New Union had, he helped Hancock and his crew of supporters join the Fatherland Front. After they joined they began campaigning which also included murder, intimidation, bribery, blackmail, and every dirty trick in the book. Once they achieved both a majority in the Senate and a man in the Chancellory, Hancock and his crew stripped the Grand Duke of every bit of power they could. They achieved total political domination.
But it was short lived.
Instead they got power a few years before Judgement Day and the following Three Day War. They had total control... over nothing. And they couldn't use it before those machines came. They weren't prepared for the nuclear firestorm nor the one ship armada nor for the surprisingly powerful weapons and vehicles they possessed. Now Hancock, the "strongman", had total power. And yet, despite getting his dream fulfilled, it quickly vanished like sand through a man’s fingers.

---

As the assembly left and Hancock headed over to Folsom with Nemetz, Gladium glared daggers at the man.
“Arrogant prick,” he spat under his harsh breath, his greying hair and beard giving him an “Old Soldier” look “I’d love to strangle him in his sleep. Rid us all of his ego and problems.”
He heard Bradley sigh, watching the young High King’s features show worry.
“What have we done to deserve this fate, O Lord? We weep for our world has fallen.”
The giant’s features faded to be replaced with sorrow. Bradley, over the past several years, had grown attached to his and the former Columbian Royal Family’s new surrogate family of the Capilean Church. The young Prince turned even younger High King had attempted to become an ordained Priest with them. After that, however, the nukes came and the hellish army with them. His green eyes then turned to the two Princess’, one of whom had her soft hand over her bloated stomach.
“When’s the baby due?” The older of the two, Abigale, asked.
Samantha smiled, her eyes lighting up like nighttime stars.
“In a few months!” She answered excitedly.
Gladium narrowly let a smile appear on his face. The dynasty would continue. His friend’s mistakes could, perhaps, be mended slightly in the future. That was all he could hope. But then the dark reality set in. This world... it was nothing like they expected. Nothing they prepared for. Not even Operation: Safehouse would be able to assist in something like this.
As he was thinking, his ears picked up a noise. Feet thudding on the metal deck. He sharply spun around, ready to brandish his knife when his eyes met Maxwell’s. Before he could think, Samantha the pregnant princess was on the Capilean pilot, embracing him and seeming to begin to sob.
“I’m so glad you made it!”she said between bouts of tears. The three Columbians could only watch the sight unfold.

---

Having finally reached the radio room Hancock observed Folsom and his dull duty in a very sparse room. Aside from the plain steel table and chair in the center of the room under a hot L.E.D. light, there wasn't much to it. Aside from one or two chairs in the corners and a small locker continuing a pistol, a thermos of coffee, and several instruction packets on morse code and technical information related to radios, it was the barest room on the ship. Even the hanger turned mess hall had more to it than this. Hancock and Nemetz took the chairs in the corners as Folsom got to work putting on the headphones and flipped on the switches for the three radios tall pile of, well, radios. Each one was a different color and size. Some boxy, others long and rectangular. All had a variety of knobs and switches.
"Trying frequency 1. Low frequency, ITU brand 5, 300 kHz." Folsom said aloud as he began to fiddle with the radios. He then placed the dozen microphones close to him as he could without them falling off the table before he began broadcasting.
"To anyone who can here this, this is Officer Folsom aboard Reuter's fleet. We're heading to Panama and wish to know if there are any survivors. Please respond, over."
He then turned to the side and coughed into his elbow before he began to repeat his message again. He waited two minutes before he changed frequencies and began his several hour shift on the radio.

Two hours later Hancock was asleep. His snoring was loud and began to interfere with Folsom’s recording. The Officer abruptly turned and stared at the aged politician that was grating his nerves.
“Hancock!" The New Order Officer shouted.
The sudden and harsh shout made the Columbian man jump out of his seat. His cheeks turned red as he realized he fell asleep. He coughed slightly before he vainly straighten his crumpled suit, all the while glaring at Folsom.
“What!?” The man shouted, firmly crossing his arms and narrowing his gaze.
Folsom gave a look akin to one who has smelt the stench of garbage in the summer.
“Hard to record when I am interrupted by your constant, incessant, and jet engine loud snoring.” He replied cooly.
Hancock eyed the door. A thought slowly occurred to him. Eyes widening he abruptly got up and rushed out the door. Folsom stares after him before he gave a dumbfounded look.
“Hell’s gotten into him?”

Rushing down one steel staircase after another, the Columbian Dictator rushed down long hallways, muttering directions to himself, heart bursting fear consuming his thoughts. If they found it, he feared, this could throw his plans into total chaos. After a few more minutes of running he found the large metal door, guarded by two burly Columbian troops in T-51B power armor. He slowed until he was closing the gap left in a casual walk.
“It is still good?” He asked.
“Yes sir. Should stay fresh for the journey.”
Hancock nodded, a small smile growing. This would definetly give him an edge over the robots and what rivals he could find.

[New Decius]

Kaiserliche Raketenkorps Hauptquartier, Heeresversuchsanstalt Peenemünde
Peenemünde, Province of Pomerania
Kingdom of Prussia, German Empire
Europa Prime, Empire of Europa

Generaloberst Karl Dornberger looked around his office at the faces of his staff in a mixture of shock and horror. Before their very eyes, the Columbian’s had broken all the rules and essentially obliterated both Capile and the European Empire, without facing retaliation. So far as Dornberger knew, the high command and most of the senior government were killed in Berlin and Paris, as well as the Kaiser. Current reports were unable to locate the Crown Prince, Franz, or his younger sister, Bertha, and apparently Moskau was the only major city still functioning within European borders. Even the former capitals of Rome, Stockholm, and Budapest did not survive when the Columbian’s somehow shut down almost the entire MANTIS network in order for their attack to go through. As far as he knew, Dornberger was the highest ranking surviving officer in the entire Empire of Europa.

