The Hakara Hunters [IC | Imperial Konsolidation Reboot]

[The Macabees]

Upon conclusion of War of Panooly Reunification, during the years of peace with the Reich before the Fourth Krasnovan War and First Killian War, it fell upon the Golden Throne to restore order in Holy Panooly. Two halves, the devastated and Panooly-majority North, and the previously Ordenite-occupied South, joined as one. While the Imperial Bureaucracy empowered the indigenous Panoolies to run their own affairs, this came at a political cost to the once-favored white minority. Among the latter was a group of fanatics who organized to resist the imperial occupation, undermine and collapse the Panooly government, and revive a white-dominated regime like the Templeton dictatorship that had been toppled just over a year ago by ambitious mercenaries seeking to expand into the Panooly far north. This is the story of their rise and fall.


PANOOLY CITY, PREFECTURE OF MOPATA

Césario Ginga knew when Joao Bagamba was angry, and to say that Bagamba was angry now was an understatement. The man was cursing up a storm as the aircraft prepared for takeoff on Varmaac Field's tarmac. Less than an hour ago they had been inside the great mercenary city, meeting with Tarn's governing council on terms regarding the return of the isthmus of Jumanota to its rightful owner — the Satrapy of Holy Panooly. Tarn's council's response was a resounding 'no.' They were not even interested in negotiating at all.

"Surely, now that Holy Panooly is a member of the Imperial Federation, it is the proper thing for Tarn to do," implored Bagamba. To no avail.

Hans Dettrick, the smug Díenstadi who had two years ago been elected Supreme Councillor, replied, "The opposite, Satrap. Now that Holy Panooly is part and parcel of the same empire as us, whether Jumanota is administered by Tarn or yourself surely makes no difference to the politics of the whole. And as far as it concerns the local situation, there is no scenario where we would be persuaded to give up the investment we have made in the Jumanota Canal."

True it was that the Jumanota Canal had been a great investment. But most of it had been paid out of imperial coffers, at least indirectly. Seeking to undercut any opportunity for the mercenary council of Tarn to sell rights of passage through the canal to foreign, and potentially enemy navies, the Imperial Bureaucracy had already promised an annual payment to the canal authorities guaranteeing the supremacy of the Fuermak's interests over even all commercial privileges. Any interest that Tarn still had in Jumanota was not in recovering its investment but rather in the continual accrual of revenue from the waterway. That way the city could afford its policy of minimal taxation of the private military companies which composed the core of the likutat's economy. Bagamba, and the broader satrapical government of Holy Panooly, knew all of this of course.

But in the early days after the War of Panooly Reunification there was an underlying hope that imperial politics would align in favor of a true, full reunification. That meant not just the return of the south, but also that of Jumanota. When Bagamba and his aide, Césario Ginga, traveled to Tarn, they did so under the assumption that behind the scenes Fedala was silently pressuring Tarn into releasing its hold of the isthmus. The direction of the talks proved this assumption wrong. Perhaps that made Bagamba madder than the actual rejection.

As the aircraft took off, the satrap turned to his aide and said, "They threw away the opportunity for a peaceful post-war transition away."

Césario replied, "We will find another way."

"What other way?" asked Bagamba, his voice so heated that it practically spat flames. "That was our chance to look strong, for the empire to prove that it backs the new government fully. Now we look just as weak as we did before the unification, maybe even weaker. At this rate, maybe those Pretorian bastards will get exactly what they want. Afterall, what can I stop them with? We don't even have an army."

South Panooly, which for about a year had thrived as an Ordenite vassal state, was left intact as an administrative entity even after the reunification. It was simply renamed the Prefecture of Pretoria, one of the four new prefectures of the unified Holy Panooly. It was the north, the Golden Throne's putative ally, that was partitioned. The eastern peninsula was now the Prefecture of Delapesca, named after its prefectural capital. The northeast became the Prefecture of Cubinga, and was now mostly a military zone or a wasteland — its capital, Guamlumpeiron, was still cordoned off and walked by those...things...neither human nor completely animal...created by the KN-755 virus. Everything else, administered from the national capital of Panooly City, was called the Prefecture of Mopata. While Cubinga could hardly truly be integrated into the wider state, Delapesca was already rapidly becoming a Macabéan colony, and Pretoria was threatening to declare independence unless the satrapical government was reorganized to better represent the white minority's interests. Apparently, belonging to a white-majority imperial federation was not enough for them.

The aide shrugged. "The militias are still armed."

"The militias are tired," said Bagamba, in resignation. "Our people are tired."

It was not long before they were over the sprawling suburbs of Panooly City. From the air, they could see the scarred landscape with its crisscrossing trench lines, scorched earth, and the rubble of neighborhoods blasted by Ordenite artillery. The capital city was the site of the Ejermacht's heroic last stand against the Ordenite Wehrmacht. If it had fallen, the defensive line would have been breached and surely almost all of North Panooly would have fallen to the murderous enemy. But an outnumbered imperial ground force had held the position while the armed forces organized an air-sea-land counteroffensive to end the war. Since then, Panooly City had become the spiritual center of the Panooly people. But it was a battered spiritual center whose only signs of material revival were the long columns of refugees returning to their shelled and bombed-out homes.

They landed at the Ongola International Airport, which had only just in the past few weeks begun readmitting civilian flights. It had been all but destroyed during the war. In fact, the main terminal was still half shattered from the artillery shells and mortar bombs that had fallen on it during the city's encirclement. Waiting for them on the tarmac was a small satrapical guard force composed of a handful of rifle-armed gunmen in white, collared shirts and suits. As they were transferred to the armored vehicles waiting for them, they could hear the sound of gunfire in not-so-distant distance.

Waiting for Bagamba inside his vehicle was the Minister of Justice, Antonio Kinkoko. Kinkoko had taken the position after Bagamba's elevation to the position of satrap by His Imperial Majesty, before the reunification. Bagamba sat beside him, Césario took the front passenger seat. Césario held his suspicions on Kinkoko. The tall Panooly was, like Bagamba, a former war chief, ambitious, and had not necessarily been known for his loyalty to a particular cause or person prior to his ascension. But the man's Panooly pride was indisputable, as was his drive to root out white minority resistance to Panooly majority rule.

"Welcome back, Your Excellency," said the Minister of Justice. "How went your trip?"

Bagamba was not in much of a mood for small talk. "The mercenaries are not interested in working with us."

"Did you expect otherwise?" asked Kinkoko.

The satrap shrugged. "I suppose I expected His Imperial Majesty to lobby for us."

Kinkoko chuckled. "You forget that the mercenaries are an extension of the empire."

"An extension that is now always aligned," replied Bagamba. "Jumanota will be returned to us, perhaps it is just a matter of time rather than pressure. Anyway, update me about matters at home."

Sighing, Kinkoko said, "White terrorist activity has picked up over the past few days. They are getting stronger with every passing hour, especially since the Macabéans don't seem particularly interested in keeping the peace and we simply don't have the strength to suppress them. Operation Revival will go into effect next monthof course, but I have ordered my ministry to already start laying the groundwork ahead of the expected passage of the bill through the Umazija. We will need as many men as we can get, and the sooner the better."

Bagamba nodded. "Good. But we shouldn't wait until then to make our intentions known. Move up Operation Panooly Peace."

"So early?" questioned the Minister of Justice. "Without more recruits, we have maybe a thousand men at our disposal to form a field army."

"All the same," said Bagamba, "we must not look weak. Operation Panooly Peace must be launched no later than next week."

"Of course, Your Excellency," answered Kinkoko.

[The Macabees]

...a week later.

OPERATION PANOOLY PEACE: SUBURB OF PERCINGTON, PANOOLY CITY, PREFECTURE OF MOPATA

Darkness still watched over Holy Panooly as the armored column rolled atop the freshly paved HIF-705. Each vehicle proudly bore the logo of the Taipolisi — the Panooly gendarmerie under the direct command of the satrapical government. Droplets of water rolled down the glass and aluminum plating as they shed the early morning dew that had collected on the surfaces of each armored car. There were almost no other vehicles on the road and it was not long before the column turned off the highway onto an offramp that took them to the broad Isaacson Avenue.

Isaacson neatly bisected the western suburb of Percington, known for its affluence. Formerly, Percington had hosted the Scarborough Palace, the residence of Dominic Templeton. Although the Scarborough Palace had been leveled just before the Reunification War, there were still many that longed for the old days of white-minority rule under that man's dictatorship among the Percington suburbanites. Naturally, there were many more who sympathized with the ongoing armed resistance against Panooly-majority rule. Beyond issues of race and supremacy, truth be told that Percington had suffered the overthrow of the dictatorship, the impoverishment of war, and the one-time partition of Holy Panooly between the Macabean-backed Panooly-majority north and the Ordenite vassal state of the south. Even with a reunified country, Percington showed no signs of revival and its population had already begun trickling southward to the white-dominated cities of Pretoria. Was it that surprising that its homes often hid the armed gunmen who butchered Panooly civilians, murdered Panooly policemen, and assassinated Panooly politicians?

If the people of Percington had their reasons, so did the Taipolisi column thundering down the one-time renowned Isaacson Avenue. With the reunification had come a period of relative peace that the country hadn't seen since the toppling of the Templeton regime. It was a much-needed peace. More than 270 million Panoolies died over two years of pandemic and war. KN-755 claimed more than 80 percent of those deaths, death camps in the south more than 15 percent, and the rest were dead as a result of the wars. The survivors needed a respite to pick up the pieces. White terrorism, however, threatened to upend this newfound security.

As refugee quarters within the capital city swelled with Panoolies returning home, the white minority was militarizing. Imperial military intelligence estimated that some two thousand fighters — armed with Ordenite weapons, taken from stockpiles not immediately seized by the Ejermacht after the war — were already operating around Panooly City. Throughout the country, but mostly in Pretoria, the same intelligence source estimated that there were already twenty to thirty thousand armed fighters in total.

This small army of radical white terrorists was named, according to the endless recruitment and propaganda posters now spreading throughout Holy Panooly, the Hakara Hunters.

A separate intelligence report spoke of a group of several hundred Hunters having turned the now abandoned Percington Technical High School into a barrack of sorts. The local community brought them food, medical supplies, and other necessities despite the government's plea not to cooperate with the terrorists. But the white community of Holy Panooly believed it could act without consequence. In fact, despite the Ordenite defeat, white power in Holy Panooly had only augmented. Death among the indigenous Panoolies had been so rampant that the white minority had gone from a 15 percent share of the total population to more than 20 percent. That despite of the 'white flight' and the overall reduction in the absolute white population in the country. The indigenous reduction in population size had been that severe. Clearly, the one-time ruling caste considered its return to power not just possible, but evident and a matter of time.

It was the role of the newly forced Taipolisi to show the Holy Panooly people — indigenous or colonist-derived — that the new satrapical government of Joao Bagamba could not be undermined through militant force and that support for the Hakara Hunters would have consequences. On such a mission, the Taipolisi armored column rolled down Isaacson like a slithering snake, headed toward the area of the high school.

