co-written with Holy MarshX. Towards a Wider WorldMezhgani camp abutted—surrounded, perhaps, more accurately—a city that had once been a place of prosperity. One could call the camp a suburb were it not larger than the city itself.
It was the first Kozanian city Serafina had ever seen in person, and she already found herself adjusting to it as though she’d lived there all her life. Its spokes of streets and avenues lined with tropical greenery, its masses of residential tower blocks separated by open communal areas, its whitewashed public buildings, and of course the typical Kozanian traffic: streets absolutely filled from one end to another with motorbikes, bicycles, cars, and pedestrians alike, with donkeys and horses here and there winding their way amongst the gridlock. Some may have found the city much less “civilised” than the eastern Analeuths, where Serafina had grown up, but to her it felt instead like freedom from strict societal rules. Perhaps this was what every city would look like, in a few years.
The centre of Mezhgani contained a half-dozen neo-colonial buildings in an airy, fountain-filled plaza. The City Hall and the Mezhgani District Court adjoined the large complex that made up the Arvaz Valley National Historical Museum, and behind them to some distance was the building for which she now set out: Mezhgani Cathedral. It was a building that had stood for seven hundred years. It had seen many uses in that time, but this was perhaps the first time it was being used for a state visit: the first
official meeting between AKILA officials and a high-ranking clergybeing of Holy Marsh.
(She had repeatedly asked Dejana Behzadova, whom she’d decided would be her cultural officer liaison, whether their guests would be offended by being asked to meet in a foreign house of worship. Dejana had repeatedly assured her it would be fine. There was in any case no other building in the city as beautiful as the cathedral, with its pre-colonial frame and the fine stonework of its main doors.)
As she reached the gates to the cathedral’s yard, a call came through on her satellite phone. She lifted it to her ear. “Hello?”
“Hi,” said the voice of Madina al-Da’at. “I’m just returning your c—
Secretary Nikhaia?”
“Yes, it’s me, hi,” said Serafina. “Agent. Good to hear from you. Are you on assignment?”
“Er, not as such,” said Madina. “I’m at our mobile headquarters. Trying to negotiate permission to relocate our gear to Khalkent Hall, since the symphony orchestra’s out for the next few months, and... stuff.” She trailed off in what struck Serafina as an unusual moment of awkwardness. “How can I help?”
“Have you been assigned any work?” asked Serafina.
“No. Not yet. Haven’t heard from Captain Erdeni at all.”
“Very well. I’d like you with me,” said Serafina, sliding open the gates and moving into the yard. “We need people for the diplomatic summit.”
There was a brief pause. “You have people securing the cathedral already though, don’t you?”
“I mean I’d like you to be part of the meeting,” said Serafina. “We have Dejana and Khalil already. Cultural officer and military affairs. But we don’t have a
diplomat. We don’t have someone who’s worked with Marshites before, and closely; for that matter, we don’t have someone with a broader intelligence overview of the situation.”
“I’m a
spy,” protested Madina, as Serafina’s footsteps carried her to the cathedral’s front door itself. “You want me to play diplomat?”
“Isn’t that how all diplomats get started?” said Serafina, with mild amusement. She waved to the AKILA security personnel on perimeter watch. “I can have you there as official representative of our intelligence services, if you prefer. But in the long run, we’ll need a foreign affairs ministry.”
There was silence for several seconds. “I guess I’ll do it,” said Madina slowly. “But I might still be put on assignment. You’ll have to cancel any new orders that come in.”
“Don’t worry about that,” said Serafina. She passed among the aisles of pews, eyes on the table that had been set up at the far end of the cathedral, between the lectern and the pipe organ. “Just be here in... an hour, or so. Air traffic control advises me they’re landing in thirty minutes.”
“Acknowledged... Secretary. I promise I’ll do my best.”
Serafina glanced at the table, and the armed personnel securing the area, ensuring every exit was covered, sweeping for recording devices. Yes, this was good. Dejana could bring her knowledge of the organisation and its administration, as well as her role in instilling party discipline. She was also the point person who’d bring their guests over from the airfield. Khalil had the military knowledge, and a detailed disposition of AKILA’s forces, strengths and weaknesses throughout the Analeuths and Kozani. Madina would bring a combination of both skillsets, and hopefully integrate them into a larger view of the geopolitical situation; at least, she would have been trained to. And she was more familiar with the culture and society of the Theocratic Matriarchy of Holy Marsh than anyone else present.