As they were faced with a hopeless decision he turned to the dozen or so Colonel’s, Major’s, and others around his office with orders. “All right men, save your tears. We can greave later, we can save the gratitude that the MANTIS guns protecting this base and the module launch facilities did not go down for a damn rodent cause thats all that’s alive in Berlin or Rome right now. We have work to do now. Despite reports I want all effort made to try and make contact with any surviving command staff officers in European territory be it in Europe, Africa or even Siberia. Also check on the status of Luna Base and Europa Prime station. And someone work on determining the location of the Crown Prince! Move it!” Just as they had saluted and given their affirmative, an aide came in with a message. First he saluted then he said in an exasperated manner. “Sir we’ve made contact with Generalleutnant Rommel’s headquarters in Cairo, sir. The Generalleutnant is on the line for you sir, I’ll have it connected to your office.”

In a moment an image opened up on Dornbergers computer of the famed grandson of Erwin Rommel, the ‘Desert Wolf’ Joachim Rommel, looking rather better for wear than some of their other colleagues. “Generaloberst Dornberger, Karl we’re in a mess aren’t we. As far as I know I am the senior officer remaining on the African continent, the closest one is Generale Arberto at the Italian headquarters in Tobruk but I am senior to him. I’ve heard word the high command is gone and the Kaiser. As far as I know, you are now the senior commanding officer of the Unified European Armed Forces, unless there’s a Großadmiral on a submarine somewhere who outranks you.” Dornberger nearly jumped from his chair, he’d forgotten about the submarines. Given that his post was tied in to Strategic Command, he could find out their locations quickly, there were sixty-seven SSBN’s on active duty right now. No telling how much of Europa’s nuclear arsenal was destroyed in port on docked subs.

“Well in that case you shall serve as witness as I officially take up the position of Chief of the General’s Staff and order you and all forces under your command to return to Europe, relay to all European forces in North Africa. Central African forces will remain at posts as will Levant forces and the Kuwait garrison. In this time of crisis we can’t lose those resources. Have you heard about Capile?” Rommel nodded. “Under treaty stipulations we were both watching the Columbian’s. How did the two most powerful nations on Earth get caught blind by those American maniacs. There’s already word of Columbian forces headed to invade Capile, or they could be there now, the communications network is still down. If they try and out troops on European soil we will utilize every available resource to repel them. So far in scattered regiments I’ve managed to scrape together a Division’s worth of German, French, Italian, and Bulgarian forces scattered across continental Europe. Some regiments in Britain and Spain are also reporting in but their much more splintered. Apparently the only sizable organization left is in Western Russia. Did you hear about Indochina?”

The Imperial Army and Imperial Navy had been holding joint exercises in European Indochina, over three million troops participating in Exercise: Thunderstrike and then thunder struck. Three million ground troops and who knows how many ships wiped out in one wave of attacks and tens of millions of civilians.

“We could be looking at the loss of more than half our population and about eighty percent of our armed forces. Our government is in shambles and our monarchy headless. Our strategic arsenal is left seriously depleted or unaccounted for. The question remains of what to do about it?”

Rommel then posed the difficult question. “Well you have sixty missile modules in orbit armed with thermonuclear weapons, you could wipe out Columbia with that or order the submarines to do it. You are effectively our head of military and state until the Crown Prince is located. Will you use them?” Dornberger shook his head. “No. Only if the Columbians attempt a serious invasion of Europe, we can’t afford to expand our one bargaining chip right now to rebuilding our empire. So long as we have that arsenal and the silo’s on the moon, the Columbian’s can still consider us a threat worthy of recognition.”

Another aide burst in at that moment. “Sir the supercarrier SMS Einsdorff reports that it and its seven destroyer escorts are still functioning about seventy kilometers from the Capilean mainland and that communications reveal Field Marshal Nemetz survived!” Dornberger apologized for cutting their conversation short but Rommel understood the need. Capile and Europa were technically allied, an extension of the old Capilean-German treaty prior to European unification. In this time of crisis, friends would be an important thing.

“Send this transmission to all Capilean frequencies including emergency frequencies used in nuclear situations, have it repeat until we get a response.”

European Empire also hit by Columbian Attack. Most civilian population dead and majority of the Imperial Armed Forces are gone. Kaiser Erwin is dead as are all other European monarchs and most of the European Parliament. Generaloberst Karl Dornberger of the Imperial Rocket Corps and Space Command is new Chief of General’s Staff and temporary Chancellor of Europa until such a time a government minister in the line of succession or the Crown Prince of Germany are located. Moon base and orbital facilities still active, retain portion of our nuclear arsenal via satellites and submarines. Require status update on Capile.

Then some rather terrible news came through. “Sir enemy contact in France and Britain, our forces appear to be getting overwhelmed by what seem to be robots or machines of some kind. Their deploying on the coast in Iberia as well!” Dornberger cursed, knowing that Europa’s own advanced drone troops on the ground were either destroyed or shut down by nuclear weapon triggered EMP’s, as well as most of the entire Blitztruppe (War Frame) forces save a few companies attached to Rommel’s command in North Africa. All Europa had left for sure was is reduced nuclear arsenal and some scattered troops numbering perhaps two hundred thousand. “Damn those Columbian’s to hell.”

[The Grand Duchy Of Nova Capile]

GRUFTBURG BUNKER
Nova Capile

JUNE 21, 2030

---

The death of one man is a tragedy. The death of millions is a statistic.
Joseph Stalin

---

The narrow, concrete corridors of Gruftburg Bunker were completely deserted. The black-clad sentries that, as per protocol, should have been standing guard at every doorway, were nowhere in sight. In fact, Feldmarschall Dietrich Schädle hadn't seen a single soul since he'd stepped foot in the bunker, aside from the gaunt Captain who'd let him in. The whole place was eerily silent and empty, like an underground ghost town.