As the column's tail end exited the HIF-705 offramp, gunfire started peppering the middle vehicles. The column fired back from overhead weapon stations, firing ports, and internally-mounted mortars with deafening effect. Whatever light resistance had organized to oppose the Taipolisi's strike was swept away. Even the few anti-armor rockets that were fired failed to hit their targets. Their crews were buried beneath the rubble of the collapsing homes and buildings they had fired from.

Nearing its primary target, the column broke up into several groups. The largest element continued on toward the high school, quickly surrounding it, blocking off all entry and exit routes, and rapidly establishing what can only be described as siege lines. Mortar vehicles began hammering the school grounds with light and heavy bombs, continuous and unceasing explosions. As the battle at the school grounds unfolded, the other armored groups turned off onto other streets, pushing vehicles off the roads before some of the armored cars revealed numerous armored infantry teams that unloaded and began raiding individual homes. Hundreds of men were soon pulled out of these homes: some older, others younger. Women were arrested too. All of them were loaded up into the back of other armored vans designated for the prisoners.

At the school, a heavy smoke screen was laid down as ground teams began moving into it from different sides. Where there was room for them, armored vehicles with overhead weapon stations followed the infantry teams to offer support. Heavy fighting ensued and the sounds of the city in Percington gave way to the noises of war. It was almost as if they were back under siege during the Reunification War.

Had the Hakara Hunters expected this incursion, though?

The school was less heavily defended than anticipated.

Then, suddenly, an incoming fire started generating from the nearby buildings. Glass in second-story windows was shattered to make way for machine guns and rifles. Below, the Taipolisi forces were under a hailstorm of bullets as they reoriented themselves to meet the new threat. Skillfully, the Taipolisi riflemen found cover while their mortar vehicles suppressed the newly emergent gunfire. Within minutes, the second ambush was squashed.

All the while, the prisoner extraction continued. The smaller armored breakoff elements reunited into a long column as they made their way back to the highway and, from there, back to headquarters in Panooly City. The fighting in the school also wound down as the Taipolisi forces there began disengaging, loading back up on their vehicles along with any captured prisoners, and made their way to join the main column.

Billows of smoke spiraled toward the blue sky like dark columns anchored to the devastation wrought by the battle. Flames licked half-collapsed walls of homes, businesses, and other buildings. The old high school had been left in utter ruin. Along the streets lay the scattered bodies of the dead. Blood ran down the pockmarked street gutters like red streams, draining down into the neglected sewers that ran beneath. Shattered glass lay strewn across home floors, within which children and mothers cowered behind furniture, in their basements, or wherever they thought themselves safe. The evidence of fighting could be seen from the center of the city, where onlookers pointed toward the horizon wondering what could be the cause. And the evidence would be seen for some time. Still, the fighting was not done.

Another ambushing force had organized along the highway on ramps and on the highway itself. The head of the Taipolisi armored column passed through unharmed and without notice. But once the main body of the column — where the vehicles containing captured prisoners rode — entered the kill zone, the battle was on again. This time, the strike was more successful. Thinking themselves safe and believing the brunt of the fighting to have already been done, the Taipolisi forces were caught unawares. Rocket fire immobilized several vehicles while small arms fire pinned Taipolisi riflemen down. Civilian cars driving alongside the column were caught in the crossfire, with several of them crashing headlong into armored vehicles or the dividers, some of them driving off the highway altogether and onto the streets — as well as homes or businesses — running along the highway's flanks. Complete chaos ensued for a long moment while the fighting gained intensity as the Hakara Hunters earned confidence. Several of the armored vehicles were now burning and steaming, their drivers dead, dismounted riflemen dead beside them. A number of explosions from ammunition cookoffs rocked the column up and down.

After two failed attempts to successfully attack the raiding column, the Hakaras had finally struck with precision. Their ambush was devastating. Almost a third of the vehicles were destroyed or immobilized. Dozens of police agents were dead. Many of the captured prisoners were now free. And while the column attempted to recompose itself and regain the initiative, the Hunters started to withdraw and disappear into their suburban surroundings.

Rolling down the opposite side of the highway, toward the direction of Percington, was a smaller Taipolisi column ordered to guard the main force's rear as it entered Panooly City proper. The decision to allocate this force paid dividends, as it crashed into the withdrawing insurgent forces. The fighting spread back toward the homes of Percington, as the security forces' counterstroke followed the withdrawing enemy groups. Caught by surprise by this fresh Taipolisi column, the ambushers who had doled out such high losses suffered considerable losses of their own.

As the sun started to come back down — few of those who had participated in the battle had realized just how long they had been at it that day —, the gunfighting dwindled until, finally, the din of battle gave way to a false serenity.

Still, when the black curtain of the night finally signaled the official end of the day, the flames screaming out from burning vehicles and smoldering buildings still illuminated the starry sky.

When news of this first battle between satrapical and white terrorist forces spread the next day, the question on everyone's lips was the same: had the cost been worth it? Some pundits were proud that their government had finally struck back against the insurgents threatening to upend this new postwar order. Others wondered whether the price, paid in blood, had been too high. A third group was wary of the extensive collateral damage. Would it make white minority resistance against the Panooly majority government worse?

[The Macabees]

THE REACTION: QADESH, PREFECTURE OF PRETORIA

With the approaching winter, the days were getting shorter and the nights longer. That mattered to Rogerius only to the extent that daylight affected his mission.

A cool breeze swept through eastern Qadesh from the ocean. It raised the hairs on the back of his neck but Rogerius seemed not to notice at all, telling at least from his complete lack of reaction to the cold. His index finger lay over the trigger guard as his eye remained on the scope. Below him, the city streets were busy and bustling as the neighborhood went about its usual business.

Rogerius took his eye off the scope to adjust his position a bit. He had been on this rooftop for almost the entire day now. The package had already been expected to arrive hours ago. Sometimes it was like that. Arturo Lasamba was known to frequent the city's brothels and on days that he did he frequently did not return to his home until late at night or even the early morning hours. Rogerius sighed. Once the sun went down, he'd be stuck on that roof overnight.

Never had he seen himself as a hitman. Colonel Rogerius Vommel had commanded men in battle a few months earlier, but that seemed forever ago now. Things had changed so much since the reunification of Holy Panooly and his career was included. So had Qadesh. Under Templeton, Qadesh was a quaint coastal town with a small military garrison. Long ago, its military port had even housed the bulk of the Panooly Navy. Under the Ordenites Qadesh took on additional significance as a major port, mostly for the movement of the Wehrmacht and its supplies. But under the satrapical puppet government of the Golden Throne, Qadesh had grown and evolved the most. Indeed, Rogerius could see the superstructure of the countless warships now stationed in the city's military harbor. Added to the army base erected outside the city, there were now hundreds of thousands of imperial soldiers who came into the city to drink, eat, and have a good time. With them came the migrant workers, including more dark-skinned Plánols from the north. That included a Plánol that the northern government had decided to install as the city's administrator.

Lasamba represented the filth of the Plánol people in every way. He still acted every bit of a warlord that he used to be, acting more like a lord than a leader. What more proof was needed than the way he imposed himself on the city? How arrogant. To think that a plánol could rule over the whites. Beyond that, everything about Lasamba was despicable to Rogerius, from the way he looked, to how he carried himself, and the people he met with.

The sun was coming down and Rogerius was about to condemn himself to a rooftop night's sleep, and suddenly an SUV pulled up against the sidewalk in front of Lasamba's home. Qadesh had a governor's mansion but that was still occupied by Ricus De Bruyn, the same man who had ruled Qadesh and the southern provinces since the days of Dominic Templeton. Somehow De Bruyn had managed to survive in that position. In lieu of the governor's mansion, Lasamba was posted to a walled complex inside the city itself.

Rogerius had only a few seconds between Lasamba exiting his vehicle and then disappearing behind the wall.

His right eye was glued to the end of his sniper rifle's scope. He held his breath...

...and released. His index finger pressed down on the trigger.

The rifle's crack reverberated against the city walls. Below, a figure that had exited the SUV crumpled onto the sidewalk, a pool of blood growing out from underneath until it began to drip onto the street. Rogerius confirmed that it was his target through the rifle scope. People were already rushing to the dead man's side, while others looked around nervously in search of the direction of the attack. Rogerius wasted no time leaving everything where it already lay and crossing the rooftop to the other side, where a rope extended out to a low-rising building. Hooking himself to the rope, he ziplined down to the other building, disappearing down a stairwell, and out onto the street where he blended in with the rest of the crowd. His first stop was home, to change. Then he had a meeting at the pub to make.


...two hours later.

The Double Goose was always busy. It was a favorite of the local longshoremen who came in after the long days the pulled on the docks.

Rogerius slipped in without much of an entrance and made his way to the back, taking a seat at a table where three men wearing ballcaps, hoodies, and baggy clothing were already waiting for him. Even closely, it was difficult to discern who they were. Sipping on mead and picking at some pork skins inside a small bowl, they trailed Rogerius with their eyes as he sat down with them. He waved down a waitress, asked for a beer, and then sent her on her way.

"Congratulations," said one, as soon as the waitress had walked out of earshot. "The news has sliced through the city like a bullet."

Another nodded. "The people are tense. Events will move quickly."

Rogerius took a pork skin and ate it. He had forgotten how hungry he was, he hadn't had much of a thought for food since the early morning. He said, "As they should. The government in Panooly City will react quickly. We must strike now, while the initiative is still in our hands. Lencho" — he turned to the first man who had spoken — "my men are ready. I can have this city clean by tomorrow morning."

The man named Lencho, Lencho Bakkes, gazed back cooly. "And the day after? What then?"

The third man, who had not yet said anything, spoke next. "Now is not the time to doubt. We must stick to the plan."

"Easy for you," said Lencho. "You are protected from the fallout."

Arching his eyebrow, the third man replied, "Am I? I put myself at as much risk as anyone else here...or more. Our new emperor does not seem like a man fond of governors overseeing rebellious lands let alone rebellious governors. Let it be crystal clear that failure is as much my head on a spike as anybody else's. But failure is likelier if we second guess ourselves. Rogerius, you have my permission, if not General Bakkes', to move ahead with the next phase of our plan."

"Excellent," said the blue-eyed operative. "I should go to my men."

"Soon," replied Governor De Bruyn. "First, have your beer." The waitress returned just then beer in hand, placing it on the table before leaving again. The governor went on, "The rest of us should go over our parts, too. Divan" — Divan McLean, the first man who had spoken after Rogerius' arrival and chief of prefectural police — "you must have everything in place to impose a strict regulation of vehicles entering and leaving the city no later than 0600 hours tomorrow, preferably earlier. The satrapical government will react by moving in their forces to secure Qadesh. We must give Rogerius enough time to fully embed his men in the city before the government's counterattack. Will you be able to do that?"

Nodding, McLean said, "Aye."

"Good," said the governor. He turned his head to Lencho. "You will leave tonight?"