The only question was whether Serafina herself was up for the meeting. She doubted it, privately. But when did she ever have time for doubt?
★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★
Sabastian once more checked the manifest, his eyes scanning the logs lazily. The C-10 Minotaur he had arrived in was parked in the refugee camp's airstrip that lay just outside the camp itself, just as the previous day's C-10 had and as would the next. The Theocratic Matriarchy had for some time helped maintain the field near the camp. For years, daily C-10 deliveries had arrived, each one carrying around 250 metric tons of supplies. Twelve arrived daily in two-hour intervals, keeping the airfield busy. It had started off much smaller, of course, but the footprint had grown as the camp had. What had first been fit for a few small deliveries from smaller cargo aircraft had evolved into a vast airborne distribution network. Now they delivered up to 3000 tons of aid to the vast camp daily, not including the many efforts from other nations as well as the Theocracy's other avenues of aid delivery. There was waste and there was the ever-present danger of corruption, but all in all the effort was quite successful.
This C-10 had a mixed cargo, all of it necessary. Food, water, fuel, and medicine, as always. Perishables were the bane of such a camp. Clothing and fuel were delivered often enough but in a general sense, the majority of the 17.5 million tons of aid that had been delivered over the years was made up of food and water. That had been the primary desire for this camp, keeping them alive. At least, that was this operation's goal. Sabastian knew there were others as he put the clipboard down, taking his time to walk down the long body of the Minotaur. Specific aid packages for specific people and groups across the region. Conversion operations. Innumerable M-SAD efforts, a treasure trove of intertwined and separate operations—many thousands at any given time. Sabastian liked this one, however. There was nothing behind the efforts at Airfield Albatross other than humanitarian aid.
It was for this reason that over the years many shrine officials had journeyed here. Many did so in public, looking to stamp this work with their seal of approval. Many times they used it to support their shrine's individual efforts in the region. Others used them as secret transports to the area for more subtle causes. Just a few months ago, the Maestro of Assassins was here to meet with his Blades to discover their progress. Sabastian was not here for any of those reasons. Indeed, no one except his closest confidantes knew he was here. Many knew that a plane carrying the First Claw of the Non-Human Shrine was due to land in the local airport soon, flanked by a squadron of fighters. It was due to land in just a few minutes, a matter of fact. But he was already on solid ground, as he walked down the ramp of the C-10 and into the day.
He wanted to see the work that went into this camp. He knew well enough from the reports what to expect. The plane landed and would be offloaded by Marshites before being given over to local authorities. No doubt there was some corruption involved, but over the decades and plenty of corrective measures, the absolute majority of the aid entered the camp effectively. The Marshites were local. So were the majority of people who did the work after the cargo was offloaded and sorted. It was one of the camp's only reliable sources of jobs and one of the few methods that locals had of creating a better future. What that better future was, however? That was the stated reason for his arrival in this land.
"First Claw, your plane is due to arrive in five minutes. Shall we begin?" came a voice in his ear, which twitched in response. If he tried he was sure he would be able to see and hear the sound of the chartered flight and the squadron of escorts not far away- well, at least for his non-human senses. Sabastian nodded as he saw an LA-30 approach.
"It is, Attendant. We will meet the others en route. I have seen the records and done what else I came to do," he said as he looked at the control tower. His visit there had been informative. Underneath it was a communications and intelligence compound devoted to keeping the camp and surrounding region safe and secure, or at least as much as they could without more direct involvement from the military. Beyond what agents and local Marshites could do, they did their best to keep the communications of local friendly, Mahdahian-aligned Islamists secure, and occasionally make sure certain articles of intelligence were given to them. Anything for the people, or so they said.
The LA-30 pulled up and he got in, sweeping the edges of his cloak in as he did so. Inside the Magister was the driver and two Attendants, his guards and confidants in equal measure and respect. Both of them were tall, broad Panthera, just as he liked them. He needed teeth, eyes, claw, and itchy trigger fingers at all times, complete with his own personal requirements of being as well educated as possible. He needed them to not just guard him physically, but mentally as well. He would say spiritually, but he was fortified against such methods.
