Harrenian Hegemony“What the fuck is that?” Dio fumed as he stared out the harbourside window of his office in the Naval Academy. When his aide, Eiji, started to respond, he cut him off and asked again, even more loudly whilst gesticulating out the window, “What, the FUCK, is that?”. The aide cleared his throat but Dio silenced him with a glare before he could answer, “Stop trying to answer the damn question you dumb fuck, it was rhetorical, I can see it’s a fleet. The point I was trying to make was, how the fuck did we not see it coming ‘till it was IN OUR GOD DAMNED HARBOUR?”.
The secretary outside his office, the one who had worked under Balthazar and Gautima, smiled to herself as she typed on her keyboard. Then the door to Dio’s office opened and Eiji stepped out before shutting the door behind him, she stopped typing and grinned up at him, “How’s the grumpy koala today?”.
“He wouldn’t like you calling him that.” he laughed before setting a file down on her desk, “Bemus wants a line of passive sonar buoys built to stretch across the sea from Milos to Paros. Assign it to Naval Intelligence, let them work out the specifics.”.
She took the file and opened it before cocking an eyebrow. “Quite a project,” she was going to go on but then the door thumped open and Bemus strode forth, “Ah sir, the request from the Noctish flotilla?”.
Dio didn’t stop but called back as he went, “Have the Noctish delegation brought to the mess, oh and send an official invite to Agrippa, I’m sure he’ll want to be involved, even though his men probably just heard this anyway.”. He chortled as he went, imagining Agrippa’s face and knowing he’d probably pay for that but hey, he couldn’t resist.
Fig. The Naval Academy Mess, where Dio invited Agrippa and the Notcish delegation.
Unknown location, Harrenian HegenomyHis head throbbed as he held it against the cold, damp stone of his cell wall. There wasn’t enough room to even sit down and he was held up against the wall by the unyielding metal of the door itself. He knew his headache was because of his hunger, lack of food always gave him headaches and they hadn’t been feeding him much apart from a thin watery porridge that was more like a drink than food. He licked his dry lips, closing his eyes to try and fall asleep but unable to do so from the crippling pain in his knees, shins and ankles; he’d been forced to stand this way for days, only being let out to eat. He’d been forced to sleep, urinate and deficate on his feet.
Suddenly the heavy metal door swung open and a harsh light flooded the cell and the prisoner instinctively shied away.
“Fuck me, he stinks!” Came an unfamiliar voice.
“What do you expect? The higher ups love the idea of these cells but don’t give a goblins shit about the maintenance…” Another replied
“Can’t we get some slaves to do this?”
“You heard the Prefect, he told us to pick him up, hes worked out some deal with the old man.”
“Bloody patricians...I suppose we have to wash him and all?”
“The hose will do, this scum probably won’t live through this anyway…”
“Good. I always enjoy this part.”
The blast of frigid water made him gasp and it didn’t help his headache at all. They were treating him as if he was nothing and talking about him as if he wasn’t even there. With the door gone he finally collapsed, allowing his legs to curl up. They cramped and he clutched them to his chest but when the cramps passed they finally relaxed. The prisoner then found himself being dragged away by the two men, his eyes finally adjusting to the light he could see the two men were wearing dark military tunics, their shoulders bearing a silver scorpion sigil. He groaned in despair; Praetorian Intelligence. He’d heard of untold thousands being taken by these remorseless killers, and none had ever returned.
The men took him to a separate room where they forced him into an old shift to cover his shame and even permitted him a crust of bread and a cup of water.
“Why we wasting good food on this filth?” One of his handlers asked.
“Prefect said keep him alert, the old man don’t want him collapsing in front of him, would ruin the old bastards fun.” The pair laughed unpleasantly before one slapped him round the head.
“You hear that scum?” He said vindictively. “Do what the old fuck says and maybe he won’t have your balls chopped off, eh?” More cruel laughter.
He devoured the bread in an instant, hoping it would be enough to finally make his headache abate yet embarrassed to have shown how desperate he was. As he washed it down with water, he cleared his throat, speaking through his tight vocal chords, “I don’t want to die and I can’t do any more of that,” gesturing back towards the cell he’d been held in, “I’ll do what you say. Please.”