"Tonight," repeated Lencho Bakkes. "As Rogerius works his magic on Qadesh, I will set the foundations for a prefecture-wide resistance. Once you are done here, Colonel Vommel, I expect you at my headquarters in Langlaas. The fight must be taken to the enemy."

Rogerius nodded in consent. Then he asked, "And you governor? What is the next phase of your plan?"

Governor De Bruyn smiled. "Me? I will act as shocked as I can. But could this not have been predicted? The imposition of Plánol administration in the south was always going to come with its own set of frictions, after all. And while I stand with the empire, I offer myself as a negotiator between the Imperial Bureaucracy and the people of Pretoria. Maybe we can come to an agreement that would minimize the bloodshed. The Territory of Pretoria has a ring to it, doesn't it?"

Rogerius drank his beer in one fell swoop. "Good," he said. "Now, I really must meet with my men."


...the next morning.

Whatever outcries there were against the assassination of Arturo Lasamba were drowned out by the gunfire and bloodcurdling screams that filled the night.

Rogerius' men completed their task with brutal efficiency. They had been given a list of targets by McLean's prefectural police, which they had poured over in the preceding days. All of the targets were team leaders, politicians, judges, and other people of note and of Plánol descent. These were the people earmarked to gradually transition the prefecture to a Plánol-majority administration. These were the people who needed to be eliminated for the sake of Panooly civilization. Most were removed overnight. A quick visit to their homes led to a few gunshots. The city police would find the bodies the next day. It wasn't all just murder. There was plenty of vandalism too. Prominent Plánol-owned storefronts were shot up and left with shattered windows, bombed-out interiors, and set to flame.

By the next morning, Qadesh's Plánol peoples were in terror. Their leadership was neutered. Their people were targeted. And it was now clear that their old rulers, those who had brought civilization to Panooly shores, would not just lie down and take defeat without fighting back. The whites of Holy Panooly were fighting back to take destiny and their lives back into their own hands. To remind the Plánol people of Qadesh that they were not welcome, posters with a red bow notched with three arrows pointing downward and bloody 'HHs' on either limb — the emblem of the Hakara Hunters — were left on walls and lamposts on every street.

Qadesh was locked down by prefectural security forces by the preset time. Anybody moving in or out needed permission to do so, adding a layer of bureaucracy to the central government's ability to deploy Taipolisi forces to the city. Rogerius' men had plenty of time to leave the scene of the crime. For his own part, Colonel Rogerius Vommel was already on his way northward to rendezvous with General Bakkes at Langlaas to plan the next phase of the Hakara Hunters' reaction. All would soon learn that the resistance against Plánol-majority rule had only just begun.

[The Macabees]

INSURGENCY INTENSIFIED: PANOOLY CITY, PREFECTURE OF MOPATA

Joao didn't understand why most of the ministers seemed to detest walking the city streets. He loved them. Maybe it was the fact that he was a village boy who until a few years ago had hardly seen a city, let alone a city the size of this one. But he loved everything about Panooly City: the noise, the dirt, the smells, and, most of all, the people and the food.

One spot, in particular, that always satisfied: Changuir's. Located just west of the capital's central financial district, where skyscrapers touched the clouds, the street food shop served as a window into the life of the common Plánol.

"Try the chicken," he said, stuffing his own face with the sauce-covered poultry.

Césario looked on as Mr. Kinkoko twisted his nose and took a bite. The Minister of Justice was once a village boy just like Joao, but he had grown accustomed to the finer accouterments of life ever since his warlord days. Mr. Kinkoko's name preceded him, but rarely for good reasons. The man's propensity to take advantage of his power to enjoy luxuries that most Plánol people of Holy Panooly couldn't even imagine was well known. But saying no to Joao Bagamba was difficult and Joao enjoyed bringing his ministers and the other powerful figures around him down a pedestal. No, not down a pedestal, just simply back down to Earth. And while he did enjoy the food at Changuir's, it wasn't just for the food that he brought the Minister of Justice here. He wanted Mr. Kinkoko to remember his roots and to truly know the society he was tasked with protecting.

As the minister swallowed his food, Joao said, "The news out of Qadesh is troubling."

"Aye," replied Mr. Kinkoko. "It didn't help that the governor ordered the prefectural police to close down access to the city. It took my people hours to bypass the roadblocks. Bloody ridiculous. How can you tell me that that man isn't working against us?"

"I can't tell you that. He most likely is." Joao paused to take a sip of water. "But we have no proof and there are benefits to keeping him in power. I don't even know if we can remove him from power, at least not without prompting Pretoria to formally declare independence. Dealing with him now might just make things worse. Better to let him think he's playing us and just keep him where we can see him, until the time comes to get rid of the man."

Mr. Kinkoko nodded in half-agreement. "Maybe," he said, "but I don't know how you can expect me to keep the peace in the south if the prefectural government is actively resisting our efforts."

Joao took another bite of food. Then another sip of water. In the distance, the clatter of small arms fire sounded, then it disappeared and came back elsewhere. Joao said, "The fighting hasn't gotten better since Operation Panooly Peace. We have not yet devolved back into civil war but we are headed in that direction. It's important that you and your ministry do everything within your power to suppress the Hakara Hunters, maintain the peace within rival Plánol clans, and act as the enforcer extension of the central government. We don't have much time, Antonio. If the situation slips further, it will cost us our dream of a Plánol government in Holy Panooly."

"That will not happen, sir," said Mr. Kinkoko. "But I need the right tools. The Umazija must pass the provisions bill to expand the Taipolisi."

Joao turned to his aide. Césario said, "I have confirmation from Mr. Abasi Sequiera that the bill will be passed this week."

Mr. Kinkoko nodded. "Abasi? Hard to trust the man's word but I suppose there's no reason to doubt him here. Anyway, once the bill is passed the funds will need to be unlocked right away. The situation is becoming progressively direr. The Taipolisi don't have enough men as it is but the signs out of Pretoria suggest that the storm is only building and that the worst is yet to come. My men report more contact with Hakara Hunter forces to the south, in the area of Langlaas. I think they are amassing their strength for something big, and probably here in the city."

Joao had heard similar reports. All he said in response was, "You will get what you need. For now, you must cope with what you have."

They finished their food before each heading his own way, but from the slight droop in their shoulders and from the expression on their faces one could tell that there was a simmering anxiety of what was soon to come.



...three days later.

The sweat rolled down Rogerius' face as he rode northward, the sun beating hard on him and his men. Their truck picked up a dust cloud as it zigzagged through the grasses of the bush. He could see the looming jungle ahead of him. Soon they'd disappear into the thick tropical forests of central and northern Holy Panooly, where the heat of the sun was more than replaced by a sweltering humidity.

His truck was one of six in a convoy and all of them were chock full of gunmen. Somewhere on the other side of the vast jungle was the ruined urban sprawl of Panooly City. Rogerius always considered Panooly City rather provincial even though it had been made the capital by Templeton. Perhaps the fact that the former dictator had bestowed so much status on Panooly City contributed to the sour taste it left in Rogerius' mouth. To think that such an olive branch had been extended to the Plánol people — a capital city in the center of the country, breaching the color divide — and that it had been so firmly rejected underscored the colonel's belief that anything less than white rule in Holy Panooly was tantamount to a collapse of civilization. That made him nothing less than a crusader for civilization. It swelled him with pride, this mission.

"Roadblock ahead," said the copilot in the cabin, through a small window that could be opened and closed in the middle of the rear glass pane.

Rogerius peaked over the truck's roof to confirm what he had been told. About 400 meters down the roadway was a lightly manned Taipolisi roadblock. The government had deployed hundreds of roadblocks like these around the country but they were far more frequent near the capital, on the Jumanotan border, and around Guamlumpeiron. In the south, they were almost nonexistent. Hakara Hunter groups normally avoided them but this time they were moving in such strength and haste that bypassing the roadblocks was impossible. Instead, they'd blow right through it.

On the rear edge of the truck's roof were mounting brackets. One of Rogerius' men had already taken out a medium machine gun from a bag and had started to connect it to the mounts. It was a practiced routine and it didn't take long. In less than a minute, as the convoy slowed down in anticipation, the gunner was ready, pulled the cocking handle back, and opened fire. In front of him, the unsuspecting security forces fell like trees in a logging camp. Crumpling to the ground, the machine gunner continued spraying them on the floor until he was sure they were all dead. Finally, Rogerius said, "Cease fire," and the gunner did so. A trail of like smoke rose from the barrel's end of the machine gun and through the haze they could all see the corpses of the dead, through which they drove as they moved past the roadblock. The enemy didn't even have the opportunity to forewarn others up the road.

On they went, through the jungle, taking the two-lane highway that wound through the foliage like an asphalt river. Soon enough they could see the high-rises of Panooly City's downtown financial district. From this distance they looked intact and powerful, a statement of some sort of ascension of Plánol power. The truth was that their glass windows were still shattered from the war and that the damage to their concrete and steel frames had yet to be repaired. They were testament not to power, but to the fragility of the new Plánol-majority regime.

Closer to the city, they approached another, more heavily manned roadblock. This one was several layers deep and they'd be unable to gun their way through it. Instead, the six trucks fanned out, some of them going offroad. This undoubtedly tipped the security forces off, which could be seen rushing to prepared defensive positions behind sandbags, concrete obstacles, and other emplacements. One of them, standing by the side of the road, picked up his hand as they got closer and bellowed, "Stop!"

The trucks did not stop. Instead, they opened fire. Rogerius, in the lead, continued moving forward on the road. Behind him followed another truck. Two trucks powered through on either flank. Heavy return fire peppered their positions but the Taipolisi forces preferred to protect their own lives rather than expose themselves. Maintaining the covering fire, Rogerius allowed his flanking forces to complete their maneuver and suppress the roadblock from the side and rear. He and the truck to his rear continued forward, speeding through the position while the security forces kept their heads down. The convoy didn't wait to confirm who was killed, wounded, or still alive. The roadblock wasn't the target, it was just in the way. So as soon as the two trucks on the road were through, the flanking forces joined them and they were soon back on the road toward Panooly City. This time, Taipolisi forces ahead would be warned by their compatriots.

Elsewhere, dozens of convoys like these were making "thunder runs" of their own into the city. They were having little battles of their own as they pushed through roadblocks to reach the capital. Rogerius trusted that the Taipolisi were so thinly stretched that they wouldn't be able to respond effectively. But he couldn't worry about that now. His focus was solely on achieving his objective for the day.


...elsewhere in the city.

Antonio cursed under his breath. Although he expected the attack, he knew that it would be difficult to crush. The minister simply didn't have sufficient men.

His aide approached him and quietly said, "Minister, the Satrap is on the line."

Antonio was handed the phone. He put it to his ear. "Sir, this is an emergency. We have enemies approaching the city from the west across multiple vectors. My men are responding now but I do not have enough units to block all the inbound attackers. I recommend that you connect with the local imperial commander and request military assistance to protect the government seat."

"That is not possible," replied Bagamba. "They will tell us that it is an internal matter."

