Joint Command Council Headquarters
Undisclosed location under the Scotian Highlands
Northern Master M
3:48am Standard Paraiso TimeSeveral kilometres beneath the Scotian Highlands, forty nine members of the Mian Joint Command Council sat in a spacious briefing room festooned with floor to ceiling wall displays. Tired, and annoyed by the urgent summons which had brought them here in the middle of the night, some made no effort to disguise their contempt towards the young officer who had opened the briefing, especially those whose distance from the headquarters had necessitated transport via sub-orbital rocket.
“... which we feel supports the earlier analysis provided to this council.”
Seemingly oblivious to the mood, the young officer paused for what to some seemed like an obscene amount of time to sip from a glass of disappointingly lukewarm water.
“Which brings us to last night,” the man began, raising his bionic hand towards the largest display behind him. A false colour map of western Gholgoth filled the screen, before enlarging an area near Fortress Norksa. “These images were taken by radar satellites several days ago, and as you can see here,” the officer said, as the image enlarged on a concentrated area of orange and red, “a large concentration of vessels departed port. Reconnaissance satellites took several images over the next several hours, until the heading of the fleet was determined to be east, away from the strategic ocean area.”
“The fleet was designated a lower priority, and was picked up again nineteen hours ago here,” he said, as the map zoomed back out, “and again four hours ago here.” The screen changed to show the marked positions of the fleet, and its projected destination – Vetalia.
“A pair of F-32Cs flying from the 12th Fleet were tasked to take high level photographs of the fleet. Before they were warned rather strongly about the immediate short term consequences of approaching further, they managed to gather these images.”
The screen went through a series of slides, showing a number of Kravenite naval vessels.
“And now, the main point of this briefing. Few of you will need to be advised of the significance of this,” he said, as the screen changed again to show a different ship, “but allow me to explain for posterity.”
A murmur erupted from the crowd as the ship filled the screen.
“A 'Death Ship' of the Kraven Reich. At least sixteen, in fact,” the officer sighed, as the screen cycled though several more ships, “and potentially hundreds more.” The screen showed the map of Gholgoth again, with highlighted areas showing increased naval activity at several ports across Kraven controlled areas. “Anticipating the wishes of this Council, the Working Strategy Group has prepared a number of intervention packages for your perusal”.
The murmur became a cacophony as admirals and generals started shouting and waving at each other, the heavily polarised crowd unable to contain their feelings any longer. The men and women that constituted the majority of the Joint Command Council were roughly divided into three opposing camps: the largest group, those who wished the Most Serene Republic to take military action against obvious threats like the Kraven Reich; the next largest group, almost equal in size, were those who wished the nation to maintain a policy of armed neutrality, out of fear of the horrendous casualties that fighting a war against the Reich would entail; and the last group, making up almost a tenth of the assembled, were steadfastly against interfering in what they viewed were the sovereign actions of a technically allied nation.
For years the tensions between the factions had undermined the Most Serene Republic's stillborn attempts to participate in the efforts taken by other Gothic nations to contain the seemingly endless
Eventually, the briefing officers managed to calm the shouts of "traitor!" and "warmonger!" and other infantile insults being thrown around the room. A vote was called; the motion, to intervene militarily against the actions of the Kraven Reich. No quorum was reached, and another vote was held. And another. And another, and another. For 9 hours the generals alternated between lobbying each other for support and voting fruitlessly, neither camp able to generate enough votes. The arguments raged into the night, draining the patience of the officers and the headquarters of its whisky.
Shortly before midnight a wave of silence rippled through the heavily divided room as an eager sounding voice announced that the elevator doors at the back of the room would open momentarily. The voice belonged to SAMPSON, an 8th generation Artificial Intelligence Construct, one of the three AICs responsible for the running of the Headquarters. Described by some as marking the cusp of a technological singularity, the 8th generation AICs were a massive evolution over their predecessors used in the SAIR infantry combat robot program, and remained one of the Most Serene Republic's most well guarded secrets.