"First Claw," Attendant Erinasas said briefly as he entered. She pawed her weaponry as her eyes scanned out of habit. She was the taller of the two he had with him, older to boot. She was the lead Attendant for this job and had some experience in this land. While Non-Humans themselves were not to be found in any appreciable numbers, her father had once called these lands home. Her mother had helped save his life thanks to surgery and love had blossomed there. Erinasas was indeed a good choice to come to these lands for that reason alone, but he enjoyed her for her many other talents.
"Erin, please," Sabastian said as he made himself comfortable, the Magister peeling away. "No need for that now. Hugeri?" Sabastian asked of the other attendant.
Hugeri didn't respond at first. The smaller dog-marshite looked around, his Azenian heritage on full display. Submissive and respectful with dogged devotion, Hugeri did not have a great many traits that were all that differentiated from the other Attendants. Instead, he had been picked at near-random from a roster of other species within the Shrine who had achieved high ratings. Diversity would be important in today's meeting, or so Sabastian believed.
"All is well, First Claw. Just having some pain with my eye is all," came the reply, Hugeri tapping his cybernetic eye. He had lost his own left eye in a grenade explosion, something that had scarred his once divine canine visage. A shame, but a beautiful one in its own way. Conflict and pain were the seed of all righteousness, and blood was the water of faith.
"Erin, see if you can help him," Sabastian asked. The Panthera nodded and unleashed one of her claws, moving in and holding his head still with the other. For his part, Hugeri tapped the temple of his skull, which forced the cybernetic eye to open.
Erin performed her duty, trying as best she could with her one claw to fix whatever mechanical issue he was experiencing and power cycling the thing, while Sabastian allowed himself some time to think about the meeting as they drove through the city. It was as beautiful a city as this region could produce, likely because they intended to keep the refugees as distanced from it as they could. That would not last long. As the vehicle drove by one structure after another, he wondered how many of them could or would be repurposed to fit the needs of the people. The city was by no means fully capable of it, however. Many would need to return from whence they came or be otherwise redistributed. The post-war situation would be messy. That is why the meeting today would be important.
AKILA had been supported by the Theocracy even before it existed in its new form. Its predecessor organizations had received some moderate aid, though it was only after AKILA was seen as a truly viable force for the post-war Independent States that the weight of the Theocracy had been thrown behind it. Considering the fracturous landscape around it and the power and influence of cruel regimes in the area, how could they not? There had been a number of meetings between AKILA and Marshite officials in the past, largely unofficial and not much concerned with factors outside the immediate needs of AKILA and the gains needed to provoke change. But as AKILA grew, so did the Marshite certainty in their eventual victory. Today's meeting would detail several possible avenues of more immediate aid, but it would mostly concern the post-war relationship between the states and the methods needed to bring this land into a new and brighter future.
Sabastian had been chosen for the meeting specifically because he was sceptical by and large of revolutionary figures. Many Marshites were by faith, since the whims of sentience so reliably corrupted ideology. Only faith would endure the tides of time, but that did not mean that it was right to dismiss the idealism of others. Hidden in the sharpest tips of the spear of the revolution were the seeds of a people's greatness. Properly cultivated and guided, all people could become worthy of the Clawed Goddess grand affections and love. He was charged with ensuring that this Serafina would be worthy, in her own time and way.
Erin pulled herself off of Hugeri, his eye moving appropriately once more. She retracted her claw as the Magister found its brothers halfway to the cathedral where the meeting was taking place, sliding in behind two other vehicles and in front of one to form a four-vehicle convoy. The other vehicles had come from the airport and were full of guards and some petty functionaries that would do the real work, the holy work, of setting things in motion should AKILA prove capable. "Thanks, Erinasas," Hugeri said as he blinked a few times. Looks like her mechanical engineering and experience came in useful, as expected, as would her language skills. Hugeri would have to keep silent about his own senses, which was best saved for after.
Sabastian pulled up some files for the rest of the drive, allowing himself the time to read up on some of the notable personalities expected at the meeting before they pulled up in good time to the cathedral.