"What good are they?" spat Antonio.

"You know as well as I that their intervention would be considered an infringement on our sovereignty," said Bagamba.

Antonio answered, "Not if you request their intervention explicitly."

"And admit that our government can't administer this country on its own?" asked the satrap, heatedly. "I'm not going to do it. You must defeat the attack with the forces already available to you."

The line clicked at the satrap's end. Antonio growled. His aide scurried back to his side to take the phone. The minister stood and barked, "Prepare the war room. Call all Taipolisi leadership in the city to my side. We will coordinate our defense of the capital from there. Move, move, we don't have much time. Tell them that anybody who dilly-dallies will be removed from command."


...at the satrapical palace.

Joao slammed the phone down and called his aide over. "Césario, Sequiera on a secured line."

"Already on it, sir." Césario pressed a few buttons and then nodded at the satrap, who picked up the phone.

On the other side of the line, a voice said, "Satrap."

"Abasi, are you aware of what's going on?" asked Joao.

"No," the senator said, flatly.

Joao scowled. "The capital is under attack."

"By whom?" asked the senator.

"Who the hell do you think?" fired Joao. "I am deploying security forces to congress as we speak. You need to call the Umazija in. I will make sure the Baraz congregates as well."

Silence on the other side of the line. A few seconds later, "What for, sir?"

Joao slammed his fist down on the table. "To pass that damned security bill."

"We must secure the funding for the program first," replied the senator, cooly. This had been the ongoing block to getting the bill passed, otherwise the Minister of Justice would already have the forces he needed to suppress the Hunters. "Without the funding, we put the fiscal health of the government at risk. We're in no place to stretch our finances beyond our means, sir. Can we request the Golden Throne to intervene?"

"Damn it, Abasi," thundered Joao. "And give them an excuse to replace our government altogether? No, we can't take that risk yet. This is an internal security matter, the Golden Throne has no jurisdiction there and we must resolve the problem on our own. To do that, we need the proper security force."

Silence on the other side, again. Then, "Sir, you know that there is a lot of resistance. Most of the Umazija agrees that we should prioritize our funding of reconstruction and basic well-being. Call the militias, if you need the manpower."

"Without the proper security forces, congress won't be funding anything at all. Security is the basis of anything we do, Abasi. You know that. The clans cannot be the pillar of our security operations. That would be tantamount to chaos and abdicating the power of the central government to the warlords. We've come too far to devolve back to that." He paused for a moment, allowing all of that to sink in. Then, "Anyway, this is not a debate. Get your people together, pass the bill, get it to the Baraz, and I will make sure they do their part. Is this understood? This is an emergency, Abasi. I expect the bill to be passed by the end of the day. I will contact Minister Kinkoko, tell him to anticipate the bill's passing, and to put the wheels of Taipolisi expansion in motion now. We have no time to waste." Joao slammed the phone down.


...the suburb of Percington.

As the Panooly leadership scrambled to react, Rogerius' men poured into Percington from various points. He expected the bulk of the 1,000 soldiers in the operation to make it to the suburb intact. Just under half of them, 400, took up positions within the suburb itself. The high school, which had been targeted by the government raid on Hunter militia commanders within the city, was reoccupied and fortified. Highway off and on ramps were occupied as well, with roadblocks set up. Police stations were taken, and their occupants were killed or executed. No prisoners. Government security forces dispersed and caught unprepared were simply butchered. Local Taipolisi units began withdrawing eastward toward the center of the city. Quickly, the withdrawal turned into a rout.

Amidst the evolving chaos, Rogerius made his way to his objective. The remainder of his force, about 600 men total including those already with him, struck farther east and converged on the Simpala prison complex. The government had stowed away captured Hunters from their raid there and Rogerius had set it upon himself to spring them out. He knew the only opportunity he'd have to do so was now, while the government reeled and struggled to respond to all the simultaneous threats.

The highways would undoubtedly be the primary battlefield at this hour, as government forces rushed into Percington. Rogerius had his men bypass the highway by taking the streets, running through the traffic lights, and using their heavy firepower where needed to clear traffic. It took over an hour to reach the prison complex but his convoy and, by virtue of their rendezvous at this point, the rest made it intact. They all quickly dismounted from their transportation and made their way to the preplanned rally points. The entire operation had been planned in advance. All of them knew that there wouldn't be time to gather and rethink the approach, everything had to be carried out as already determined. With this certainty in mind, Rogerius and his forces agglomerated into four major groupings — one in each cardinal direction, with the intention of penetrating into the prison from all sides at once. The attacks into the complex itself proceeded seamlessly, with about 600 heavily armed men simultaneously striking from four different directions. Heavy gunfire erupted almost immediately as the Hunters overpowered the limited prison security.

Cutting down any prison guards foolish enough to get in the way, Rogerius carved a path into the central cellblock. Other groups had their own targets. His was Jaquan Retief.

Retief was until Rogerius' arrival the ranking Hunter in Panooly City. Before today, that role amounted to little other than being the alpha among a relatively disorganized group of militants who had little more going for them than sporadic clashes with government forces. But Retief held the respect of the Hunters in the capital and it would be a powerful symbol to free him from Simbala.

Rogerius had some intel on where his target was located, but he relied on a team infiltrating the prison's control rooms to tell him exactly which cell to head to and then to open the relevant cell doors. He let that team take care of its own business while he focused on getting his men to the final rally point. It took a few minutes, but after killing a few more guards they finally appeared at the edge of the central block. Hundreds of cells on multiple stories faced an interior courtyard on the bottom floor. Railings separated the walkways on each floor from the open space above the courtyard. Rogerius ordered his men to split up, a fireteam taking each floor. That way, no matter where Retief was, he could be rapidly accessed, freed, and escorted out of the building along with the rest of the targets.

He stayed on the ground floor, where he could direct the operation. Where was the team tasked with taking the control room? They should have secured it by now. He waited a few more moments. His men were already positioned on each floor, already checking the cells individually to see if they could find Retief without help from the cameras. A few moments passed. Nothing.

Pressing into his right ear, Rogerius said, "Olympus, this is Watchman, come in, over."

Nothing.

"Repeat, Olympus, this is Watchman, come in."

A few seconds more of silence. Then a crackle. In his ear, someone said, "Watchman, this is Olympus. We have taken the Eagle's Nest."

Good. "Then tell me where the hell our target is."

"Lighting up your display now," said the voice.

Rogerius' helmet-mounted display lit up and marked a path to one of the cells. It was on the fifth floor. His men had gotten the same instruction, so the fire team already on the floor proceeded to get Retief. He and the rest of his group turned back to rendezvous at the next rally point. Once the fire team tasked with the extraction had retrieved Retief, they made their way to the rally point with the package. From there, they headed back out.

Simultaneously, the other groups were extracting their own targets. Altogether, 36 prisoners were targeted. Of the 36, 32 were extracted. The other four were not found and were presumed dead or offsite. Once the extraction was complete, the team in the control room opened all the cell doors in the complex. Throughout Simbala, prisoners warily stepped toward the edge of their open cells, wondering what was going on. When they saw that the prison guards were either nowhere to be seen or dead, the escalation to a full-blown prison riot was rather quick. Storerooms were sacked. Corpses were desecrated. The doors to the weapons room was opened as well, and it was only a matter of time before the prisoners found it and armed themselves. By the time the Taipolisi converged on Simbala, they'd have their hands too full with the prison riot to track down Rogerius and his men.

As soon as everyone was back outside, they loaded up on their trucks and headed back to Percington, where they'd join operations there to bunker down and prepare for the inevitable government counterattack.

Whatever happened next, the opening round was a stellar success.

[The Macabees]

IMPERIAL VISIT: PANOOLY CITY, PREFECTURE OF MOPATA

Ongola International Airport was less busy than usual. The fighting in the city was dissuading a tourist economy that was beginning to pick up again finally. Césario frowned. Tourists brought money that the new satrapical government could ill afford to lose, and aside from Delapesca there weren't many other places in Holy Panooly both worth going to and under firm enough control to collect taxes from. At least there were always the imperial soldiers who spent their money on local entertainment. But streetwalkers rarely declared their income.

That Kríerlord Angiko Bas chose to land in Ongola rather than at the nearest Laerihans airfield was a powerful statement in favor of the overall security situation in the city. It was also a somewhat generous statement given that the Hakara Hunters were seated more deeply in Panooly City than ever before and that all early efforts to eject the fighters from their fortified base in Percington had heretofore failed. And maybe there was an element of convenience in the kríerlord's choice, as well. Regardless, the symbology — fictitious or otherwise — was one that Joao Bagamba's cabinet would surely use to promote an image of stability, peace, and prosperity. Knowing how precarious the situation truly was, any positive symbology could help avoid a complete political collapse.

Césario watched as the imperial airliner touched the landing strip and came to a screeching halt at the other end. Distant gunfire marred the sight to some extent. A self-propelled ladder appeared from somewhere else in the airport and parked itself against the entry door, which opened as soon as there was a way down to the tarmac. Angiko Bas appeared at the top and nimbly made his way down, behind one of his security officers and with two more descending behind him.

"It's good to see you again, Your Excellency. Welcome to Holy Panooly," said Césario, who extended his hand out for a handshake.

Angiko took it firmly. "Thank you, Mr. Ginga. Satrap Bagamba could not greet me here, he sent his chief of staff?"

"No insult was meant, Your Excellency," hastily replied Césario. "The satrap has been in the Baraz chamber since this morning, discussing the proposed Holy Panooly Security Act. Its passing is vital of course. The bill is an important step forward in our country's path toward stability and prosperity. We are all excited for the lower chamber of congress to pass it."

"You are hoping that it is passed today, I presume," said Angiko.

Nodding, Césario answered, "Yes, Your Excellency."

Césario gestured to an armored SUV running on idle behind him. Angiko nodded and the two of them climbed in, the three security officers piling in after them. As they left the airport, two more armored SUVs joined theirs, one in front and the other in back. The three-vehicle convoy proceeded to the sand-colored satrapical palace forming the core of the administrative center of Panooly City. Not too far away, the vehicles' occupants could see the "high-rises" of the financial district — many of them still sporting their war scars of shattered glass windows or gaping hopes. Looking out the window toward these half-ruins, Angiko said, "The satrap needs to prioritize the reconstruction of his capital."

Fighting an internal urge to remain silent at the comment, Césario said, "With what money, Your Excellency?"

Angiko gave Césario a cool gaze. They were just entering through the palace complex's outer gates and so, if the kríerlord was about to reply, he changed the topic. "The satrap, when will he return from the Baraz?"

"The discussions are going on longer than we anticipated." Neither the satrapical chief of staff nor Bagamba himself meant any insult to Angiko Bas, of course. The kríerlord was a dangerous man who was in the emperor's ear. And the emperor was the most dangerous man of them all. He could decide to end Joao's tenure as head of state of Holy Panooly at any point, for any reason, and in any way. No, purposefully making the kríerlord wait would have been very foolish. Hopefully, Angiko understood that.