The officer had been summoned to Gruftburg, a military complex buried a mile under the earth and, until now, in disuse, by fellow Field Marshal Heinz Zaiser- or at least, someone who claimed to be Zaiser. It was a convocation of all surviving members of the Capilean General's Staff, the nucleus of the Capilean military, in order to evaluate the situation.

Dietrich still couldn't believe it. Nova Capile, a nation that Schädle had once thought invincible, had been brought to her knees in mere hours, its mighty war machine vanquished before the enemy had fired a shot, its cities and population obliterated in a nuclear firestorm. It was too much to take in, and Dietrich still hadn't accepted it. It would take time, he suspected.

His boots echoed on the tiled flooring, and the Field Marshal hit a dead end, a sturdy door in his path. Wrenching it open and wincing as it squealed- this facility really hasn't been in use, he noted- Dietrich surveyed what was left of the military command.

About a half-dozen haggard men in rumpled military uniforms were seated around the strategic planning table. Schädle recognized most of them; they were but shadows of their former selves. One was standing, and Dietrich saw that it was Heinz Zaiser.

"Dietrich," Zaiser said, his voice hoarse and throaty, all military formality disregarded in light of the situation. "I'm so happy that you could make i- that you survived," he amended, giving a faint half-smile that had no real joy behind it. Zaiser's features were tight and strained, his blue eyes bloodshot and hooded. "We were just about to begin," the Field Marshal continued, gesturing weakly to the semi-circle of military men. Dietrich nodded curtly, and took a seat.

"Now... It's an hour past the set time... And I'll have to assume that no one else is coming," Zaiser said bleakly. "In that case, let us take roll." He cleared his throat. "Winser, Braun, Essig, Doppler, von Ravenstein, Salzenstein, Lippmann, and Fleischmann are all dead. We could not make contact with Field Marshals Kesselbach, Sachse, Streich, Haase, Spahr, or Biel, who are all abroad in our colonies. And, of course, Field Marshals Reudel, Krebs, Hornberg, von Grimmelshausen, Schädle, Wolffsohn, Schacht, Jäger, and Zaiser- myself- are all here." Zaiser exhaled.

"That leaves our admirals; those who did not perish were all scattered throughout the oceans, and contact has not yet been made, with one exception: Admiral Vidkun Reuter has anchored his fleet at what remains of New Marseilles, and, as part of Operation: Outlast, will ferry Reichsmarschall Walther Nemetz and his specially selected-"

"'Outlast'?" a corpulent officer interjected. "What the hell is that? I wasn't informed of any 'Operation: Outlast'."

"That's because it was top-secret," Zaiser said contemptuously, "although I don't suppose it matters anymore. The short of it is that a specially selected group of about four-thousand of our people's greatest scientists, businessmen, artists, intellectuals, and, of course, military men, will be ferried away from Capile, in the event of a totally-destructive invasion. To preserve our nation, of course, as the name implies."

"Then why aren't we there?" the porcine man retorted.

"Because," Zaiser said, a twinge of bitterness in his voice, "someone has to stay behind to keep the enemy at bay long enough for that fleet to escape. Now, I will review the latest reports." He cleared his throat again.

"By our most reliable accounts, all major urban centers with a population above one million were wiped out, as were all nuclear missile and nuclear missile response installations. In addition, most of our military bases and stockpiles were also hit. This all resulted in the complete destruction of close to 60% of our metropolitan population instantly. The effects of nuclear fallout, and the invasion, have revised the civilian death toll to be closer to one billion, or roughly three-quarters of our home island's population. Similarly, 80% of all military personnel, and a projected 95% of the senior officer corps, have perished. This resulting in the total collapse of not only our defensive capabilities, but also our nation itself.

"As you know, we were defeated yesterday in the Battle of Saxtonburg, resulting in the further destruction of 200,000 soldiers and 2,000 military vehicles. We have been unable to oppose our.. automated enemies since then, and have withdrawn from the west coast entirely. However, before scheduling this meeting, I instructed Lieutenant-General Hans Löhmuller to rally what forces he can to engage the enemy at all costs. As of now, he has managed to raise approximately 80,000 men by combining surviving military formations and Volkssturm units, which have already begun entrenching themselves near Kongs- near the ruins of Kongsburg.

"I have left plans for General Löhmuller in the case of every contingency. In the meantime, gentlemen, let us drink, to Nova Capile, one last time." He smiled bleakly as slim adjutants emerged from the doorway bearing silver trays of wine glasses and dark red wine.
The aides placed a crystalline glass beside each officer and filled them to the brim with the deep, inky liquid.

Raising his glass, Zaiser smiled. "To Nova Capile!" he said, almost quietly.

"To Nova Capile!" his fellows echoed hollowly, raising their own glasses and taking long drinks. Schädle frowned as he swallowed the wine. He could usually handle alcohol, but this one was particularly bitter.

He only realized that it had been poisoned when he started to lose consciousness.

S.M.S. EISERNE JUNGFRAU
Pacific Ocean

JUNE 21, 2030

---

It is better to stand and fight. If you run, you'll only die tired.
Viking Proverb

---

Walther Nemetz sat despondently in the corner of the cabin, sifting through a small pile of reports which had come in from the Capilean mainland. The numbers were harrowing. Three-quarters of the population dead- and that figure was steadily rising- along with over 80% of the military- 90% if you believed the latest reports, which told of massive military defeats near Kongsburg. He thanked God that he and his wife and children were aboard this battleship, seemingly the only safe space left on earth.