The cathedral was a grand imposing structure, appearing almost as though cut from a single immense block of stone. On approach one might notice that it had also acquired a discreet but palpable security perimeter; vehicles blocked the side roads, uniformed security personnel materialised here and there in the shadow of the gates to its yard. Behind the gates, in the shadow of the low stone walls that surrounded it, was a churchyard containing a small, equally discreet cemetery, gravestones etched with the names of hundreds of years of bishops and notables, around which grew tropical grasses and sedges. A handful of plane trees both shaded the churchyard from the heat—although not the humidity—and largely screened it from an outside observer. This was an island of tranquility in the midst of a busy city, with one sole concession to modernity: there was a small open parking area of tiled stonework, one large enough for perhaps five or six vehicles.
There were three human figures waiting in the shade of the cathedral door, and one who emerged from the vehicle immediately ahead of Sabastian’s, having met what proved to be his group of functionaries at the airport. This was a woman just on the cusp of middle age, with short dark hair and a perpetual expression of good humour, with a broad smile on her face as she exchanged a few words with one of the Marshite personnel she had been escorting. Her expression became serious again as she spotted Sabastian. From his files, he would know that this was Dejana Behzadova. AKILA’s cultural officers were somewhere between commissars, psychologists and spiritual advisors in role, and she had been with the organisation and its predecessors for a very long time.
The three behind her now approaching included a tall, heavily built man who looked to be in his mid-to-late forties, with curly, prematurely grey hair and a well-trimmed beard—Khalil Taldan, field commander, who had once served with the Kozanian Army before defecting after the assassination of President Matirashi—and a much younger woman, scarcely more than a girl, with dark hair backlit in gold by the sun and done up into an elegant bun—and M-SAD certainly had extensive records of its cooperation with Madina al-Da’at, long considered one of the most helpful field agents. The third of them, Serafina Nikhaia herself, had to be somewhat of an anticlimax by comparison: short, slightly built, blonde hair very close to colourless, and certainly dressed no differently than any of the others, in the same anonymous AKILA fatigues. But she was the one to whom the others all looked in the moment, and when Sabastian emerged towards the cathedral, she was the one who stepped forwards to greet him.
“Cardinal,” she said, “and First Claw. Welcome to Kozani.”
“Secretary Serafina,” Sebastian replied with a gentle tilt of his head. His two attendants had flanked him, but stopped a few paces away. “A pleasure to meet you.”
She inclined her head likewise. “I suppose you’ve been briefed,” she said, “but these are my colleagues—” and she introduced Dejana, Khalil and Madina in turn. “I trust you’ve had a safe journey? Come inside, the heat’s less oppressive indoors.” (Perhaps some part of her was contemplating how well a furred being might withstand the high temperatures of the Kozanian wet season.)
“Indeed, I know these three and their duties to the future of the people here,” Sebastian replied as he gave all three a quick but burrowing glance. “Your work is vital, as you know. Know that in doing your duty, you are blessed by the Clawed Goddess, and we will continue to pray for Her vigilance on your behalf,” he said before directing his gaze back at the Secretary. “We may proceed, Secretary Serafina, at your convenience. The Pushanian jungle has always been home, so comfort is a dream long since dead,” he murmured with a smile, his two attendants also allowing their visages to be pierced by the joke. It was most true of Hugeri, whose Azenian heritage did not armor him against the jungles and other rougher environments of the world in the manner of his sisters and brothers. Erinasas was more than comfortable, of course. Sebastian? He was only comfortable when he was allowed sleep to commune with the Clawed Goddess in peace. Everything else was a burden, as he often griped playfully.
“I can’t speak for all of the Kozanian and Analeuthian people,” said Serafina, “but I know all your prayers and intercessions are greatly appreciated, Cardinal—by me and by AKILA.” There was no hint of insincerity in her voice, even though Sabastian would know from his briefings that she was an agnostic. Her green eyes briefly touched on both of the attendants, including them in this sentiment. “Shall we begin?”
So saying, she led the small party through the open doorway into the cathedral, which was cool and dark, although illuminated by beams of sunlight in which swirls of dust motes danced. Down an aisle they proceeded, amidst rows of pews that could easily sit a thousand, exchanging a few remaining pleasantries and words of small talk, towards a long table that had already been set out with seven chairs. Here and there throughout the interior, individual security personnel could be seen, loitering discreetly.
Once all involved had taken their seats, Serafina nodded to Sabastian, resting her hands on the polished rosewood of the table. “I’m afraid there are no shrines to the Clawed Goddess in these lands, Cardinal, though we have no shortage of holy sites. But in the future, once peace is restored to these lands, perhaps that will change. That is what we’re here to discuss today, isn’t it? The future.”