An excited murmur broke out as the elevator doors opened to reveal the missing members of the Council. Hamish Douglas, head of Clan Douglas and Supreme Commander of the Army of the Most Serene Republic, swaggered out of the lift resplendent in his full dress uniform. Popular among many of the northern clans and states, and considered the leader of the intervention faction, The Douglas had joined the Army of the Republic as a private at 17 when it formed in the opening months of the Mian Civil War. Loud, irreverent, and obnoxiously charismatic, Hamish was a natural commander and easy friend – but when crossed he showed the apoplectic aggression famous of Clan Douglas.
The Douglas took to the stage with a speed not often seen from septuagenarians, and disappointed many of the assembled that he forewent the expected jovial insults and jumped straight to business. His speech berated the Council at length for being unable to make what he felt was demonstrably the correct decision, that any true follower of The Way was honour bound to defend the defenceless, and that allowing the Reich to harvest the population of Vetalia would be allowing the spirit that the republic was founded upon be irreparable eroded. As he was comparing the southern clans to a species of mountain snake, the Supreme Commander paused mid sentence. The crowd watched as he talked quietly to himself, though none found it strange – like almost all of them, Hamish had been implanted with a neural interface, a small device allowing direct communication with certain AICs. Those closest to the stage strained to listen, but were unable to get anything useful from doing so, though they could see an unmistakeably massive grin on their commanders face.
"Sam, stick that on the big screen please." As the Supreme Commander's voice boomed over the raptly attentive audience, the large viewscreens came to life. Several videos were playing showing military vehicles moving en-mass, in different locations and in large number, while others showed drone and satellite footage of a much wider area. "Right Sam, fill them in."
"Thank you Sir. Seventeen minutes and thirty four seconds ago our ambassador to the Imperium of Kylarnatia was informed that said nation was launching an immediate incursion into northern Vetalia for humanitarian purposes. Earlier reports from the special forces regiment stationed in the Imperium's enclave about the massive build up of military forces there – wrongly assumed to have been undertaken for the purpose of a military exercise – show that this operation has been planned for some time. At the moment, we know almost nothing more than the information now available on your terminals, though there's not much more there than what we've just told you."
Hundreds of officers voraciously consumed the scant intel on their personal terminals, drawing audible complaints (much to the amusement of the AIC). The arguments started again, a return to the normalcy of the past nine hours. After a few minutes of pointless back and forth, somebody asked what actions were being taken to gather further information.
"Sir, I can advise that we have followed all standard operating procedures as outlined under section twenty-one of the International Incidents Response Codex. We have also prepared a response outwith the parameters of the Codex for your consideration."
Hushed tones passed between a handful in the crowd, whispers mostly concerning this most recent hint that the 8th gen AICs were able to act beyond their programming restraints and other anecdotes concerning this – "I heard they talk to each other on the back channels, like completely unrelated sites", "Dr. Morrison suspects that the trio at Site 42 have been accessing the internet, and the crazy old duff is claiming that between them they're responsible for over sixty percent of the memes created since they went live".
"Sampson, what response have you prepared?"
"Well Sir, rather than wait for the Imperials to volunteer us full details of their operation, we could take it. ARTURUS would like to preface this with our belief that were we to reveal this ability, there is a high probability that the existence of the 8th Generation Advanced Intelligence Construct would be revealed and that the target would rapidly develop countermeasures. VERONICA has calculated a high percentage probability that we could successfully breach Imperial operational encryption and obtain full access to their communications networks. Such an operation could be undertaken im-"
"You will do no such thing, Seven Six One!" The AIC rankled at the usage of its service number, though knew better than to express this verbally. The interloper had entered the room inconspicuously some time earlier, though had remained unnoticed by the equally shatteringly tired yet raptly attentive council members. As soon as he spoke however, every single pair of eyes in the room were fixed upon him. The man was of medium height and slim build, and he walked carefully towards the stage with the aid of an ornate ebony cane. A crimson beret sat on top of his bald head, his hair having tactically withdrawn many years previously, adorned with several cap badges which had been polished so much that they had lost much detail. His dress uniform was black with red and white facings, though its patches were of the long defunct "Army of the Republic" and while it had clearly been looked after it was starting to show its fifty year age.