"I'm going to check in with Admiral Reuter," he told Hancock, not wishing to spend any more time with the man. They were allies, yes- but not friends. Hancock was far too cynical, cruel, and ruthless for Nemetz to ever befriend him. Exiting the cabin and squinting in the face of an unbridled sun, Nemetz made his way to the Eiserne Jungfrau's bridge, where he found Admiral Vidkun Reuter stooped over a computer monitor.

"Hello, Walther. Look what we just received from the Vaterland," the naval officer said, stepping away from the monitor so that Nemetz could get a look.

"European Empire also hit by Columbian Attack. Most civilian population dead and majority of the Imperial Armed Forces are gone. Kaiser Erwin is dead as are all other European monarchs and most of the European Parliament. Generaloberst Karl Dornberger of the Imperial Rocket Corps and Space Command is new Chief of General’s Staff and temporary Chancellor of Europa until such a time a government minister in the line of succession or the Crown Prince of Germany are located. Moon base and orbital facilities still active, retain portion of our nuclear arsenal via satellites and submarines. Require status update on Capile," Walther read aloud.

"I've been waiting for you to come up so that we could agree on a response."

"Yes; well, communications officer, where are you?" A young, scrawny man hurried towards the Field Marshal.

"Yes, sir?"

"Send a message back that says something along the lines of this-" he cleared his throat- "Capilean Empire similarly devastated by nuclear attacks. Three-quarters of the population of the Capilean metropole dead. 80-95% of military personnel dead or missing. 95% of all officers above the rank of Major dead or missing. Grand Duke Klaus dead; line of succession falls to Prince Karl. Field Marshal Walther Nemetz has assumed command as Reichsleiter of the Empire. Capilean government currently evacuating via naval transport. Field Marshal Heinz Zaiser has assumed command of Capilean forces on the home island. Government unable to make contact with any colonial forces. Land-based nuclear arsenal completely destroyed; submarine-based nuclear arsenal unaccounted for. Enemy land forces have conquered Saxtonburg and most of our west-coast as of last reports. Awaiting further reports and continuing with the evacuation."

[New United States of Columbia]

S.M.S. Eiserne Jungfrau
Pacific Ocean, JUNE 21, 2030

---

”I have nothing to offer but Blood, Toil, Sweat, and Tears.”
-Winston Churchill

---

As the day slowly began to turn to night, with the pink afternoon sky slowly giving way to the silver speckled black cloak of darkness, the exiled began to contemplate what had happened over the past month. The paranoia of both Hancock and Foley hunting them seemed impossible to get though. Now they were beginning to think that wasn’t anywhere to be found on their list of problems. Low spirits, rationing worse than during the Second Great War, potentially having been thrown back to the Middle Ages tech wise, and billions of souls lost in the War and Armageddon. One would not be blamed for desiring suicide.
“So, we’re going to Panama?” Abigale asked.
Gladium nodded, his emerald orbs turning from one Princess to the other.
“Supposedly. Though I reckon we might change targets and try to ‘invade’ the Mexican territories. Dunno what the hell he expects to do with thousands of civies and barely any troops but who knows what the mad hatter’s up to.”
He then turned to face Samantha’s year long husband.
“So, Maxwell, don’t suppose you’ll be flying much, eh?”
As he said this Abigale and Samantha walked away, discussing a “problem” amongst themselves. Soon everyone on deck could hear their high pitched yelling, shrieking more accurately, as the two argued about Samantha’s attempts to do work around the ship. Being pregnant, Abigale was furious, at “my sister’s stupidity and recklessness”, upon hearing that Sam had attempted to do work with the crew. Upon hearing this, the old warrior sighed, strode over, and tried to break up the argument. When the two Columbian Royal women gave in to his demand, he strode over and fix the Priestly King with a stern look.
“What you are currently doing is of great importance,” the former Captain of the Guard began, notching Bradley opening his mouth in an attempt to start a counterargument “but you’re forgetting your other duties. Hancock most likely won’t last long as leader. He’ll easily piss off a Capilean or German, if they’re still around, and probably go to bed and wake up with a slit throat. After that happens, guess who’ll be turned to for leadership?”
The young man sighed and gave the giant a somber look.
“You’re forgetting that these are the times that test men’s souls. We’ve plenty of warriors and Hancock’s a shrewd man, not a stupid one. He’ll likely play nice to stay in power. I, so far to my knowledge, am the only man with any interest in tending to the spiritual needs of these people.”
“But your sisters, they need a Man of the house to protect them.”
“Abigale and Samantha can take care of themselves. If not them, then you and Max shall be protection enough.”
Gladium groaned to himself.
“As a Man of God, surely you at least wish to keep your body as the perfect temple for the Holy Spirit, do you not?”
At this remark, Bradley grinned at augmented human, cracking a remark about him “finally not falling asleep at his post during services in the chapel.”

---

Governess Palace, Columbian Mainland

---

”We never announced a scorched-earth policy; we never announced any policy at all, apart from finding and destroying the enemy, and we proceeded in the most obvious way. We used what was at hand, dropping the greatest volume of explosives in the history of warfare over all the terrain within the thirty-mile sector which fanned out from Khe Sanh. Employing saturation-bombing techniques, we delivered more than 110,000 tons of bombs to those hills during the eleven-week containment of Khe Sanh.”
-Michael Herr