“It is. The future that you intend to make after your inevitable victory in this generational conflict. The nation you intend to weld together as well as the one you plan to leave behind for the following generations. We have always taken an interest in these lands and see in you and AKILA at large a positive expression of this very topic, the future. What does the Secretary and the AKILA organization have planned for once the guns stop, I wonder?” Sabastian said as he allowed his cloak to get caught by his chair in a scene of fallibility. He had been briefed on what M-SAD believed were the prevailing headwinds of the post-war state. But he was not here to confirm beliefs, but to hear it from Serafina herself.
“Well, at least we have an easy question to start out with,” said Serafina, with dry humour. Dejana Behzadova also chuckled at this. Serafina glanced at her, briefly. “Our vision is... straightforward to describe: to unite the former Kozani Republic with all of these former feudal states, from the Kara Estuary to the Mahekhan Valley, into a plurinational, socialist confederation, in which every ma- every
being has the right to determine their own destiny.” She paused for a moment, and added: “Of course, that’s easy to say. How easy it will be to put into practice... is something we’re still working on.”
Sabastian smiled when she finished and leaned in. He wasn’t close, but it was for impact. “Secretary, you do not need to concern yourself with being inclusive on my account alone, worried I will take offense. You can say man. I’m not going to bite, I’ll have you know,” he said as he pulled back. “As you said, it is easy to say, hard to do. Have you drawn up any plans for how to structure this government, in its details?” He steepled his front paws and laid his chin on it. “That will be a true test of your revolution’s future prospects, will it not?”
Serafina suppressed a smile and lowered her eyes for a moment—just the tiniest flash of embarrassment. (Across the table, Madina al-Da’at had also caught it, and there was concern in her eyes.) It was over in less than an instant, and she met Sabastian’s eyes steadily once more as he continued to speak. “Yes, it certainly will be,” she said. “We face a particular challenge as an organisation taking in many different ideological strains, which is one reason I chose these people for our meeting today. I myself represent a more orthodox Marxist-Leninist strain. Field Commander Taldan is most closely aligned with Islamic Socialism. Agent al-Da’at is an Anarchist. Cultural Officer Behzadova, well...”
Dejana spoke for herself, amusement in her voice. “I don’t care too much about any of that ideological stuff,” she said, “so long as there’s food in people’s bellies and clothing on their backs.”
“And perhaps that’s what this comes down to,” said Serafina. “We’re gaining more volunteers and partisan movements than I’d ever thought possible. But in the end, people need to live, to be able to meet their wants. Do I have plans? Certainly—a democratically elected workers’ council, detailed plans for the reindustrialisation of the country, a new name and national identity to promote unity. But in the end... I am only one person, one voice among many. An... influential voice, I will admit.” There was a moment of discomfort as she admitted this. It too was over almost before it was noticed.
That had sufficiently answered some of his concerns, at least in a manner that informed him that AKILA was aware of how fractured they truly were. It was one of the innumerable sins of ideology, after all. They could all believe in the same basic truths but history had shown that it was within these like-groups that the greatest violence among details could be found. It was why states bound to ideological principles rarely survived the generation that built them. Every new iteration created a new absurdity until the edifice, constructed with often pure will and heart, came crashing down, having rotted and become ugly on the inside.
Recognizing that there were several strains of socialism in play was important. Recognizing that it would be important to have them weld together in the absence of threat was also important. The only other option was to continually seek threats real and imagined, internal and external in equal measure. That could work for a little longer but it would never change the final outcome, it would only make it bloodier.
“It is good to hear you note the different strains of socialism within AKILA, and your acknowledgement of this difficulty inherent in moving them forward is also a positive sign. You are not naive, but a true believer in your cause. This will help you greatly, for the path ahead is assuredly lined with woe and heartbreak. The making of a state is always a trauma. To have your eyes open to the fault lines that will appear after is perhaps the most important trait you could possess,” Sabastian started before he picked his chin up and allowed his left paw to open.