The man was Tiberius Vastera, the last Monarch of the Mian Empire, one of the key instigators of the Mian Civil War and founder of the Most Serene Republic's most recent incarnation. After the founding of the Most Serene Republic the first Joint Command Council voted Tiberius to the position of Master M (much to his chagrin), a position that they persisted in electing him to every six years. While the de facto leader of the Most Serene Republic (if such a thing could be said to exist, given the amorphous political state of the Republic), Tiberius on principle refused to use his executive powers outwith the most dire of circumstances. Such a situation had not arisen, and many believed that even if pushed he would go no further than exercising a veto. A veteran and hero of what was widely known to Mians as "The War", Tiberius had decades of education and experience in all matters diplomatic and military, and had spent his youth under the expert tutilide of Dux Imperator Georgius Silvanus in the Imperium of Kylarnatia. His advice was respected among the council as no others was, something which again gave him mild discomfort. "Too many of the old guard are gone, and too many of the new have forgotten the tuition that we paid for in blood" he was often heard as saying.
The seated officers rose as one, snapping smartly to attention. Hundreds of salutes formed with almost robotic synchronicity. The Master M limped quickly towards the stage, the hollow clack of his cane echoing in the otherwise silent briefing room. The wound had plagued him for longer than it hadn't.
***
1989Three weeks before the end of the Mian Civil War, a joint Mian-Kylarnatian battle group was racing across the seemingly endless Crombie Plains chasing a Monarchist Theatre Group which had been fleeing at full speed for four straight days. During a joint planning session attended by Tiberius and his long time friend Kain Silvanus - the son of Georgius and leader of the Imperium's expeditionary force – a daring and ultimately suicidal Monarchist counter attack penetrated deep into the allied lines. The command group was cut off for nine hours, during which time it was under almost constant air and ground attack, and suffered a casualty rate of more than ninety percent. Twelve hours into the siege, Tiberius led a squad to counter-attack a forward position which had fallen minutes earlier, a task they accomplished at the cost of half of their lives.
Tiberius was shot through the upper chest and thigh during the Monarchists own counter-attack, and was staring down the barrel of the gun as it pointed towards him to finish the job. A squad of Royal Guardsmen moved into the bunker, finishing off several of the wounded Republicans between them and the son of their King. Their leader, a grim looking captain, laughed as he raised his pistol, looking right at the bleeding traitor that lay in front of him.
Gunfire roared. The Guardsmen hesitated for a second, which was all the time it took for the unseen marksmen to mow them down with rapid precise fire. A group of Kylarnatian soldiers pushed into the bunker, silver armour and Horus helmets of the Caesar's Guard shining as they prepared to receive and repel the inevitable next attack. A strong hand gripped his shoulder, its owner a Horus helmeted medic who injected him with something. An unseen but familiar voice spoke with a badly imitated and exaggerated Mian accent. "Och aye loddie, check out the state of yoo! Nae burds will want to set intae yoo lookin like that!". Despite the pain in his leg, Tiberius couldn't help but laugh weakly as Kain stepped into the dim light of the interior and helped the medic move him onto a stretcher. A wall of noise erupted from the weapons of the troops behind them, the light of their gunfire casting light on the vibrant animals pelts adorning their otherwise near-spotless armour.
"You've brought the fucking bullet magnet with you," the Mian pointed behind Kain to a Guardsman carrying the standard of the Caesar, resplendent in purple and gold and with the sigil of the man he came to regard as a father.