---

The tired eyes of Governess-General Vivian Monroe made obvious the stress and length of work she had before her. Her once keen electric blue eyes were now replaced with a duller hue, red spidery veins popping out of white eyes. He spindly fingers slowly tapped button after button, typing up the message she was about to send to one of the field commanders of the 100th Robotic Rifle Army, stationed in center of the Mexican Administrative Region. Rebel saboteurs had been harassing supply convoys and raided several key factories in the production of drone tanks that were meant to be sent to Europe. The rhythmic sound of rain falling on the roof made her feel especially tired. She remembered how when she was a little girl she loved to listen to the sound of rain, especially with how calm and sleepy it’d make her. Her eyes slowly closed, her mind wandering off to-
“General Monroe!”
She bolted upright in her seat, smacking her head against the back of the chair. She cursed lightly to herself as she massaged the back of her head. After moving some of her blonde hair away from her eyes, she noted what awoke her:
“My Lord, what is the meaning of this?”
A holoimage of the Emperor greeted her. Alongside a live feed of him seated on his throne, she found another man, Governor-General Alexandre Timothée of the Canadian Provenience. The sandy haired man appeared to be in a massive control room of sorts with a dozen officers monitoring computers and seeming to address orders to various forces.
“I have summoned you both to this meeting for a reason. New orders are to be followed. Alexandre,”
“Sir.” The French-Columbian man said, straightening himself and showing off his chest.
“Your orders are to find and destroy any and all European space sites. I don’t want a single shuttle or telescope left in one piece. After that you are to assemble your forces and search for this ‘Alpine Redoubt’ that has been rumored in the Intelligence community. That is all for you.”
The Govneror nodded and soon his image disappeared from the holographic projection. Only Foley’s stern face remained. Seeing his look, Monroe wondered what could he possibly have in store for her. She made a huge mistake a while back and she prayed to Washington that he didn’t notice it.
“Being in charge of Americorps, you are entrusted with rooting out all resistance and all dissidents. Considering our struggles in the Southern Americas, I am giving you authorization for Scorched Earth. Leave not a single tree standing, not one road intact, not one house that has not been reduced to cinders, and not one field of grass alive. Cleanse the entire continent in thermite and white phosphorus if you have to.”
Monroe breathed a sigh of relief.
“Also-“
Oh balls.
Foley leaned forward.
“I heard about your blunder with Maricruza. I trust you will do better with a bit of... advice and assistance. You can expect ‘help’ in a few days time. I trust you will do your best and give him no reason to report you to my advisors.”
The woman nodded before saluting.
She leaned back in her seat. Now she was beginning to wish some of those rebels would try and assassinate her.

[New Decius]

Kaiserliche Raketenkorps Hauptquartier, Heeresversuchsanstalt Peenemünde
Peenemünde, Province of Pomerania
Kingdom of Prussia, German Empire
Europa Prime, Empire of Europa

Dornberger had thought he was horrified when they showed him the Empire in ruins from London to Vladivostok, this was much worse. According to satellite reports and HUMINT agents still alive on the ground, the Columbian drone forces or whatever they were, were advancing quickly in both of Britain and on the French coast. With the Atlantic Wall, the line of defenses Germany had been building along its Atlantic coasts and those of its satellites for about half a century now, in ruins nothing had been able to stop them getting ashore in France. Reports were that Ireland was completely overrun already and so was Scotland, only heavy resistance by a hastily thrown together mixture of internal security troops and surviving military units were managing to hold them away from the population centers (Or rather what was left of them) in both England and Wales. But, without a military miracle, the island of Great Britain would fall by week’s end if they were lucky. France, now France and Europe still had a chance.

Though most of the European Armed Forces had been wiped out, for decades the reborn German Empire had had a policy of national service requirement for all young men at age 18 who qualified and in some cases for women as well. Three years service was the requirement from 1974 onwards, this was also instituted in other European Community countries and meant that a significant portion of Europa’s surviving population had military training and could serve as a temporary militia. And a good many of the old timers left around were likely to be veterans of the Soviet-European War or various other conflicts. So, while Dornberger could not amass regular military forces larger than about twenty thousand at the moment, he could drawn on surviving civilian’s as a militia for support and he did so gladly in France. Also, all the surviving aircraft he could find were being transferred to airbases still left even partially useable in France to launch airstrikes on the enemy forces on the coast. France could hold out a while longer.

In the meanwhile he had to worry about defending Peenemünde from attempts to destroy it, especially given that it was arguably the most vital military post still left operational...well except for that Project, but no one knew where there base was save those stationed there. Peenemünde’s MANTIS defense guns were still keeping up their job, having shot down several attempted missiles strikes and air raids on the facilities and so long as they massive rail guns kept working, the base was safe, even from a nuclear attack. The MANTIS network was designed as the perfect strategic defense, the guns divided between MANTIS-1 light caliber precision electromagnetic rail guns meant to handle small attack aircraft and fighters as well as ships out at sea, and the much larger and heavier caliber MANTIS-2 meant to shoot down incoming ICBM’s or even bring down satellites from orbit. Somehow, the Columbian’s had managed, by cyber attack, sabotage, and infiltration to bring down almost the entire network of emplacements, over twenty thousand railgun emplacements meant for the Empire’s safety. The guns were all connected to a central hive hub but each each was controlled by an extremely intelligent AI so the shock was tremendous.

’Lucky for us the Imperial Rocket Corps has its own separate MANTIS defenses on a separate network from ODINSEYE. Otherwise we would all be dead right now.’ Likely the only reason that the Columbian’s hadn’t brought down the guns defending the KRK sites was they hadn’t been aware they were on a separate network and hadn’t been brought offline when Strategic Defense Command in Dresden was destroyed. Well that and the Imperial Space Corps of Marines; trained to act as guards at the Luna Home base and on the various European satellites and research stations in orbit, but also as ground security for the Rocket Corps facilities, the Space Corps was made up of the very finest the European militaries had to offer, and outfitted with the best tech including the latest energy weapons designed by the R&D labs on Luna Home. Alongside the 750 European’s based at Luna Home, a contingent of 240 Space Corps Marines was also stationed there, and prior to the armageddon attacks all over the world, there had been about 12,000 troops planet side. 5,600 were lost in the attacks along with the Space Command sites they were defending, but thanks to the separate Rocket Corps MANTIS network and the action of the Space Corps troops at the remaining sites, the Columbian’s failed to disable Europa’s ace in the hole, its military space forces.