Whether he understood or not, the kríerlord snapped, "Fetch him now."

"Yes, Your Excellency," replied Césario.

He unlocked his phone to do as he was told but he received a text just then. It was from Joao. I am on my way, it read. Take Kríerlord Bas to the library room. Tell him that I will arrive in less than 10 minutes. "Kríerlord," said Césario, "Satrap Bagamba is on his way now."

The three-vehicle convoy came to a halt within one of the palace's interior courtyards. A palace servant opened the rear right door and elegantly bowed while Angiko Bas, Césario, and the two bodyguards stepped out of the vehicle. The wind had picked up and two flags fluttered violently above them, one the Golden Throne's and the other Holy Panooly's. Once they were all out, the servant led them into the interior, through the hallways, and to the library room.

As they were setting up at a small conference table inside the library room, the kríerlord stepped away to take some calls. There were already glasses on the table, each one impeccably clean, along with two pitchers of cold water with little floating ice cubes and a few lemon slices. Off to the side was a small mobile cart with rock glasses and a bottle of whisky. In front of each chair was a thin packet of information and in front of the entire setup was a temporary screen held up by a wheeled stand, toward which pointed a digital projector sitting at the end of the conference table. Servants were coming in and out of the room through a side door until, finally, they disappeared entirely. Angiko was outside for quite some time but, by the time had come in Joao had arrived as well.

"Kríerlord Bas," said Joao, reaching out to take Angiko's hand.

"Satrap," returned the kríerlord.

They shook hands and Joao said, "Apologies Your Excellency, I expected to have been back sooner."

"The Baraz and Umazija have taken longer than expected to pass your security bill," said Angiko. "I thought that you'd whip them into shape more quickly. I'm disappointed, honestly. You must understand that the situation in Holy Panooly is not just embarrassing to you, it's also embarrassing to me. It's I who has to report to His Imperial Majesty on the situation in the satrapy, I who has to take the heat for the inability to stabilize the situation here, and I am growing tired of it rather quickly. I like you, Joao. But, at some point, the time to find a new man for the job will come. Hopefully, I won't have to do that. But, you should know that we are approaching that threshold. Is that understood?"

Joao bit his lip to avoid showing any other signs of annoyance. He did not like being chastised, especially not in front of his staff. Luckily, none of the ministers were here, for that surely would have been awkward. As it was, he gave himself a second to compose himself, and answered, "Yes, Kríerlord. I understand fully. My intention is not to embarrass myself or you, but rather to lead Holy Panooly on the path toward security, prosperity, and unity. But you must understand that I cannot do that effectively if there are imperial-backed elements within the Golden Throne acting against me and the central satrapical government."

Angiko gazed at Joao cooly. "And what elements are those?"

"The mercenaries, for one. Returning Jumanota to satrapical administration is crucial to prove my government's authority," answered the satrap. "Secondly, Governor Ricus De Bruyn. Without his complicitness, there is no way the Hakara Hunters would be able to move through Pretoria as effectively or as quickly as they have. There is no way. And that goes without mentioning the role of Divan McLean."

The kríerlord listened. He said, after thinking through it for a moment, "I understand that the situation is difficult, Joao. And I know that it seems that everyone is playing the game for a different reason, seeking a different outcome, and that is, speaking frankly, unacceptable. But this is a challenge for all of us and there is no perfect solution. Unless you have definitive evidence of treasonous activity by part of the Pretorian government, there is little I can do other than meet with the governor and stress the importance of stabilizing the country. In the meantime, you need to whip your government into shape and put together a security force capable of defeating the rebel movement. I suspect, though, that you'll need more than military force to get the job done. I've been thinking about this quite a bit and you need to set in motion a three-prong strategy for unifying Holy Panooly in a meaningful way. First, you and the Panooly legislature must cooperate on the reconstruction of Delapesca. It will be an important source of future revenue for Holy Panooly and, luckily for you, His Imperial Majesty seems set on bankrolling the city's revival. Second, Guamlumpeiron must be cleared out and the prefecture must be fully incorporated in a sense that's meaningful to the satrapy's treasury. Third, Jumanota must be restored to Holy Panooly. This will be the most challenging of the three and, I believe, will be predicated on growing the economic and internal military power of the satrapy in relation to that of Tarn."

"What does it mean to cooperate on the reconstruction of Delapesa?" asked the satrap.

"His Imperial Majesty wants the Panooly congress to pass a bill to allow for Delapesca's renaming and to give the Imperial Bureaucracy to rebuild it as seen fit," replied Angiko. "What that means in all practicality is to rebuild it in a direction that would make it an attractive destination for future colonists and provincial tourists, as well as restoring its status as an important naval port for the Kríermada."

Joao blinked. "Rename it? To what?"

Angiko smiled. "Fedoroville."

"After Himself?" asked Joao, astonished.

"Quite," answered the kríerlord. "It is only one part of a wider program to rebuild the wartorn dominions of the Golden Throne by restoring key cities and renaming them in honor of His Imperial Majesty Fedor I and his predecessor, Jonak I. As...vain...as that might seem to you, it is a guarantee of future revenues that are beyond your government's capabilities at the moment. It will be the most splendid city in Holy Panooly."

"And Panooly City?" asked Joao. "Is His Imperial Majesty not interested in restoring the capital of his satrapy?"

The kríerlord tisked. "Joao, Panooly City is your capital city. If you want to be taken seriously as a satrap, you must find the means of rebuilding it yourself and it should be done to your standard. And you must move quickly because I can assure you that Pretoria will not suffer from inadequate tax revenues. Where are the provincial tourists likelier to travel? Where are the premier naval bases now? Where is the capital currently flowing to? It's certainly not the cities under your full control, that's for certain. To change that, we must act with urgency and it starts with approving the refounding of Delapesca and the securing of Guamlumpeiron. I expect you to introduce the necessary legislation and get it through both chambers, and I expect you to do it quickly. We don't have the time to waste."

Joao remained silent for a short while, then said, "Understood, Kríerlord."

"Good," said Angiko. He looked at the bottle on the cart. "Now, why don't you have someone open that up and serve us some drinks."

"Immediately," answered Césario, the chief of staff. He stepped out through the back door and barked a few orders and soon enough servants began scurrying in. Césario added, "We also have lunch to serve."

With the principal business concluded, they proceeded to lighter discussions.

[The Macabees]

THE BOMB: PANOOLY CITY, PREFECTURE OF MOPATA

Joao eyed the police officer standing at the corner of the street. He was carrying a big assault rifle across the front of his body. Another one standing next to him was carrying a machine gun, with a bandolier of ammunition wrapped diagonally across his torso. The fading sun was still strong enough to cast its light on dozens of soldiers similarly armed standing all over the street. The ones crouching up on the rooftops, scanning the whole area around them, were much harder to see. As were the drones.

Joao no longer walked the streets of Panooly City in safety.

At any point, he could be shot dead.

Like Arturo Lasamba.

Lasamba, the first Plánol chief executive of Qadesh, was killed outside of his home. His security had completely failed to detect a threat. The gunman had simply waited for him to arrive and then shot him dead. Only one bullet. Whoever had done it, they were professionals. Well, it was obvious who had done it. At least, who had ordered the shit. There were remnants of the old regime, the one originally put in place by the white supremacist dictator Dominic Templeton and kept largely intact by the Ordenites, who had managed to remain in power even under the Golden Throne. It made sense, argued Kríerlord Angiko Bas. Of course, a kríerlord, especially one of pure Díenstadi descent, couldn't understand what the old regime had done to the Plánol people of Holy Panooly. He could not understand what the people they left in power represented and why there would forever be conflict if white supremacists were put in a position of power. Well, they didn't understand and the chickens had come home to roost. Lasamba had been killed because he represented a new regime, a Plánol-dominant, majority-dominant government that sought to rectify the inequities of the past. Lasamba was killed because the old regime's political survivors weren't interested in truly moving forward into the era of the new regime.

Anyway, Joao knew exactly who he was dealing with. He had lived under the Templeton terror regime. He survived it by leaving for the vast northern jungleland, where he learned how to fight. He was there when the Templeton regime was toppled by Tarn. Joao was there to fight the Ordenites too, when they came in and occupied the white-dominated southlands. Joao had seen too much to leave his fate to chance.

Thus the drones and snipers.

Stepping up to one of the stalls lining the busy street, the satrap eyed some of the fruit for sale. The vendor nervously smiled and nodded as Joao looked on. Occasionally, he said something about the produce, like where it was made and why it was special. Picking up a melon with two hands, the vendor said, "Those are Theohuanacan melons! Special. Very special! They are brought in from western Theohuanacu, from Inxuahtl."

"Those," the vendor said, pointing, "those mangos are brought in from Guamlumpeiron."

Joao arched an eyebrow. "Guamlumpeiron? How? It's sealed."

"There are people inside," said the vendor. "They know other ways to get out and in."

"People? Inside? You've heard myths, old man," said Joao.

Ashamed, the vendor quietly replied, "Of course, satrap." Then, "But, this is no myth, Your Excellency. I have seen them with my own eyes. Not everyone, or everything, was killed in Guamlumpeiron. And not everyone turned. There are survivors, not just of the virus and then the blast, but of the infected who survived the bomb too. There are less of them every day, both surviving humans and the infected, but there are still many. I think they look forward to the day of liberation by your new government."

Smiling, Joao said, "It appears that it is I who have been told myths. I will investigate the situation. Thank you."

He made his way to another stall, this time on the opposite side of the street. The tightly packed throng moving in both directions effortlessly parted like a bubble around his entourage. That was one benefit of having big-bodied bodyguards. Hung from the stall's ceiling were all sorts of belts, of all styles and colors. Some had elaborate buckets, others were plain. Some were elegant, others rugged. Who could have thought that there were so many types of belts?

Getting lost in his thoughts, Joao thought some more about what the other man had said about Guamlumpeiron. He had received some intelligence that there were indeed human survivors inside the security perimeter maintained by the Golden Throne's ground forces. But Angiko Bas was not willing to authorize the use of imperial troops to clear Guamlumpeiron. It wasn't worth the cost in lives, said the kríerlord. There was no other force in Holy Panooly capable of securing Guamlumpeiron. Until now.

The bill to expand the Taipolisi, the Holy Panooly Security Act, had finally passed both in the Baraz and Umazija. Now Joao and his government would have a proper gendarmerie with which to enforce the will of his satrapical government. Guamlumpeiron certainly seemed like an attractive option for a first trial by fire, an introduction to war before being thrown against the Hakara Hunters. Almost all Hakara were former military. A large number of them had been special forces. They were killers. You can't throw fresh graduates to the dogs, you have to prepare them psychologically first. Why not Guamlumpeiron? After all, the kríerlord had set the restoration of Guamlumpeiron and its suburbs as one of Joao's government's three primary objectives. It was important to achieve them as quickly as possible. Before the emperor decided it was time for a change in leadership. Yes, once the Taipolisi was fully ready, it would clear, secure, and liberate Guamlumpeiron from abandonment."