The duo merely guffawed.
“I love it when they beg, come on scum, you’ve got a very important date to get to.”
“Lucky beggar!” Said the other still laughing. The prisoner was blindfolded and manhandled out of the room. He was dragged through a long corridor and up several flights of stairs. He overheard his handlers taking to an obvious authority figure, none of them sounded happy. Before he knew it he had been shoved down into a chair and he heard more men clattering towards him. Even blindfolded he could feel the tension in the room, before his mask was lifted and he found himself sitting opposite an older looking man, with steel gray hair and dressed in an elaborate white uniform.
Looking around he could see that both him and the man opposite were flanked by Roman legionaries, all of whom were looking directly at him. A cup of, what he assumed to be wine, was placed in front of him and the older man, the latter took a thoughtful sip before asking.
“Do you know who I am?”
“Oh god....”, he looked around at the opulence in the chamber and the ornate uniforms and the man himself, resplendent and terrible, the architect of countless thousands of Harrenian deaths, “oh god! I’m sorry. Please don’t kill me.”. His heartbeat thrummed at a massive rate, causing his head to throb in even more pain. He panted and closed his eyes, hoping that it would all just go away.
Agrippa smirked.
“I'll take that as a yes then.” He placed the cup down. “Do you know what you have done?”
He tried to respond but his racing heart and gasping breaths made it difficult to get out the words, “I... I killed your puppet.”. He saw no point in lying, it would achieve nothing and if he told the truth he might just get out of this alive. “I’m sorry.”
“Oh you’re sorry?” Agrippa said innocently clapping his hands together. “Well that’s alright then. You’re free to go, go on, back to whatever shitstained hovel you call home.”
“Please, I’m sorry,” he knew Agrippa was being sarcastic but he needed to have some hope, some way out, he couldn’t take any more suffering, “I’ll do whatever you want.”
“I’d expect no less from Harrenite scum such as yourself.” The Prefectus said with a sigh. “Let’s start with a few questions, even you should be able to handle that, surely? Who are you? And why did you try to kill poor old Gautima?”
He noticed the obvious implication. Gautima had survived and so it had all been for naught. He started crying. The world and the man in front of him blurred as he tried to respond through hiccoughs, “Izu Otome. Gautima,”, he wiped his eyes and sucked in breath, “Gautima is a collaborator,”, his throat was ragged and tense, “the bastard executed my daughter with his own hands!”. He stared up at Agrippa with bloodstained eyes, “Your orders I believe.”
“Tut, tut, are you people taught no discipline?” The Prefectus gestured vaguely to a legionary, who promptly hit Otome across the face. “As far as I'm aware the illustrious Premier never got his hands dirty since I gave him his fancy title, but I'm sure there's time yet. As you’ve probably guessed the tenacious bastard clung to life like a limpet, currently lounging around on one of my estates on Kos; fine wine, the best food and luxuries beyond your peasant understanding. Meanwhile you have to use your own clothes as a lavatory. Tell me, Mr Otome. Was it worth it?”
Reeling from the blow which compounded his splitting headache he missed most of what Agrippa said but forced himself to refocus, “No, but I had to try. Please, if he’s not dead....”, he left the point hanging like hope on the wind, staring up at Agrippa with pleading eyes.
“Then I have to let you go? Is that what your barbarian laws say?” A slow smile spread over the old man's face. “I am the law on Harren Island now, Mr Otome, and according to that law, you are a rebel and a traitor and you will die. It's just a matter or when...and how long it takes.” He stared coldly at the Harrenite for a few moments before suddenly breaking out into a sardonic smile.
“Don’t worry though, you won’t die without having left a legacy.” He snapped his fingers and one of the soldiers laid several photos in front of the other man.
“Oh dear god,”, he needed to escape, his muscles twitched and he frantically looked around, looking for a way out but only seeing the guards that were watching his every move, “please, please, I’ll do anything.”. He caught a glimpse of the photos on the table showing hundreds of dead Harrenian civilians and he vomited, losing what little food they had just given him. “Please!”.