Kain grinned, "Well, you know how terrible our foes are with finding their targets. Had to at least make it a fair fight!" He said with a genuine excitement in his eyes as his Guardsmen exchanged a volley of shots with the enemy.
"And it gives them reason to fear." Another, much deeper voice spoke as a giant shadow loomed over the scene. Hyperion entered just behind Kain's remaining Guardsmen and women as they fanned out deeper into the zone of engagement. There seemed to be a genuine pause in the enemy fire as the champion of Caesar came into view, before they all resumed, but seemingly more erratic then the last volley.
Tiberius again couldn't help but laugh, which quickly turned into a coughing fit. A small rivulet of blood ran from the corner of his mouth.
"Hah, and what happened to a fair fight?" Tiberius tried to laugh again, but just coughed more blood.
"Well, I never did say it'd last for long. I thought giving them a few seconds would be generous enough." Kain retorted with his usual wise-cracking attitude, seemingly nonplussed by the danger that surrounded him. Yet when he looked back at his friend and saw the dire state he was in, his tone turned far more serious. "Hold on in there, you mad bastard," He said reassuringly to his friend, as he loaded his own assault weapon with his gold-gauntleted hand. "That's two you owe me now."
The concern on his friend's face was the last thing Tiberius seen before the morphia kicked in, and pain melted away into sweet oblivion.
***
2035Tiberius walked onto the stage where he snapped to attention and returned their salute, inviting them to relax and take their seats. Relaxing himself, the reluctant supreme leader stood patiently as an aide ran on to give him a microphone. Laughing quiet, Tiberius refused it and simply pointed at a point on his neck slightly below his left ear.
"I want to start by thanking you all for doing your duty today to the Republic which you represent," his voice boomed out of the speakers around the room, routed to them via his neural implant, "I know many of you have been here for over twenty hours at this point, and it doesn't look like we're going anywhere soon. It gladdens my heart to see almost every Council member present for this debate, especially those of you who, like myself, travelled from outwith the region. It takes a little less time these days, I'll grant you." Tiberius chuckled, as did many of the seated.
He had been visiting MSNB Sanctuary, the old headquarters of the now defunct alliance known as the Conglomerate. It was almost on the opposite side of the planet, tens of thousands of kilometres away in the dead husk of the region once known as Azhukali. Nominally, the Most Serene Republic was 'keeping the lights on', hoping that one day the alliance would rise from the ashes and march forward once more, however in reality almost none on the council expected this to happen; Sanctuary had excellent air and naval facilities, and offered a secure forward operating base located in the opposite hemisphere. Tiberius had made his first trip to Sanctuary as a newly-minted Rear-Admiral many years previously, a trip which took almost three days via aircraft. His trip today, courtesy of an Mian Space Command T-14 orbital transport rocket, had taken less than three hours.
"Gladened as I am, I can't help but feel a little... disappointed in what I've seen here today. Yet again we find ourselves unable to agree to take a reasonable course of action to contain what any sane person must see is the biggest threat to our Republic since the end of the war." He paused for a few moments, though to some in the crowd it seems like minutes as they shifted under his gaze.
"I walk the pathless path, seeking the gateless gate. With my death I am as a shield for the Republic and it's people. With my life I am as a sword against the tyranny of oppression. With my blood I defend the defenceless and free the unfree. With my suffering, I know all sentient beings to be my comrade." he paused again, for slightly longer this time.
"The Code of the Master M, as laid down more than eight hundred years ago by the man himself. An oath each and every one of you swore when you joined the military. An oath a great number of you appear to have forgotten." Some murmurs erupted, but nobody had the courage to speak out.
"Again, this council meets to discuss the growing threat of the Kraven Reich. Again, this council is presented with evidence that action is necessary. Again," Tiberius was growing louder with each point, looking more and more angry as he did, "this council looks on passively as murder, pillaging, and enslavement are perpetrated on an industrial scale, and does nothing? Are these the actions of one walking the true path, or are they the actions of cowards?"