Suddenly glad that he had come out to the open-air flea market of central Panooly City, Joao left behind the belts to continue onward to another stall, and then another, and then another. He felt it was important to meet with the common folk, the people who looked up to him as the leader of their new country. None of them, except maybe the very oldest, knew a time when a Plánol country was run by a Plánol leader. Those felt like ancient times.

But Joao Bagamba was the new leader of Holy Panooly. The first leader of a unified Holy Panooly before the assassination of Dominic Templeton. And he was Plánol.

He wanted the people of Holy Panooly, the original people, the Plánol people, to understand what exactly was at stake: this new regime. A regime where the Plánol could exercise newfound democratic rights in the election of the country's legislature, a Plánol-dominated legislature.

His bodyguards had been against the whole idea, of course. 'It was dangerous, foolhardy,' they said. Joao knew they were right but the work he was doing was indispensable. Shaking hands, speaking to the buyers and sellers, and proving to the people of Holy Panooly that the future was here and that Joao Bagamba was it. After a while, everyone stopped thinking about the danger as they continued making their way down through the flea market, turning down one street and then another.

The bubble around Joao started to get smaller.

"We should go," said one bodyguard, close to Joao and not too loud. "It's getting dark."

Nodding, the satrap said, "Just a few more stalls. Bring the cars around."

The guard muttered something into a mic embedded into his jacket collar. Others, in preparation for the arrival of the vehicle convoy, started to move out in an attempt to clear a small side road that emptied into the vendor-lined street. The streets in general were beginning to empty of shoppers as the sun was making its final descent. Joao looked around. He was happy. And being happy was not a normal thing these days. But being out here in the street with his people reminded him of a life without fear of attack, oppression, and violence, a life that seemed so distant but now was within grasp. He would have to come back here more often to refill his life force with energy, energy drained from him like blood from a wounded body by the complexity of the real world.

Shaking the hand of the last stall vendor, he said, "Tomorrow will be a better day, and the day after even better."

"I hope so, Your Excellency," said the vendor.

"God willing," he said.

The vendor was mouthing something in response, but Joao couldn't hear it. At first, it was as if all noise, all sound, had been sucked out of the air. He felt his body compress, then stretch as if being pulled by a magnet, then compressed again. Then came the roar of the explosion. And then the current of force that threw him through the stall and into the wall behind it. Joao's body crumpled onto the floor. Behind him, the street was littered with corpses although a thick smoke mixed with debris had covered the area like an impenetrable morning fog, obscuring anybody's vision beyond a few feet. Overhead, the sky was filled with drones trying to analyze the situation underneath the dark carpet of fumes, dust, and vaporized flesh. Joao coughed, spitting blood. His eyes were still closed, his breathing slow and heavy.

A general ringing noise was the only thing Joao could hear as consciousness slowly returned to him. He still couldn't move. The thought didn't even come to him. He wasn't even totally sure where he was, what had happened, or what he was doing. Ringing came way to the faint crying and screaming of the wounded, which gradually sharpened slowly but surely. The dust came in through the nostrils, mouths, and ears, filtering through every pore of the body.

Suddenly, there were people running about in every direction: bodyguards, Taipolisi officers, and emergency services personnel. Some were walking about on their hands and knees, dripping blood like a damaged pool dumping water onto the grass. There were people with missing arms and legs trying to find their lost appendages. Men, women, and children screamed shrilly as they held on tightly to gaping wounds on their sides, some trying to hold in organs trying to escape.

Then an unknown number of hands grabbed onto Joao's arms, legs, and torso, picking him up and carrying him away. He still wasn't completely awake. Breathing, but not fully conscious.

"Over here," someone said. "The satrap is over here. Hurry! Come!"

Carrying his limp body some distance, they lightly tossed him into the back of a car. Then they sped away...


...he awoke, finally, in a hospital bed. An IV was injected into the vein in his wrist. He was breathing through a machine.

Surrounded by guards and ministers, his hospital room looked like an impromptu emergency cabinet. It must have been the biggest room the hospital had. What poor soul had he displaced here? Joao tried to sit up but couldn't. Someone noticed and a wave of people rushed over to help their satrapical leader. Someone said, "He's awake! He's awake! The satrap is awake!"

"What am I doing here?" he asked, with a hoarse voice. He still hadn't noticed the severe burning up and down the side of his body.

Someone — Césario Ginga, Joao finally recognized — replied, "There was an attempt on your life, Your Excellency."

"An attempt on my life?" he questioned.

"Aye, Your Excellency, a bomb went off in the market, clearly intending to kill you," answered Joao's loyal aide.

The satrap let his head fall back onto the pillow. An attempt on his life? A bomb? The Hakara Hunters, it must have been. A pain much more dire than the one he felt from the attack pierced through his bones. It was an emotional pain. An emotional pain that was driven by the memories rushing back through his head and of the knowledge that, even if he had survived, dozens of innocent people surely hadn't.

"Rest now, Your Excellency," said Césario. "We will debrief when you are rested."

"We must act now—" he couldn't finish his sentence before the painkillers started flowing through his bloodstream and he, once again, fell asleep.

The television hanging from the ceiling in the corner of the room was playing the local news. The news anchor talked on, "Officials report thirty-six dead, forty-eight wounded, including fifteen dead and twenty-three wounded children. Government spokespeople have warned that all bodies have been found beneath the rubble of the homes and buildings collapsed by the sheer power of the bomb. The explosion was so powerful that it leveled almost two entire city blocks. Luckily, it is reported that the satrap is alive and in good condition, although we have received no update concerning an expected televised speech to the people. Officials say that the government is collecting all available information and data on the attack. But a rage is filling the streets of Holy Panooly's cities, a rage against violence that most believe should be a thing of the past, a violence that must be decisively ended one way or another...

[The Macabees]

OPERATION TROPICAL STERILIZATION: PLANNING THE REFOUNDING OF GUAMLUMPEIRON

His Excellency the Satrap remained bedridden in the hospital. From his hospital bed, he made it known that his wish was for Guamlumpeiron to be liberated. It had taken every ounce of his aide's energy to convince the legislature and the police to commit to the task.

Debate within and between the police and the government had been fierce. Many wanted to strike back at the Hakara Hunters immediately, but everyone knew that the Taipolisi were not still strong enough to take on the southern rebellion head-to-head and a major defeat could mean losing the war. The new Panooly paramilitary force needed a preliminary test first, something that could give the recruits battlefield experience without risking their destruction.

There were three options: an operation in Pretoria, an invasion of Jumanota, or the retaking of Guamlumpeiron. Since taking on the private military forces of Tarn was even more suicidal than rushing into an attempt to put down the Pretorian revolt, Guamlumpeiron was the easiest option of the three. Still, Panooly blood was boiling over the attempt on Bagamba's life and the constant attacks on Panooly civilians throughout the country. It was hard to persuade the legislators and citizens alike that the best way of striking back was through indirect means, rather than a head-on strike on either enemy of the Plánol people. But, finally, after many long days of deliberation, the relevant government agencies formally decided to concentrate Taipolisi forces along the southern edge of the Macabéan perimeter around the abandoned city of Guamlumpeiron.

Guamlumpeiron made an attractive target for other propaganda reasons, as well. Guamlumpeiron was where Satrap Bagamba first made his fame. It was in the eastern suburb of Choisengel where Bagamba, just a young and freshly minted kgosi — war leader —, broke the back of the admittedly chaotic loyalist defenses. It, along with Delapesca, was the heart of the Plánol revolt that was now empowered to lead the country into a new future. Liberating and refounding the city would be hugely symbolic.

What exactly awaited Panooly forces in the city nobody was quite sure. Soon after the KN755 virus first began to spread, the Golden Throne took the drastic step of destroying Guamlumpeiron by nuclear means. It was not even three years since those events happened and no Panooly official had stepped foot in Guamlumpeiron or its surroundings. Whether the Golden Throne's army had any intelligence on the city's status was unknown. Despite Holy Panooly's entry into the Imperial Federation, the empire remained characteristically tight-lipped about what they knew. They shared zero intelligence with the Panooly government, except for whatever was already released to the public. Truthfully, the best information that the Taipolisi could get was the wild rumor they could collect from those who claimed to have infiltrated through the quarantine to do business with survivors inside the pocket of infection. These were interviewed at length, sometimes several times, and the data collected from these interrogations was aggregated and compared. Much of the image they built of Guamlumpeiron was hopeful, some of it was terrifying.

Some details were known from what was published directly after the initial imperial intervention in Holy Panooly. One study based on interviews of soldiers who fought at Caludran gave rather elaborate details on the appearance of the 'survivors.' There were a lot of interviews. And all of them were very similar. Although the imperial security perimeter around the city meant that one of those things hadn't been seen in five years, the general sentiment was that whatever the KN755 survivors had become, it wasn't human. The Fuermak and Imperial Bureaucracy may not have published much in the way of official reports on the clearing operations or the ongoing scientific observation mission along the perimeter, but private testimony from hundreds of veterans gave a clear picture of what exactly it was they had struggled so hard to quarantine into the confines of northeastern Holy Panooly.

It was known that humans operated inside the Guamlumpeiron Quarantine Zone (GAZ). It was unofficially confirmed through interviews with enterprising and risk-seeking merchants who traded with the native folk within the GAZ that suburban parts of the city and its hinterland had been re-inhabited. After the civil war, the virus and its spread, the bomb, and the subsequent clearing operations, anybody still living did so outside the GAZ. But after the War of Panooly Reunification and now, with the violence in the south, refugee pressures were working in the opposite direction. It had driven some, numbering perhaps in the tens of thousands, to join communities inside the GAZ.

Before combat operations could begin, contact had to be made with the natives.

Through one of the interviewed traders, the government was put in touch with Mansa Hodari. Hodari called himself a salvager. He braved the overgrowth and physical danger of Guamlumpeiron's core to find the loot that the city's dead left behind: gold jewelry, silver and copper from electronics, and other abandoned goods that could be stripped down and sold outside the GAZ. These he offloaded to the merchants who illegally crossed the GAZ perimeter and smuggled these wares into the rest of Holy Panooly.

Hodari was told to meet Taipolisi agents on the imperial perimeter. When the imperial soldiers saw the human individual emerge from within the GAZ they did not seem the least bit surprised. A team was sent to the perimeter to extract Hodari and bring him to the capital. There, he was put into a room with police and political commanders responsible for the Guamlumpeiron operation. Césario Ginga, as Bagamba's loyal aide and sanctioned representative, was present too. They were inside a humid, featureless room with drab grey walls. Two large fans rotated in long, slow motion across the ceiling while, through the open windows running across the top third of the walls, one could hear the tropical rain pouring down on the headquarters complex in Panooly City.

"You said that the largest cohesive community inside the GAZ is in Sakou. Who is the leader?" asked one of the Taipolisi commanders. They had been questioning the man incessantly since the very beginning of the session.