Agrippa smirked viciously, glad one of the guards had thrust the mans head away from his august personage.
“It was your attempt that convinced me of the necessity of...harsher measures. To teach you pathetic people that resistance can only mean death!”
He leaned forwards, towards the dry heaving prisoner.
“Would you like to kill me, Mr Otome?” The Prefectus asked, voice suddenly melancholy but growing harsher with every word. “Take revenge for your the hundreds of thousands i've killed? Your family? Even your own precious daughter?” He paused a moment. “Do you think it would help?”
Spitting out the last bits that remained in his mouth, he looked up, aware of exactly how pathetic he seemed and ashamed of himself yet still desperate to survive. “Yes, I would, however I want to live more.”. He bowed his head, “I can try to infiltrate the Harrenian resistance for you, I can work for you.”
“There is a resistance is there?” Agrippa asked, his tone growing bored but flecked with disappointment. “Let's start with everything you know about them.”
A straw! He clutched at it, “Yes. Of course there’s a resistance.”, he spoke rapidly, reinvigorated by what he saw as a chance, “I heard it’s being run by Heartlanders mainly.”
Yawning the Prefectus stretched his arms behind his back. “I don’t imagine you’ll be seeing many Heartlanders around anymore, not that you’ll be seeing many people again; aside from the lovely fellows in Intelligence. You still have hope though.” Agrippa looked directly into one of the cameras in the corner of the room. “How disappointing.” He pressed a button underneath the table and the black-uniformed men were back in the room.
“I believe Mr Otome needs more time in his cell if he truly believes I’m that gullible.”
A bag was yanked down over his head and he couldn’t see much apart from blood stains and the rough cloth. Then he was hoisted out of his seat and dragged from the room. “Please, no, I’m cooperating!”
“Have someone clean this mess up, and get me a transport back to Cyma.” Agrippa said tediously to one of his guards as the prisoner was dragged away. “Summon that Dio fellow to me, It's time we had a chat.” Still hearing the man's screams as he was dragged away, followed by some muffled thumps, The Prefectus grinned to himself.
“Oh you’ll cooperate Mr Otome, if not in quite the way you might expect…”
Republic of HarrenMaria Otome watched as Colonel Vyr left, head cocked to one side and eyes tracking him as he made it to the gangplank and hurried off towards his station. Had she detected hesitation there? He was well versed in the ways of war, sure, but her proposition seemed to have disconcerted him. The checking of his weapon had seemed like a nervous tic and she didn’t think imminent battle would have triggered that in a man like him. It was certainly interesting and something she could try and push later, not now. She straightened before signalling to her assistant on the shoreline and strolling towards the gangplank herself, her shoes ringing across the hull of the submarine as she went.
Fig. Republic of Harren Presidential Jeep.When her feet made contact with the wharf, she grabbed the blue phone from her assistant’s grasp and held it to her ear, “Send a message to the Militia, I want them on standby across the Republic. Then send a message to Element 44, I want to know if the ADPP is ready. Then send a message to our new Naval Academy, send the trainee crews to their vessels now, they can learn from Myraxian crews in action.”. When she heard confirmation of her orders, she put down the phone, “Thank you Phoebe. Let us depart.”.
The two of them clambered up into a blue armoured jeep that was waiting at the quayside and the driver looked up into his rear-view mirror, “The Capital building Madam President?”.
At first she gave a noncommittal, “Mmmm,” before snapping her fingers and then looking him in the eyes, “No. Element 44. Now.”. He tapped his cap and then the car accelerated down the road, the muffled engine chugging as it forced the weight of the vehicle forward. It was joined by two other armoured jeeps at the harbour entrance that followed it out. The small convoy left the city and drove south-west to then follow a cliff-side road towards Rie and then an hour or so later, beyond Rie into the most sparsely populated countryside of Harren Island along thin dirt tracks.