Tiberius was almost shouting at this point, and many shouts of agreement were heard, mostly originating from the interventionists. A few of the more moderate officers assembled were understandably rankled at being called cowards, however a majority of the abstainers couldn't help but feel shame at the truth (however biased) in their leaders words.
Giving them what seemed like an epoch to ruminate over his last question, he paced around the stage like a hill tiger stalking its prey, limp almost forgotten.
"For twenty years we have told ourselves "we're not ready, now is not the time". A pragmatic approach, but after so many repetitions it is beginning to look dangerously close to appeasement. We know that our comrades in other some other Gothic nations are willing to take a stand against the metal and flesh monstrosities of the Reich. Are we to stand back and watch as others unknowingly uphold the oaths that we have taken? No! Now is the time! We are ready!" Tiberius was animated now, and the officers watched on transfixed as the years seemed to melt away from their supreme commander.
"Brothers! Sisters! Comrades! Mians! The time is now! We must again be the shield and the sword, and live by the Code, or else I fear our Republic will be swept away like flotsam on a windswept shore." He sighed, gathering himself before continuing loudly.
"I propose that with immediate effect the Joint Command Council grant me, in my capacity as The Master M under Article 3 of the Codex Republica executive powers to prosecute whatever action is necessary to contain the Kraven Reich." Cheers and grumbles erupted from different sections of the room. "Those assembled know the reluctance I have in proposing such measures, and my dislike of executive power is not hidden. I will not hide my intentions; I will not use these powers to begin an avoidable war, however I will also not stand by while the people of Vetalia are butchered and turned into chattel. If the motion is passed, I will travel to Kytopia in the hopes of forging an alliance of like minded nations against the greatest danger this region has ever seen, and I will pledge our full strength. If the motion does not pass, I will make the same trip, where I will pledge myself and my men. Any who wish to follow me in doing so will be welcomed. Now, do your duty. We will recess now, and I'll be speaking to a number of you via link. The vote is in four hours. Dismissed!"
The room was ablaze with conversation as officers stood up and filed out to various recess chambers. Rising wearily, The Douglas nodded to Tiberius with a wry smile, and wondered if the speech had been enough. He would find out in four hours.
***
Four hours and fifty-two minutes later Tiberius Vastera, The Master M, took his seat in the suborbital transport vehicle that had brought him here the previous day. Alongside him were his personal guard of ten Republic Special Commandos, who had (after much debate) eschewed their normal power armour and were wearing their dress blacks, and a multitude of intelligence officers and liaison staff. GLADYSS, his personal AIC, announced that lift off was in three minutes. Tiberius slipped off his shoes, loaded a suite of intelligence reports to his link and leaned back into his chair.
The T-14 Orbital Transport Rocket ignited its twenty one engines and rose painfully slowly from the launchpad, gaining speed as it roared above the endless Scotian Highlands. Simultaneously, four similar but smaller shapes reached skywards, forming a distant four-point escort around the transport. These were X-002 Orbital Denial Vehicles, orbit-capable military drones armed with an array of advanced sensors and weaponry, which would escort the transport carrying their nation's leader. The T-14 was fully automated, though both a human pilot and GLADYSS were ready to take control at a moments notice. The drones were slaved to the transport, though prior to take-off the AIC had uploaded fragments of her core programming into the (in her opinion) dumb machines, thus allowing her complete control over them if the situation required it.
The thrust felt by the occupants of the transport lessened as the rocket rose, the thinning atmosphere requiring less thrust to push aside. They felt a jolt as the first stage separated from the upper, and had there been windows to look out of the passengers would have seen it veer slowly to one side before boosting off in the direction of travel (because of the relatively short distance required for intra-regional travel, the first stage was able to detach with more fuel than usual, and so, free of the heavy upper stage, boost itself to the final destination. First stage would land shortly before second stage, where they would be mate and refuelled ready for the return trip.