"A kgosi they call the Master of the Army. A new one is elected every three months," replied the salvager, with tired eyes. "The man you want to speak to is Yakumbo Texeira. He was elected one month ago."

"Can you get us a sit down with him?" asked another police chief.

The man shrugged. "Maybe. But surely the Macabéans could do that more easily?"

Everybody stared at him dumbfounded. One asked, "What do you mean?"

"I mean that the imperial army regularly patrols into Sakou and even into the other communities. They know the people there and I'm sure they could compel all of them to work with you." The salvager said all of this as if it were common knowledge. He looked back at them, unsure why they all looked so confused. "You do know that the imperial army knows of and maintains active contact with the human communities inside the GAZ?"

Every head in the room swiveled toward Césario Ginga. It was shocking that no one else knew of this, but of all the people in the room who should be 'in the know' it should be Bagamba's aide. But Césario shook his head. "They never said anything. Nothing. We are completely in the dark about this."

"We need an imperial commander here."

"What do you want me to do? Order them down here?"

"Have the aide bring them. He is Joao's man, he can get them to agree to come."

The commanders and ministers were talking between themselves. None of them had asked Césario's whether he wanted to do any of this. "Very well, I will return in a moment," said Césario.

Conversing between themselves as he stepped out, they forgot about the salvager, who took advantage of the respite to slouch down into his chair, leaned back his head, and closed his eyes for a momentary nap. Then, uncomfortable in the excuse for a chair, he stood and walked over to the counter on the other side of the room, where poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot sitting in the brewer. He leaned back on the counter, standing there for a while before the aide walked back in. Again, every head turned and all eyes were on Césario.

He said, "They are awaiting approval from Angiko Bas. But are sending someone from the komthemata headquarters. Koronel Gavi Heusfel."

"A colonel? They can't send someone of higher rank?" asked one of the ministers, incredulously.

Césario shrugged. "They say this man will be able to answer all of our questions."

Angiko did eventually approve the imperial koronel's visit the Taipolisi HQ. After perhaps a two-hour wait, the squat, green-eyed Macabéan soldier entered into the room. He looked quite unhappy to be there. Everyone did. Despite the rain, it was still hot and humid and everyone was sweating through their uniforms and suits.
"This looks like the right place," he said. "Koronel Gavi Heusfel of the Armed Judicial Corps. I am told that my purpose here is to answer your questions on matters concerning the GAZ. I first express my solemn regret regarding what happened to His Excellency the Satrap and I hope you get the people responsible for the attack."

"We will," said Césario. "After we resettle Guamlumpeiron."

"That's a nuclear wasteland," said the colonel.

One of the commanders scoffed. "We know people are living in the GAZ."

Gavi Heusfel gazed back at the commander who had spoken with cool eyes. "There are indeed people living inside the Guamlumpeiron Quarantine Zone. What does that have to do with the fact that most of the city is practically a radioactive crater? Even in the suburbs, people expose themselves to a lot of risks getting that close to what is core Guamlumpeiron. How are you going to resettle that?"

"That's our job to figure out," said one of the ministers. "Whatever it is you're doing in New Empire, we can do the same thing here."

"I suppose you can," smiled the imperial officers. "It's going to be expensive, though."

"I'm sure there are plenty of companies in the provinces just giddy at the thought of accessing the abandoned mines outside the city, Macabéan," said Césario.

The koronel shrugged, and said, "I am not Macabéan, I am Frommian."

"What's the difference?" asked one of the Taipolisi commanders.

"I am from Pabagne, in the old Kingdom of Beda Fromm. The people you call Macabéan, they come from Díenstad," answered Gavi Heusfel. "We are different people with a different culture. Even our language is different. It is a variation of Díenstadi, but there can be some pretty big differences."

The commander seemed unconvinced. "All of you imperial g-men sound the same to me."

The colonel said, "Yes, well, you would do yourself a service to educate yourself on the cultures of the Imperial Federation. The men you will surely be interacting with on the perimeter of, and inside, the GAZ come from all corners of the Golden Throne. They are auxiliaries. That means that aside from many, but not all, of their officers, their units are composed of soldiers recruited from the territories. They are Havenics, Zarbians, Monzarkians, Guffingfordis, and Theohuacans. Not Macabéan."

"We belong to the empire, brother," replied the commander. "We are all Macabéan now."

"Holy Panooly is a junior partner, at best," retorted the Frommian.

"Strange that someone so fast to distinguish himself from being a mere Macabéan is so quick to claim more of its status," spat the commander.

Césario stood from his chair. "Anyway," he said loudly. Everyone's attention turned to Bagamba's aide. "Let's get back on track, here. What we do with Guamlumpeiron after its reoccupied is irrelevant. What matters is that the satrapical government of Holy Panooly will launch an operation to clear the quarantined portions of Gualumpeiron and its surroundings of any threatening activity. We request imperial cooperation. Also, why was the Panooly government not made aware of active refugee communities inside the GAZ?"

The koronel took a sit up from a cup of coffee someone had handed him. "This stuff is terrible," he said. "Isn't the best coffee supposed to come from Holy Panooly?"

"That's government coffee. Government coffee always tastes like shit, even in Holy Panooly," said Césario.

Gavi Heusfel laughed. "The GAZ is an active military conflict and under the sole jurisdiction of the Imperial Bureaucracy, but more so the military forces to whom the Imperial Bureaucracy entrusts the security of its people. We are under no obligation to share any classified information of a sensitive nature with parties unrelated to the success of our operations. I'm sure that you would have been told eventually. At least, I'd think so. But, what do I know, I'm just a simple colonel. I don't make those decisions, I just report on them. If you want a better answer, you'll need to get it straight from His Imperial Excellency Bas. As for your little operation in the GAZ, I am told to make you aware that we know of the buildup. I have not been told whether the Ejermacht plans to allow your forces through into an active imperial war zone."

"You keep calling it an active war zone," said Césario. "Yet, you let civilians live in there?"

"The war in Gholgoth demands bodies. The bulk of the army is also stationed around Delapesca and in the south, apart from what's here in the capital, dealing with mopping up and influence-cleansing operations. We compensate for a lack of manpower through the use of sensors, drones, and autonomous patrol vehicles to monitor activity along the perimeter. A ring of fire bases surrounds the GAZ, along with barbed wire, concrete barriers, and that sort of thing, but most of the surveillance is done through robots. Anything...not human...is zapped. Otherwise, the perimeter can be admittedly porous. Most refugees pass through through tunnels, which we sanction because it helps control the flow of movement. There are two principal tunnels. Once they come in, they are not allowed to leave without explicit permission or otherwise discharged."

"What do you mean 'they aren't allowed to leave'?" asked a white-haired minister. "Citizens of Holy Panooly have freedom of movement throughout the satrapy. And throughout the empire, or so I thought."

"Not through an active imperial war zone!" said the koronel.

Césario loomed forward. "You haven't answered my question, Koronel Heusfel."

"I'm getting there," replied the officer. "His Imperial Majesty, and therefore the Imperial Bureaucracy as a whole, views the loss of imperial life on the restoration of Gualumpeiron as presently distasteful. As a result, the Ejermacht is green-lit to sustain a scheme with incoming refugees. Men and their families are allowed to settle inside the GAZ if they are willing to join the communities. Joining a community enrolls the lead male of the household, between the ages of 16 and 45, into that community's army. Each army is responsible for patrolling a specific sector of outer Guamlumpeiron."

"You're using Panoolies to clear out the 'survivors?' asked a Panooly police commander. "That's illegal, surely."

"It's perfectly legal," said the imperial army officer. "The Fuermak rightfully recruits throughout the Imperial Federation. It is our guaranteed right by treaty."

"That's a pretty loose definition of 'recruitment,' officer," said the commander.

The Frommian raised his arms in defense. "It's a legal definition. I'm a lawyer, for the Golden Throne's military no less. I know what I'm talking about. Anyway, yes, we recruit the men into battalion-sized units technically organized under the regulíes department of the army. Those are the foreign volunteers. They are considered regulíes because the Ejermacht is unable to wrap its head around a force made up of multiple tiers of imperial peoples. Not everyone is a citizen. Not everyone is fully subject to the Imperial Bureaucracy. For now, recruits from the satrapies are considered foreign volunteers. Hey, don't look at me like that, I don't make the rules, I just make sure everyone is abiding by them. Before you operate in the city, you will need to make contact with the communities yourself and negotiate their extraction from the quarantined zone."

"And you can facilitate that?" asked Césario.

"I'm just a lawyer, man."

One of the police officers pounded his fist on the table. "What good are you, then?"

"You wanted to speak to someone who could answer your questions on the GAZ, right?" asked the officer, defensively. "That's why I'm here—"

A phone in his pocket rang. The screen lit of through the fabric of his pants. He answered it. Someone on the other line was speaking. Occasionally, Koronel Heusfel said, "Yes...uh huh...I see...yes...understood...yes...of course...I will tell them...I understand...I will do as Willed...yes...yes, Long Live His Imperial Majesty."He hung up and put the phone back in pocket, then looked up.

"That headquarters," said the military lawyer. "I have been told to instruct you to continue assembling your forces along the perimeter. They are not to cross the perimeter or they will be considered a hostile threat by our drones. It's the programming, you know. In lieu of the satrap, given his unfortunate disposition at this time, we defer satrapical authority to Mr. Ginga. You and a small team of your choosing will be escorted to each of the communities inside the GAZ. You will need to organize an extraction for all of these communities. Even one rejection will result in a disapproval of your operation in the war zone. Assuming you succeed in providing for the resettlement of the refugees living inside the GAZ, you can use the communities as forward assembly positions. Their assigned combat zones should be clean enough on the surface. You might get the errant pack of ghouls in the dark, tall buildings. They like to hide there sometimes. But mostly they live in the sewers. That's where they know they can get away from our drones. Otherwise, sooner or later, we find them and we zap them. A 45kg precision warhead courtesy of the Golden Throne. As for clearing them out of the sewers and from deep inside the core of Guamlumpeiron, apparently His Imperial Excellency Bas is more than happy to let your people do the work."

"Good," said Césario. "We don't have time to waste. Let's get down to the GAZ."

At that, they adjourned the meeting. Mansa Hodari, the scavenger they had pointlessly extracted from the quarantined zone, was escorted out of the building and abandoned on the sidewalk outside. He'd had to make his way back to wherever he was going on his own. The imperial military lawyer had quickly pulled Césario aside at the end of the meeting to request that the scavenger not be given a ride back to anywhere near Guamlumpeiron. Looting an active imperial warzone was highly illegal unless you had permission from the Golden Throne. So Mr. Hodari was let loose in Panooly City and told to make the best of it.

For his part, Césario chose his team of six other officials. They left for the GAZ the next day, where they'd meet with the imperial military and the community leaders.

[Tarn Emerita]

TARN — Humberto meant for his gold and silver smile to look mean. Two dark polymer spheres made up eye his eyeballs, each one centered by a fiery red pupil. A metallic arm held a short glass filled a tad bit under halfway with brown jinharem. He brought it to his lips and took a long sip, the cool sweetness of the Theohuanacan liquor almost refreshing if it wasn't for the bite at the end. Humberto hadn't been rude, of course. The guest had his own short, halfway-full glass of Theohuanacan rum, as well.