He whispered something in Pushanian and allowed some lines of magic to form into a ball before spreading it on his side of the table. In a moment, it would form into various small figures. With an outstretched claw, he dipped into one figure and brought it up. It was the estimated population of the plurinational area that was in discussion. “This number is as accurate an estimation as exists, Secretary. Some information is, of course, hard to entirely back up due to the situation on the ground in several areas,” he whipped his claws lazily, and the numbers divided into various brackets. “Here is the average age, best we can tell, of a member of AKILA. Here is the general population’s demographics, and finally the Scum on the Coasts, the fascist murderers. They range older than your people by some degrees. As you can see, there appears to be strong data that should hearten you. The region is, on the whole, quite young. Younger than most. Your AKILA is in many ways representative of the youth, are you not?”
(The only visible response to Sabastian’s display of outright thaumaturgy was a raised eyebrow from Khalil Taldan. Serafina, who had never seen something similar before, didn’t even blink. She had been well briefed.)
“Yes. Some forty-five percent of our volunteers are under the age of thirty,” said Serafina. “In this respect we do match the overall age structure among both the Analeuthian States and the Kozanian refugees. We are a young people, in general... yes, Agent al-Da’at?”
Madina didn’t have magic, but she did have a tablet, which she pushed out towards the centre of the table. “Our own population estimates, Cardinal,” she said, “are a little higher than that. One point two billion overall if you don’t count the overseas refugees. And we assume most of them will want to come home, so that could add... a hundred million more or so.”
“Yes, that’s a very good point,” said Serafina. “There are large numbers of Kozanians in Holy Marsh, in Severina, in many other countries throughout the region. Just as we’ll need to accommodate the internally displaced refugees, we’ll need to be prepared for... an influx.”
“Forty-seven million, three hundred and ninety-two thousand, six hundred and eighty-eight refugees in Holy Marsh, to be exact,” Sabastian would confirm as he pulled the number up. It would change even as they spoke, for it took up to the moment births and deaths into account. “Not including those who have converted and identify as Theocratic Marshites, which number several million, though I will share with you several documents of note for you,” Sebastian would say as several documents appeared out of the magic and onto the table, pushed towards Serafina and with a great deal of excitement by whatever forced propelled it.
“The vast majority of the refugees that have come to Holy Marsh we no longer classify as true refugees. They are hard working creatures of the Theocratic Matriarchy. But, as you can tell, most available data shows, and who they have often turned to for leadership has confirmed, that the majority of them would return home, here. Not because they must, but because they want to help build a better future,” Sabastian waved his claw. The documents were duplicated and then replaced by new documents.
“As a gesture of our belief in your virtues, we will share that for the last sixteen years we have been preparing them for a return. You will find among them well-educated creatures who will no doubt be worthy citizens of your new nation who will have the skills and ethics needed to help you, backed up by vast billions that has been set aside as part of the Kozani Refugee Rebuilding Fund, or KRRF. The money will be released to them, and by proxy you, when the conflict ends. The Commune Shrine will also be leading The People’s Crusade, a reconstruction and volunteer project that will be working closely with you. There are many avenues that Crusade may go down, of course. What becomes of it is up to you. These are two methods of our aid that have already been planned for.”
Serafina blinked, and shot the briefest of glances towards each of the three AKILA officers seated around her. Their expressions were unreadable. She said: “Well, we are very gratified to hear that. The compassion and generosity of the Marshite people know no bounds, and the Kozanian and Analeuthian people will forever be in your debt.” She paused momentarily, and then continued: “We will certainly welcome the return of these refugees, and have already drawn up plans for the rebuilding of cities, towns and villages that have been destroyed or rendered uninhabitable. Your offer also does draw attention to one limitation of AKILA.”
This time it was Dejana who took up the conversational thread in her heavier, more musical accent. “We are an army,” she said simply. “We are devoted to liberation. We do not have educators—we have cultural officers.” She indicated herself. “We do not have hospitals—we have field medics.” She pointed now at Khalil, who gave her a nod. “We do not have diplomats—we have spies.” She smiled at Madina. “As much as some among us may have drawn up architectural designs for apartment blocks that can be built in two weeks and house a thousand people each, we do not have the people to
build them. So yes, Cardinal. Your People’s Crusade is an absolute necessity.”
Sabastian nodded. “That will be good to bring back to Her Holiness. An idea regarding just who you will be needing is most appreciated.”