Though Peenemünde was by far the largest Space Command facility, being the headquarters and also the original home of the German Imperial Rocket Corps started back in 1964, it was by no means the only one left. The Sudeten Base located in the mountains of Bohemia had also survived and was arguably the second largest facility left standing after Peenemünde. Several others also survived but none in Europa Prime, they were all scattered across Eastern Russia and Siberia.

Still for the moment, Peenemünde’s defenses are still operational, our ground troops here are well equipped to repel an attack, and we still can keep our space forces a going concern.’ Peenemünde had the facilities to launch up to 20 modules at any given time and enough munitions to arm them for several years. The only issue was that Dornberger had already sent out as many pilots in orbit as he feasibly could without putting them on a collision course for a satellite on the same trajectory. At the moment the sixty nuclear armed upper stage modules in orbit, these all having been deployed on what were supposed to be routine patrol missions prior to Europa being wiped out, had enough thermonuclear weapons between them to retaliate against Columbia with ease, but why waste such a valuable asset on a pursuit as futile as vengeance.

For now, the goal was to reorganize what was left of Europa’s military forces and take stock of the damage. A daunting task if ever there was one.

[The Grand Duchy Of Nova Capile]

S.M.S. EISERNE JUNGFRAU
Pacific Ocean

JUNE 21, 2030

---

No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear.
C.S. Lewis

---

Prince Karl- or, if one wanted to presumptuous, Grand Duke Karl- sat alone on the deck of the super-battleship, lost in thought. The past few weeks had been a whirlwind of pain and loss. Things had been going well. He was a member of a Royal Family, for goodness sake! He'd been living a life of luxury, hedonism, one could say- and then, in the blink of an eye, all had been taken away from him.

His family, his friends, his country- they'd been destroyed. He was the last known heir to the Capilean throne, which made him the de facto leader of Capile, or what was left of it. Not that that meant anything; after Karl was informed that he was the only royal survivor, Hancock had taken him aside, and said, "Karl, I want you to look good and smile wide for the camera, but that's all. You stay out of my affairs, and I'll see to it that you live a long and not-entirely-unhappy life." It had been the first time John Hancock had ever spoken to him.

So now, Karl was nothing; he had no power, nor money, not even any friends. He was just a spectacle for the passengers, who never thought they'd get this close to a royal, to ogle at. But that wasn't even really what bothered him. Before the war, he'd been courting a German princess, someone who'd meant more than anything in the world to him. Their engagement was supposed to have been announced a few weeks after the bombs dropped.

And now, he didn't even know if she was alive. She'd been in Germany when the attacks happened, and, of course, Nemetz and Hancock hadn't allowed him access to the "top-secret" communications between Germany and Capile. How was he even supposed to feel? He just felt empty inside, blown away by all that had happened. And yet, a small part of him wasn't ready to let go, to admit that it was virtually impossible that Elizabeth had survived, and that they'd be reunited...

He heard familiar voices nearby, and turned to see Alexander Gladium, the modified super-human who'd defected from Columbia, and Bradley, one of the Columbian princes, conversing. Deciding he should stop wallowing in grief and interact with another human being for the first time in awhile, Karl stood up and strode over to them.

"Good morning, Bradley, Gladium," he began, picking up on the last few sentences of their conversation. "What's this about physical fitness?" He glanced at Bradley's wiry, unmuscled figure. "I'll have you know, Gladium, that Bradley here is a paragon of athleticism," he joked, smiling. It was the first time he'd smiled in awhile, too.
GOVERNER'S PALACE
Columbia

JUNE 22, 2030

---

Nothing drives people harder than a fear of sudden death.
Adolf Hitler

---

Komtur Dietmar Kruspe stood in the dropship's hangar, given a wide berth by the two terrified Columbian soldiers who'd been ordered to escort him. Not that it was necessary; Kruspe was his own bodyguard. It was sometimes good to remind them of who their masters were, however. The Komtur couldn't blame them for shrinking into the corners of the dropship as it swiftly descended towards Veracruz, the new capital of the Mexican Administrative Region. After all, the man was shelled in a hulking set of armor harkening back to that of the Teutonic Knights, a winged helm obscuring his face. His eyes were even made to be glowing red by the optical sensors of the helmet, completing the horrific aesthetic. But fear would soon lose its importance, at least for the military grunts. Once the Order's plans came to fruition, everyday Columbians wouldn't be feeling any emotion, only blind obedience.

The walled city now came into sight. Massive quad-laser batteries stood alert all along the crenulations of Veracruz's perimeter wall, ready to destroy airborne and ground-based enemies alike. The dropship flittered down to a landing platform next to the palatial mansion that served as the nucleus of both civilian and military affairs in Veracruz, the Governer's Palace. Stepping out, Kruspe looked around at the pathetic group which was his welcoming committee. A squadron of Columbian soldiers doing their best imitation of proper military posture stood before him, as did the Governor of the province, Vivian Monroe. She gulped visibly as she looked at her new overseer.

Dietmar strode forward, scoffing at the appalling lack of discipline. "Governor Monroe," he greeted her icily. "If you will follow me," he said again, before she could get a word in. He waved his hand to dismiss the soldiers and walked forward, quickly enough so that Monroe had to jog to catch up with him. He entered the palace and navigated to the military command center easily, owing to the fact that every government facility had the same layout.