A few more hours later, the convoy came to a gate in a chain-link fence cutting off a massive chunk of rocky and wooded land along the cliffside. A green light was shining on a lamppost above the gatehouse and the guards came out to check their passes. After handing back the passes, the Guard at the open window spoke out, “For your own safety, keep your windows closed, stay inside your vehicles and do not leave the track.”. Then he let them through and waved them on. They drove in, following a steep, winding road up to a newly constructed concrete edifice nestled in a rocky bluff by the lip of the precipice. A garage door swung open at their approach with a sharp electronic whine and harsh, white, fluorescent light spilled out. The jeeps thrummed in, tightly packing themselves into the hangar along with a couple cars as the door grated shut behind them.
Fig. Part of the facility at Element 44As Maria extricated herself from the tightly packed row of vehicles, a man in a white lab coat with glasses and unkempt hair rushed into the garage area, “Madam President! I sent a status update as requested.”.
Maria came to a halt in front of him as Phoebe rushed over to take up position at her side, Maria cocked her head and looked him up and down, “I would rather hear the status report from you. Personally.”.
“Oh, uh,”, he brushed his hair back and tried to tidy his uniform with one hand, “well, unfortunately, it seems that we won’t have operational.. adequate…. sufficient quantities, now.”.
Her eyes narrowed and her voice dropped as she stepped forward into his personal space, “You said, Doctor, that cultures like these were simple to produce. Simple and cheap enough that high schoolers could make them. Your words. Not mine.”.
Whilst taller than her by far he angled backwards and raised his hands as if to ward her off, “There have been, complications, trying to make… trying to perfect, delivery mechanisms.”.
“YOU said,”, she stepped forwards again, causing him to step back as her voice darkened and her glaring eyes stabbed up at him, “that it would be simple to modify pre-existing designs. That we could begin production almost immediately. What’s happened, Doctor? Why aren’t they ready? Help me understand.”. He bowed his head, dropping his arms and went silent. She shook her head angrily, “Don’t tell me you’re a conscientious objector after what they’ve done, what they’re doing? They’ve murdered, butchered, slaughtered, tortured fellow Harrenians, civilians and military alike. This isn’t even indiscriminate! It would be limited to military deaths only and you’re balking from it?”. She shook her head in disgust. “You’re fired! Get out of my sight.”. He nodded and left without saying a word.
Maria whirled, surprising Phoebe with a snarl, “and you. You said he was the man for the job. You will get this program back on track or you’ll be looking for a new job too. I want the systems ready by the end of the week and mass production started by the end of the month.”. Phoebe swallowed and nodded. She’d seen Maria’s anger before but never directed towards her.
Harrenian HeartlandsRhea cried out in fear as she was roughly dragged from her mother’s grasp and tossed onto the ground. She scraped the skin off her hands and knees and curled up, crying from the pain, but her mother’s screaming cut into her very core and galvanised her into action. She awkwardly stood up and tried to go to her whilst desperately calling out, “Mama!”, but a boot from one of the armoured men sent her flying backwards onto the floor, writhing and unable to draw in breath. Tears streamed down her face as her diaphragm convulsed uselessly and her fingers grasped desperately at the air. Then sweet oxygen entered her heaving lungs and she could breathe again.
She rolled over and curled up into the foetal position as her mother’s screams turned into howling, anguished shrieks. She closed her eyes and clamped her hands over her ears whilst rocking on the floor, wishing it would all stop, wishing they would just go away. She could still hear the muffled shouts of the armoured men and the shrill squeals that no longer sounded like they came from a human.
Later, she didn’t know how much later, she felt a muscled arm gently curl under her torso. With her eyes still clamped shut and her hands grasping her ears, she felt herself being lifted aloft, slowly and carefully. Then she was wrapped in a warm embrace, with her head resting against the solid chest of a man. She could feel his heartbeat through the fabric of his shirt, slow and steady, calming. She opened her eyes and looked up, into his face, one that she’d never seen before, bearded and round with sad eyes and close-cropped hair. She saw he was speaking and felt the rumble in his chest but couldn’t focus on the words. When she tried to turn, his hand was there, grasping the back of her head firmly but softly, preventing her from looking. He shook his head and spoke again and this time she heard him, “I’m sorry little one but you don’t want to see that.”. His voice was deep and gravelly and in a way, extremely comforting. She cried out for her mother but he only clasped her to his chest and started walking, humming a slow song that she didn’t recognise.