“Some basic economic figures may be important, then,” said Serafina, pushing an errant lock of hair from her eyes. “Almost fifty-five percent of the economy of our territories is agricultural—a mix of subsistence farming, making up the large majority of workers, and large-scale feudal holdings. This may even be an underestimate, because the situation in Kozani changes frequently. Thirty-four percent is manufacturing and secondary industry. This leaves a very small services and high-tech sector. Only eight percent of Analeuthians have a university education; only thirty-one percent have completed high school. And this is without considering the situation with the National Front.” She had no reference materials in front of her, and gave the figures without a hint of hesitation, evidently having committed them to memory.
She made no gesture towards Khalil Taldan, but he now picked up the narrative seamlessly: “The EMK, as you will be aware, controls almost a third of the
combined secondary industries of the Independent States, and uses its factories as military depots—essentially holding its citizens hostage as human shields. We expect we’re going to have to destroy or damage virtually every industrial facility from Marion to Keel to dislodge them.” He rubbed at his beard. “And its secondary- and university-educated population, some twenty-eight million people, will also have to be written off in the short term; they have been fed a diet of fascist propaganda for thirty years.”
“Yes. And—” Serafina began, but was cut off by Madina beginning to say something; for a moment there was silence as both waited for the other to begin, before the intelligence agent took the initiative. “We’ve run some, uh, algorithmic models. Assuming the battles against the Front and the Islamists are within the expected range of outcomes... the economy of a, you know, united single state would risk collapse within five years-ish. Most of Kozani’s agricultural land is going to be a total write-off for at least two years, our industrial capacity will be down by fifty percent, and GDP per capita will be about five and a half thousand talīsi.”
“Yes, thanks,” said Serafina. “As I was saying... our longterm priority is to transition to a modern industrial economy by 2050. This means we’ll need to start by planning the rebuilding of the factories we’re going to destroy—it sounds strange to be thinking like that—as well as the construction of new industrial plants and the training of workers. We’ll also need to integrate existing universities and schools into a comprehensive education system, in order to lay the groundwork for high-tech and tertiary industries. We’ll need to rebuild infrastructure—a transit network spanning the entire country, modernized ports and airfields, modernized emergency services, the works. Essentially,” she took a moment here to pause for breath, “we need architects. Builders. Urban planners. Teachers. Hospital administrators.
More teachers. We’ll need to put together a plan for how to deradicalise the fascists and get through to the domestic servants. And in particular—we’ll have huge pools of people with no education or training, who’ve lived for so long without prospects. Forty-six million Kozanians are unemployed. Tens of millions of Analeuthians soon will be as well. We would need people who can train them, and keep them from becoming unmoored and resentful.”
She sat back, perhaps wondering if this was too much detail, and doing her best to gauge Sabastian’s reaction.
Sabastian followed along as they spoke. Much of the data, though not all, fell within the expected numbers that he had been prepared with. The numbers that were not as accurate were more negative than expected, but the result wasn’t greatly changed by them. He took notes of their needs, his claws moving every once in a while as he changed the statistics held in his control and running through the possibilities. The People’s Crusade would need to be larger than initially envisioned but he saw little reason that could not be done, especially with such a lead-time on its creation.
“Rebuilding a nation ravaged by war takes much. In the end it will be a nation made with your own blood, sweat, and tears, but this information will help us manage the packages sent to you as well as the nature of those who are asked to volunteer for the Crusade. Rest assured that you will have a ready ally in the long-running rebuilding of the state, as well as its prosperity,” Sabastian replied as his eyes took in the work of his magic again. After a few hurried motions, his slate vanished with a whisp. Left in his paw was a singular token, a half-crescent moon of ancient design. A talisman, a gift.
Serafina perhaps had a sense of what this presaged, and her expression became solemn.
“From the Moon Shrine I come bearing the first of many gifts. This is a symbol of the Moon Shrine’s acknowledgement of your government being, as of this moment, the official national government of this land. With this token, this gift of the Ulnarian Crescent Moon, you are recognized. In the coming days, you will receive such gifts and tokens from each Shrine acknowledging your rule over these lands,” Sabastian said as unveiled the item in his other paw. It was a small, everchanging bust of a non-human, whose species seemed to change as it fed off of the emotions of the room.