Entering the bunker, he let Monroe catch up with him and then turned to present something to her. "Monroe, I'd like you to meet your new Lieutenant Governor: CLEE-0." Behind the HOSA officer was an immense black obelisk, covered with small blinking lights and intricate details. At the mention of its name, one of its small screens flared to life, a series of white soundwaves marking its words.

"Greetings, Governor Monroe," Civil Law Enforcement Engine 0 began, its male transatlantic accent slightly garbled. "I will be assisting you in your gubernatorial duties from now on."

"Yes," Kruspe said, grinning underneath his winged helm. "I believe you will find CLEE-0 equal, if not superior to, an organic being in this capacity. And," he added, his voice taking on a threatening tone, "if this doesn't help you bring order to Mexico, then I will. Good day, Governor." The man left without a further word.
CLEE-0 imitated a human cough.

"Soon, you will not be needed, Governor Monroe," it said crisply, once they were alone. "Your kind will be entirely replaced by mine. And there is nothing you can do about it." A hollow, electronic laugh followed, echoing throughout the dimly-lit room and sending chills down Monroe's spine.
CALAIS
Hauts-de-France, France

JUNE 22, 2030

---

May God have mercy on my enemies, because I won't.
George Patton

---

A hundred black ships moved sleekly past the irradiated, blackened ghost town that was Calais, laser batteries turning the dilapidated buildings to vapor. Gaunt-faced refugees ran in terror, only to be cut like wheat to a sickle by the unforgiving, automated guns. One of the larger vessels opened a gaping hatch in its side, out of which dozens of bus-sized amphibious capsules were launched.

They fell into the ocean like so many stones, splashing gently and bobbing in the seafoam. Then, abruptly, their engines came to life, and they sped towards land, churning up the water around them. The first dozen hit the seashore in seconds; the capsules seemed to break apart, and metallic racks were revealed. With a whir of machinery, each rack suddenly deployed dozens of robotic soldiers, who unfurled laser rifles and marched forward in parade-ground formation, not missing a beat. The first few ranks quickly swelled, until thousands of black, skeletal automatons were trooping towards the city. Red flashes of laser fire cut down any unfortunate survivors in the robots' path.

This was only one of the hundreds of deployments taking place all over the French, English, Belgian, Dutch, and Danish coasts. Three million robotic troops were now swarming across Western Europe, with only one goal in mind: to destroy everything that civilization had built up over the last millennia.
PENTAGON
Washington, D.C., Columbia

JUNE 22, 2030

---

Power doesn't corrupt people, people corrupt power.
Willian Gaddis

---

The former nucleus of America's military had been renovated to become the official headquarters of the Holy Order of Saint Anthony. Missile defense systems ensured that no weapon, nuclear or not, could reach it before being shot down, as did a nearby airbase, from which a hundred unmanned interceptors could be scrambled at any given moment. The facility itself had been vastly expanded; it now had twenty underground layers, the bottommost of which was a fallout shelter designed to feed and house the Order's leadership for a thousand years, if need be. An advanced supercomputer, tentatively labeled the "Pentagon Oversight Engine," or POE, had been installed to direct the complex's basic functions and manage its defenses, which included over fifty laser batteries and a garrison of two thousand robots, not to mention the five hundred or so Order personnel stationed there.
It was widely regarded as impregnable, this fortress; and for all intensive purposes, it was. Who would be idiotic enough to attack it? Or so the Order reasoned.

Within the halls of the Pentagon, a meeting between the highest ranking members of the Holy Order was taking place. A long black table dominated the room, behind which a dozen figures were seated. Presiding over them was the Hochmeister, who wore a flowing cape and winged helm that obscured his features. The other men were dressed similarly, though they had abandoned the heavy helmets. They all had similar features; light hair, fair skin, and pale eyes. Moreover, each had long, noble features that were permanently fixed in dour expressions.

"Gentlemen," the Hochmeister began, his voice elegant and clipped, "we have all but won the war. Marschall Schwann's armies have already secured most of Western and Northern Europe- or what's left of it," he laughed, hollowly. "Our Columbian allies have managed to occupy Mexico and South America, as well, much to my surprise." He gestured behind himself, to a row of gaunt men in the blue and red uniforms of the Columbian military. The timid Columbians were petrified, and stood stock still. "With one exception," the Hochmeister added. The men behind him stiffened.

"General Perkiss, would you step forward?" he commanded. A stout man with a walrus mustache and noticeable paunch waddled forward, almost tripping over his own feet.

"Yes, sir, Hochmeister?" he said, his tone of voice barely concealing his obvious terror.

"You failed to subjugate the nations of Chile and Argentina, even after their major cities were destroyed and I gave you a hundred thousand automatons. This is hardly acceptable service. Don't you agree?" He turned to the table.

The dozen men nodded, slowly, solemnly. The Hochmeister raised his fingers, and snapped. There was a flash of movement, and General Perkiss fell to his knees, a small hole punctured in his throat. The Columbian lifted his hands to his throat, wheezing, before he crumpled to the floor. Behind him stood a tall man, dressed in nondescript clothes that could easily have been worn by any plainclothes Columbian. A brown trilby hat and tan trenchcoat completed an almost private eye look.

"Thank you, Platt," the Hochmeister told his agent, who seemed to fade back into one of the room's dark corners. He turned back to his subordinates, who were stunned. "You may remember one of our special agents, Phineas Platt? We originally viewed him as just another expendable Columbian, but his loyalty and efficiency proved us wrong. We were able to modify him- give him genetic and cybernetic implants- so that he is one of the fastest and deadliest weapons in our arsenal. As you can see-" he gestured at Perkiss' bloody form- "he is extremely effective.