She had fallen asleep but was awakened by angry shouting. Clutching desperately at the blue fabric of the man’s shirt, she quivered and started crying. Suddenly she felt like she was falling but she was still wrapped solidly in his grip, then with a thud she realised that they were now horizontal and it was he who had fallen with blood pouring from his nose. He rolled onto his knees and braced himself with his left arm, cradling her beneath him with his right. Looking out, she saw the armoured men and screamed. The armoured men attacked him, swinging their rifles like clubs, the blows raining down onto him with sickening crunches of bone and loud roars of pain. She felt him collapsing under the assault but before he did, he threw her out sideways to roll away, scraping skin off her elbows on the asphalt.
This time, she watched. They avoided his head but kept beating him until he stopped moving in a coherent manner, then four of them dragged him bloodily across the ground to the foot of a lamppost. She saw him raise a twitching hand as they tied a noose around his neck and began to hoist him up, six of them hauling on the rope and yanking him upwards as he convulsed. They left him there, jerking and limply gyrating as they laughed.
Then they left down the road and she heard shots from the direction they went and more screams. When she finally had the courage to move, she came across more and more bodies, some nailed to crosses, others burnt to death or thrown into the rivers. She saw a lot of dead that day.
Basil coughed roughly as his old pickup truck bounced along the road towards Odele as puffs of black soot belched from its exhaust pipe, its suspension groaning under the weight of the dirt piled on the back. The truck itself had a small rickety cabin at the front, with tinny doors, patched multiple times with nailed on bits of junk and wood. It was dirty, rusty and peeling paintwork flaked off with each bounce along the track. The wheels were thin, too thin to be driving off road but they scraped along nevertheless, grabbing purchase on the loose stones that slipped under the cracked rims and flat tyres.
Fig. Basil's old truck. He’d made this journey at least half a hundred times in the weeks since the bomb fell and he was weary. He loosened the scarf around his neck and hacked up some phlegm before spitting it out of his driver side window which hadn’t seen glass in years. Reaching a flat open stretch, he put his foot down, hearing the engine whine in complaint as it revved higher. The extreme juddering in the cabin caused dust and dirt to cascade from his clothes like water sliding from a raincoat.
Eventually he made it to his destination, upstream by one of the many rivers that flowed down towards the coast and Odele. When he got there, he turned off the engine and clambered out of the cabin. He wheezed and snorted, grabbing a flask from his glove compartment and drunk some water, clearing his throat and allowing him to draw in clear breaths. He mopped his forehead with a dirty rag and then reached behind his seat for an ancient, mud crusted spade. Then he began to work. Standing atop the pile in his truck bed he shovelled, stroke by stroke, for hours as he emptied the dirt from the back into the river, scoop by painful scoop. Each load splashing down into the running water and carried downstream to settle along the riverbed. Finally, after the sun had set and the last heaps were being scraped from the metal tray, he considered his job done, again.
He stowed his spade and clambered back into the cabin, rubbing his temples before starting the protesting engine and forcing it into gear. Then he started back down the way he came, skidding along the track without weight in the back to help provide grip. His feeble headlights barely lit up the path in front of him but he hardly cared as he careened along it at fifty miles an hour.
He was dozing off when a bright light poured through his windscreen and he slammed on the brakes, thinking the bastards had dropped another one. Then he realised that it was just a searchlight. Looking forward through the glare he could make out a checkpoint. That was new. He came to a stop and opened his door with a creak before pulling himself out and shaking his fist at them. “What in tarnation are y’all playin’ at?” The light was shining from an Asgarthian APC and its soldiers were manning the checkpoint along the road. They came forward to inspect the vehicle, ensuring he wasn’t transporting weaponry or rebels. He laughed, spitting up a little blood, “I ain’t got nuthin’ but dirt. Yer free to lick it if ya want.”. Two Asgarthians grabbed him and manhandled him to the side of the APC before kicking him to his knees and ordering him to strip.