“I give you the gift of the Non-Human Shrine, The Changeling Carvadsa, a symbol of the nature within all of us given form. With it, the Non-Human Shrine recognizes your rule. I recognize your rule. As a more practical application, each Shrine shall be opening up its localized information networks to you. Some Shrines are small here, others larger—in the end though, every Shrine shall open itself to you in full. You will know of their worshippers, and you will know what their worshippers know. We hope this helps you as you move forward through these dark days as readily as this knowledge will help you in the brighter ones that will follow. I have also been authorized to inform you that when the war ends, along with financial and military aid, the Theocracy is willing to provide you diplomatic and social aid as you develop yourself,” Sebastian continued, putting the bust on the table for Serafina or her compatriots. It was a small gift, but meaningful.
There was silence for several seconds, first broken by Dejana, who murmured: “It is beautiful. Thank you.”
It may have been obvious from the expression in Serafina’s eyes that she shared this sentiment, but she also had a sense of what it meant. “We are touched and honoured by the support of both your Shrines—and that of the other Shrines whose representatives could not be here today.” She took up the bust for a moment, watching as it shifted in reflection of her iron emotional self-discipline. (Perhaps any of the Marshites watching the figure could have identified the different, subtle emotional pulls that had previously been acting on it from the four humans: clouds of relief, hints of surprise, strong currents of determination, touches of fear, suppressed masses of anticipation, undercurrents of love, occasional twinges of shame.)
“I look forward to a day when I—or whoever is chosen in my place—can return these gifts and alliances in kind as a representative of the Analeuthian-Kozanian union, and solidify what is certain to be a very special relationship with the Theocratic Matriarchy,” Serafina continued, her eyes straying back to the bust for a few moments, before she placed it back down upon the table. “And, Cardinal—you asked me not to temper my words for your sake in speaking of
humanity and
mankind. But it is not only for your sake that I do so. We are at the moment, yes, an entirely human territory—” and anyone who was watching noted that Madina seemed about to speak, but did not— “but I would wish for any nonhuman beings, whether they wish to settle here permanently or to join the People’s Crusade, not to feel as though their species is beyond my consideration.”
When Madina did speak, it was with some trepidation: “Secretary, not to… undercut you too much, I hope, but there is at least one nonhuman we—and M-SAD—know about. Mathhaven has a sapient AI running their surveillance state. One reason M-SAD is helping us so much in that region is the prospect of liberating and... deprogramming her, for lack of a better word.”
“I stand corrected, then. Again.” Serafina smiled. Madina didn’t meet her eyes. “In any case, Cardinal, I hope you understand. We will go to great lengths to ensure that any Marshite volunteers that choose to join these efforts are
completely accepted. Even among elements of our population that might have otherwise been hostile.”
Sebastian smiled. The Non-Human Shrine itself didn’t consider Artificial Life under its banner- that was more of the Singularity Shrine. But it was good to hear in any case that they would try to make sure that future Non-Human citizens would be treated well. He never doubted it. As for that AI, it was very true that M-SAD was dealing with it, and dealing with it the way only they could. M-SAD was very confident that when the time came, the Mathhaven AI would find its priorities to have changed, its beliefs altered, and its path forward more closely aligned with the AI clusters that were interacting with it. It would become another citizen, in time.
“Your words bring me comfort. I have great confidence in all of the people to be their best selves in regards to my kind. All creatures will work together in their own way. It will be hard to get there, but nothing worth doing is easy,” Sebastian replied as he shifted a little in his seat, allowing his tail some more comfort. He hated sitting in human-designed chairs.
Serafina’s eyes twinkled. “Indeed not,” she said. “Well said. Now, to begin delving more deeply into specifics…” For the first time since the start of the meeting, she produced a tablet of her own. “To start with, I’ve had our field administrators draw up drafts of the data-sharing agreements. I don’t have anything on the People’s Crusade, since that’s something I was unfortunately not informed of in advance, but I’m sure we’ll be able to reach satisfactory agreements in time. Khalil has a detailed accounting of not only our current military operations, but our expected postwar needs and defense production targets. Madina has the details of most of our political and diplomatic goals, and Dejana can provide breakdowns of specific infrastructural and demographic needs. Where would you like to begin?...”
In total, Sebastian would wind up spending another six hours in human chairs today, not counting breaks for lunch and coffee (the latter always a serious affair in the Independent States). Perhaps this was, in its own way, a small form of living martyrdom; whether it would prove to be for a worthy cause was something not yet knowable.