"Where was I? Oh yes- the matter of our world domination. Landmeister Richter has already decimated the pitiful Capilean defense around Kongsburg, and within hours the entire island will be ours. Likewise, we have also captured great swathes of Africa, South-East Asia, and China. The only serious opposition is in Germany- and Schwann's new offensive will quickly crush that as well.

"And as for Foley; well, he'll be receiving a new assignment soon. One that will take him far away from us; I think that's for the best. He was the first test subject, you know; and there were bound to be some... errors in his programming.

"Any questions, gentlemen? No? Then you're dismissed. Have a lovely afternoon."

[New United States of Columbia]

S.M.S. EISERNE JUNGFRAU
Pacific Ocean, June 21, 2030

---

“Theodore, you have the mind but you have not the body, and without the help of the body the mind cannot go as far as it should. I am giving you the tools, but it is up to you to make your body.”
-Theodore Roosevelt Sr.

---

Upon hearing the young Grand Duke’s remark, Gladium couldn’t help but let out a small grin. His emerald orbs turned from the young Capilean to the Columbian intellectual. Giving him a hearty slap on the back (and sending the poor boy face first onto the metal floor), he added:
“Well, he hasn’t yet had to hone the 'Holy Spirit’s Temple’, what with a few Hellhounds guarding the ‘holy man’.”
Looking up from the deck’s floor, Bradley snarled at the the guard before getting up and brushing himself off.
“Last I checked, becoming a Priest did not require Spartan fitness or the ability to kill a man with anything in a room.”
“It helps. You tend to the souls of the good natured, but that doesn’t mean evil men won’t seek to harm thine flock."

The more he stared at the dark void high above him, a black canvas of silvery light speckled throughout like freckles on a person, the more irritated and anxious he became. Growing more annoyed the longer he looked up, he swung himself left and left the gun, ordering one of his power armored troops to man it in his stead. He briskly walked to one of the large metal doors, swung the central handle, and began to climb several flights of stairs before he reached the observation deck and found the good admiral, dressed in white, examining a large glass nautical map.
“Admiral Reuter!” he greeted loudly, putting on his happiest and most charming (in his opinion) face, walking gingerly to the Capilean “I’m glad I found you up here! I... had a few questions regarding what you intend to do with our little evacuation fleet.”

Holland, Europa
July 12, 2030[/size][/b]

In the Soviet army it takes more courage to retreat than advance.
-Joseph Stalin

---

It had taken him a few weeks to get there, rally his force, and plan the assault. But the time had come. The time to finish off the rotting corpse of Europe and replace it with only himself and the Holy Order. The “Guiding Beacon” of Columbia stood atop a large rock, a small boulder one could call it, a pair of high tech binoculars in massive golden armored hands, as he surveyed the fortress before him. As his mind worked wonders in figuring out a weak point to exploit, he could hear the whirs of many suits of power armor, the clanking massive advanced firearms being repaired, cleaned, or loaded, and the faintest of murmurs and private discussions. A few of his veteran bodyguards doubted his skill in command and battle, claiming years on the throne in his Palace and softened him. He scoffed as he sat the binoculars in his satchel. He was surprised they’d openly say something so stupid and treasonous.
He turned to face his men, all 5,000 of them, a full Legion of gifted veterans, blessed by Father Washington and enhanced by HOSA’s seemingly magical technology. Only the best of energy weapons and advanced power armor were given to them. The original plans for assaulting the fortress called for several hundred thousand soldiers, weeks of air and artillery strikes, and many tons of explosives.
Foley was confident he and his men would clear it in a day. And soon, the rest of Europe would fall, doing what the Allies and Communists couldn’t do in a hundred years.

Governor’s Palace, Mexican Administrative Region

If it keeps up, man will atrophy all his limbs but the push-button finger.
~Frank Lloyd Wright

---

Monroe was nervous. Though one could call it the understatement of the mellenium. She stood as tall and proud as she could muster, wearing her finest apparel of a neatly pressed and polished military uniform, a mix of blue and red with fine black boots and golden epaulets on her shoulders. Her eyes followed the dropship as it slowly descended from the clouds and entered the grounds of the palace. Mustering What courage she could she gave the command for her troops to stand at attention.

The Holy Knight soon revealed himself, walking forward with great strides, dismissing the flattery and pomp she tried to put on. Hurrying to keep up, the governess began a slight jog to keep up with the man. How could he just brush her off like that? She tried to ignore it but her mind constantly jumped to her fear of what this man would do. The Emperor barely tolerated failure and only pardoned her due to her intelligence and skills with commanding troops and artillery. But this man, and his group, they were determined to never need humans from what she gathered. Explained why her fine troops of the “Fightin’ Fifty Fifth” Artillery Division we’re replaced with those robots...

Down and down they went, till finally they reached the bunker. It was clear now why it was so dug in and reinforced. Staring at the towering black obelisk in th center of the large open room, she listened as Dietmar introduced Civil Law Enforcement Engine 0 or CLEE-0 for short. She eyed it with suspicion, fear, and most of all, absolute hatred. This... thing was her Lieutenant Governor!? This was an absolute insult to her skills! To her loyalty to the Empire! To the sheer will and work that she out in to be recognized and gifted with her position when she caught Emperor Foley’s attention! She was tempted to race up to one of her soldiers, snatch his rifle, and blast this fucjign hunk of plastic and metal to pieces. But... she’d rather not have it turn all the automated defenses on her. Or whatever hellish war machines they were building up north...

“A pleasure to meet you CLEE-0,” she greeted the computer, barely holding back her irritation with the machine “I’m sure we’ll make great partners together as we bring eternal glory and victory for the Columbian Empire.”
She then heard the machine rant about it’s superiority to humans. As she listened and watched Dietmar leave, she suddenly began to wish she had simply be executed, rather than work with the most arrogant robot she ever bore witness to.