After searching him, his clothes and his truck and finding nothing, he was booted away from the APC by one of the soldiers who had a split lip, “Go on you old, dirty bastard, fuck off.”. As Basil turned away and stumbled towards his truck, the soldier heard a faint crackling from inside the APC. He opened the hatch and rooted around under one of the seats, tracking the clicking back to its source. “Which fucking idiot forgot to turn off the damn Geiger Counter?”. Then realization hit him, he yanked it out and held it aloft, “SARGE! The Geiger Counter is ticking!”.
The sergeant darted over and grabbed it from him before waving it around to get a direction on the reading. Basil. The Sergeant stalked after him, “HALT Harrenite!”. As he drew closer the counter disgorged a torrent of loud, chattering clicks. He stepped back in shock, looking up at Basil and down at his readings. Then he aimed the device at the truck and the torrent of clicks became a constant drone. “Look at these readings! I’m surprised the fucking thing isn’t glowing! What the fuck have you been doing Harrenite?”.
Basil, standing there naked in the cold beam of light, cackled. “Y’all in Odele been tastin’ Prokopios.”.
Harrenian Heartlands-in-exileRezi had made it to the airstrip as one of the last Airships was about to depart, taking his driver with him, he had boarded along with other Harrenian refugees and made himself known to the Captain. They had taken off and were now floating over rippling blue waters, sunlight glinting off of the sea like a carpet of diamonds. Such a beautiful sight to exist at the same time as such horror on Harren.
Fig. The view from the Airship Rezi escaped on.He didn’t allow himself to rest, instead, he wrote a letter to the Trade-King’s office and handed it to the Captain, hoping he’d transmit it but aware that he had nothing of value to trade anymore and considering that was the Goblin way of life, he would probably be considered irrelevant and be ignored.
+++
Esteemed Trade-King,
Let me introduce myself, my name is Rezi Sune and as far as I know, I am the last active member of the Heartlands Government. I would like to meet with you to discuss how we should proceed considering the developments on Harren Island. I pray that you will continue to recognise our sovereignty internationally and continue assisting with further efforts to evacuate Heartlanders.
Acting Director Sune
+++
Villa AgrippaeAwaking to warm sunlight streaming down upon his bandaged chest, Gautima stretched, gasping as his back clicked and his wounds strained. He sat up, now fully bathed in the sun’s beam. He knew it was the same temperature as a nice autumn day on Harren but for some reason it felt colder, maybe it was because of the excess of marble that surrounded him or the knowledge that it belonged to Agrippa, or the fact that Harrenians were among its complement of slaves. He’d found that particularly galling and presumed that Agrippa had acquired them specifically to torment him.
He found himself thinking back to almost a week before, when he’d first been moved to Agrippa’s estate after a slew of operations in a Roman hospital, he couldn’t pronounce the name. It had been weird; Prince Nero had visited him, perhaps interested in Harren, or Agrippa. Gautima had debated using the opportunity to try and go over Agrippa’s head but that could have ended badly. He’d also thought about assassinating the Prince but was too weak and when he truly admitted it to himself, too craven, to do so.
He drained the glass of water on the bedside table and then leant over to pick up an ornate walking stick which he used to push himself to his feet and to assist him as he hobbled out of the bedroom and into the main living areas. He saw at once that a brown envelope had been left on the desk. He’d been hoping to not see it today but it was there again. He gingerly eased himself down onto the cushioned bench and put his walking stick across his knees as he grabbed the envelope and tore it open. Before he looked, he set his face in stone so that Agrippa wouldn’t have the pleasure of seeing his distress, that is, if he’d bugged his own estate.
Agrippa had been ensuring that Gautima was kept up to date with everything that had been happening on Harren Island and today was no different. Photos cascaded from the envelope and spilled across the desk. He forced himself to look at each and every one, burning the images into his mind and adding them to his ever-growing tally of hatred. At what point would the weight of his hatred surpass his instinct to survive? Gautima didn’t know but the fact that he was even asking himself that question meant that he was getting closer to that point. He would get Agrippa eventually. He needed that to be true.
Fig. Gautima in hospital after his operations.