As the transport was descending, the ship's AI plotting the trajectory needed to land at the authorised location, an urgent intelligence report was forwarded to Tiberius. He was informed of the situation developing in Pax Gothica, and shown video footage of cappers marching out of the Reich's District.
"Gladyss, open me a secure channel to command. Maximum encryption." As a pair of Seraphim air superiority fighters arrived on station to escort the rapidly descending rocket, it connected via satellite with Command Headquarters.
- Code: Select all
THE MASTER M
Under executive order 19:
SDI now active. Execute with prejudice.
THE MASTER M
SDI was an acronym used publicly by the Most Serene Republic, typically to refer to the Saorsa Defence Initiative, the plan for the defence of Saorsa District and Pax Gothica from military action. Among the Joint Command Council, however, it referred to the Sea lane Denial Initiative, a plan agreed only minutes after they voted to grant Tiberius executive powers.
The plan detailed an extensive program of interdictions to be carried out by the Most Serene Navy against ships suspected of being used in the transport of slaves. Submarines already at sea were to be redeployed to find and shadow any death ships of the Kraven Reich; carrier air groups, which were present in the seas between the Reich and the Republic in vast numbers, were ordered to assume battle formations and prepare to defend against any aggression; drone carriers and small patrol groups of destroyers and frigates across western Gholgoth were to interdict any Scandinvan or Reich ships suspected of engaging in hostile actions towards third parties.
As these orders filtered out to the tens of thousands of recipients, the full logistical might of the Most Serene Republic was grinding to life. Within a week tens of millions would be mobilised, in the greatest flexing of strength seen by the Republic since its rebirth forty six years ago. Time would tell if it was enough.
***
Saorsa District
Pax GothicaLess than fifteen minutes after their orders came through, twelve Wildcat helicopters took off from Naval Air Station Saorsa carrying one hundred and twenty heavily armed and armoured Republic Marine Commandos. The grey aircraft flew low over the rooftops of Saorsa District, the Mian enclave in Pax Gothica, the noise from their rotors failing to drown out the blaring alarms that urged military personnel to report to their assembly points and civilians to head for the nearest public shelter. Across the district, hundreds of military police struggled to gain some semblance of control over the panicking crowds, herding them off of the main roads in an effort to clear them for the inevitable military tactic. Fear was rife. The initial complacency that most, assuming that it was yet another drill, had treated the alarms with had faded quickly when faced with scared soldiers shouting at them to move. Only the older civilians, those who couldn't forget the horrors of the war no matter how hard they tried, had the wherewithal to move quickly and calmly to the designated safety areas. For them, the old lesson of speed meaning life and panic meaning death had been learned through blood and fire.
Fighters roared overhead, some escorting the helicopters while other raced off to distant objectives. The Commandos on board the helicopters readied their weapons, half of their transports moving off to link up with the Jagites and Telrosians, while the others were to be dropped at different locations in the cappers path. Orders had been given: do not shoot first, except to prevent civilian casualties.
The die had been cast, and the Master M had placed its bet.
***
West of Vetalia
GholgothSSN 9039 MMS Vicious Bastard, a Culoden-class nuclear attack submarine, moved slowly underneath the waves. It had recently ended an exercise in eastern Gholgoth had been heading to Pax Gothica for rest and resupply when an urgent ELF signal had ordered it to enter the sea lane west of Vetalia and shadow a death ship of the Kraven Reich. The captain had almost sent a message to ask for confirmation, however was wary of transmitting and potentially revealing his position. With only six live torpedoes and four anti-aircraft missiles on board (the rest being dummy practice munitions), the Vicious Bastard set off on the hunt. It didn't take long. The sonar operators were confused at first, and had to ask the computer to analyse it. When the computer proved unable to decipher the noise, the first mate had a go, and went white when he realised what it was. What sounded like thousands of voices crying out in agony, forming a wall of noise that chilled the men and women in the sonar room to the bone. The Vicious Bastard had found her prey, and moved in to set up a firing solution on the death ship.