The guest took a sip from his own glass. He said, "For such a wretched country, they do sure make good liquor."

"Aye. But we ain't here to talk about alcohol, are we?" replied Humberto.

"No, we are not," answered the guest. "We are here to talk about you selling weapons to the Pretorian government."

Humberto snorted. "I wasn't aware that a prefectural government of the Imperial Federation had the autonomy to buy weapons from foreign states. Anyway, it seems like bad business to make a deal with a rebellious appendage of the Golden Throne. Our partner already felt the long arm of the law once before, no sense in us making the same mistake too — the risk is way too high. Not unless we do it for the right price, at least."

"First of all," said the guest, raising his pinky finger, "the Pretorian government is not buying weapons from a foreign state. It is proposing to buy weapons from a private military corporation. Second of all, in due time and with your help the Pretorian government will be a satrapical one just as much as Holy Panooly's. Third, and lastly," he raised his middle finger to have three up total, "we will pay the right. We can talk about the price later. Right now, I want to talk about my needs."

"Very well," replied Humberto.

They were sitting on two sleek, tall-back, black chairs that were rather comfortable. Between them, the table's glass top sat on a minimalist light-colored wooden frame with long tapered legs that came down to the light laminate floors. The office was well-lit by a large window that faced out on the opposite side of where the rest of downtown Tarn towered over its surroundings. Finkirk knew how to buy its real estate. Its skyscraper headquarters stood on the edge of the inner city, looking down upon the suburbs in which thousands of its employees lived. A curtain of light fell upon them, although an adjustable tint on the window lessened its sharpness. Very few people in Tarn enjoyed a view like Humberto's, or the amount of light. The vast majority of Tarn lived beneath the shadow of the core. In this city, the PMCs ruled.

After taking another swig of jinharem, the guest put the glass down on the glass-top table between them. He said, "The government of Holy Panooly is raising an army with which to suppress the Pretorian revolt. They call it the Taipolisi and the rumors say that it numbers no less than 40,000 men. Our eyes and ears can confirm at least 10,000, although they are currently deploying them in the northwest. For the moment, at least. Although I am surprised that those barbarians can pass anything coherent through their joke of a legislature, the Pretorian government is taking the threat seriously. Our needs are two-fold. First, we need ammunition. A lot of ammunition. We have captured significant weapon stockpiles in the small garrisons and bases we took in the south. There was also a sizeable remnant of South Panooly war stocks. All of it is Ordenite-made, or most of it at least. We will need more weapons, but right now we need to guarantee our supply of ammunition. Second, we need reinforcements. A large force isn't necessary, a smaller one will do. I'm thinking...four thousand men. Are these two things doable?"

"Like I said," answered Humberto, flashing his gold and silver teeth in a sly smile, "Finkirk can facilitate anything for the right price."

"So, that's a yes?" replied the guest.

Humberto contemplated the request for a moment. After some time, he said, "Will the force be used for offensive purposes?"

Nodding, the guest said, "Yes."

"Hmm." Humberto thought for a moment longer. "Four thousand men is doable. I'm guessing that you intend to go on the offensive while the Taipolisi are still in the process of formation and its men green. I am also sure that you realize that you intend to involve Finkirk assets in an attack on a formal member of the Imperial Federation. You couldn't be so stupid as to think otherwise. Forget the ammunition, let's talk price for the men. Because that's gonna cost you a pretty penny, friend."

The guest smiled. "The good news, friend, is that the government of Pretoria is flush with cash. I have been empowered by Governor De Bruyn to offer Ŗ450 million a month for the services of four thousand of your men."

"Ŗ450 million?" scoffed Humberto, as if insulted. "That barely covers the paint, pal. Let's call it Ŗ750 million a month with a six-month minimum contract, all of it paid upfront."

"Ŗ500 million a month," countered the guest.

Humberto shook his head. "Ŗ750 or no deal."

The guest looked genuinely irritated. He said, "Ŗ600, three-month minimum, all of it paid upfront and paid monthly in arrears thereafter."

"Ŗ600 million, then," agreed Humberto. "But you pay the monthly in advance."

"Deal," said the guest. "Let's talk about the ammunition next. We need an ongoing tap, so we're looking for this to be a long-term relationship. That's a good reason for you to cut me some slack on the price, you know. I'm authorized to offer Ŗ50 million a month for an ammunition contract that satisfies the needs of a 20,000-man force, not including the 4,000-strong Finkirk force. This contract will grow with our needs, of course, so we need Finkirk to be flexible with changes in our demands. We'll be stepping up from small arms, soon enough."

Ŗ650 million monthly recurring revenue for Finkirk was good business. But, it wasn't good enough. Humberto said, "We'll write up the contract. For transparency, we charge a 10 percent fee for business with all rogue entities."

The guest raised a finger. "We are not a rogue enti—"

"I don't care what you say," he replied. "Your status as a legitimate government is contested. There is not a single government that recognizes you as independent from Holy Panooly. Not a single one. Not even the Ordenite Reich. So for the purpose of our business, you are indeed a rogue government. You are more than welcome to walk out of my office, take the elevator down to the lobby, walk out on the street and find someone else who will provide you with what you need for cheaper. But I suspect you won't find anyone worth a damn willing to take the risk for any less than what I've offered. So 10 percent of Ŗ650 is Ŗ65, for a total of Ŗ715 million a month with Ŗ1.85 billion due up front on signing. In exchange, Finkirk will facilitate you with a 4,000-man-strong brigade of crack troops. Each of these men has been recruited from the finest military forces. All of them have served on at least two combat tours in an active warzone with an infantry or special forces unit, most of them have served on more. These are the best of the best. Whatever you're planning on attacking with them, let's just say I really feel sorry for them. I should ask, light or armored?"

"Armored?" the guest dared to ask. "Like an armored brigade with tanks?"

Humberto's eyes brightened in the face of opportunity. "Tanks? I didn't even think about that. We could do that too, although I was asking about whether you need power armored men or are looking to field a light infantry force."

"Oh," answered the guest. "We certainly don't need tanks. But, power armor? I don't think the Panoolies have shit with which to fight against that."

"Power armored shock brigade, it is," said Humberto. "So, Ŗ715 million a month. Do we have a deal?"

"Write up the contract." The guest picked his drink back off the glass. "You're going to need to pour me another in a second, and probably some more after that. I gotta get my money's worth."

Smiling again, Humberto said, "Don't worry, Colonel Vommel. I'm your Finkirk account manager now and I treat all my clients the same, like absolute loyalty. Get some rest because tonight we'll hit the city. I'm talking strippers dancing on your lap, high-rollers throwing dice and flipping cards on the table, and troublemakers getting high on booze. Doesn't have to be just booze, either, if that's your thing. I can get us anything you want."

"No to all of the above," said Rogerius. The flight to Tarn had been long and circuitous, first passing through North Point in the Zeeland Prefecture of Theohuanacu. He was tired and didn't want to extend his exposure to this Finkirk salesman's antics for longer than he had to. "Unfortunately, I need to return to Qadesh immediately. Let's finalize the paperwork here and call it a day."

"You're no fun, sheesh," said Humberto, pouring Rogerius another glass of jinharem. "Let's keep drinking, then. I've already told my people to prepare the contracts. I'll have them on this desk in a bit."

They chatted about different things, veering into their shared experiences as military veterans after the liquor had flown into their blood. But despite all the alcohol in his veins, Rogerius' mind did not veer from his responsibilities. His spies told him that the Taipolisi would occupy Guamlumpeiron. Nobody was sure what that entailed exactly, but if it tied down the Panooly gendarmerie then he needed to be poised to strike. There was no time to waste on girls and games. The sovereignty of Pretoria was on the line.

[The Macabees]

OPERATION TROPICAL STERILIZATION: CACIQUES OF THE GAZ, PART I

Césario took a helicopter to the southern outer quarantine gate complex, where a convoy of imperial military vehicles awaited him. He silently whistled to himself as he saw the line of armored cars and turreted eight-by-eights. If only Holy Panooly had just a small number of the machinery the Golden Throne had, then it could protect its nation and enforce the will of its people's government. But the Golden Throne gave them nothing.

"Welcome to the Guamlumpeiron Quarantined Zone, sir," said the low-ranking imperial officer sent to greet him. When Césario just looked at him blankly, the officer added, "I will be your guide into the quarantined zone."

"We will leave now?" Césario asked.

The soldier looked back at the line of AFVs. "I suppose I can brief you on the way there. Let's go."

He followed the officer toward one of the armored cars in the middle of the convoy. It was a HIM-TAC. He knew the model from some of the paperwork the Satrap had received a few months back. The government had put in an order for 100 HIM-TACs, but the order was rejected because "the Imperial Bureaucracy cannot sacrifice its war effort against the Scandinvan Empire for the sake of a government that ought to be able to stand on its own two feet and positively contribute to the wellbeing of the Imperial Federation." Climbing into the back, he noticed why the vehicle was in such demand. It was all state-of-the-art equipment, clean, and in good condition. It was nothing like the scrap, second-hand vehicles acquired through markets in Tarn, that the Taipolisi were being armed with.

They snaked their way out of the base through a heavily reinforced steel gate flanked by two broad, tall towers that overwatched the cleared perimeter. The two-lane paved road that led into the jungle was in good condition, suggesting frequent maintenance or little use. Césario assumed that the former was likelier than the latter. He remembered the military lawyer in Panooly City who said that the Fuermak was in constant communication with the communities inside the GAZ. It was apparent that the empire was happy to invest in the infrastructure necessary for an open line of communication with their volunteer fighters.

Why don't they invest the same way in the rest of the satrapy? he wondered. He put that thought aside and asked, "Is such heavy security necessary?"

There were five vehicles in the convoy: three HIM-TACs and two turreted eight-by-eight AFVs. In his car, aside from the driver, there was a co-pilot and another lightly armored soldier sitting next to him in the back. No one was manning the heavy machine gun, but Césario knew that it could be remotely controlled from the inside if necessary. Besides, he could see through the mirrors that the turreted AFV behind him had its turret pointed to the right, while the one in the front of the convoy had its turret pointed to the left.

"Just for precaution," said the co-pilot. "We haven't been ambushed in a long time. The Walkers are smarter than they look, they don't attack us when we're at strength like this so we'd like to keep it that way. It used to be that they'd rove around the GAZ in larger numbers but, lately, they've been seen more and more only in the inner city. I guess that means the communities are doing their jobs in clearing the suburbs and pushing them further toward the center. We still move in strength when we visit the inner defense sectors but it's really out of precedence."

Headed for the suburb of Efuru, it was the second-largest of the three main militias living in the GAZ. "They call themselves the Gardeurs," said the co-pilot, now talking about who they were about to visit.

The Gardeurs had been chosen as the first stop in Césario's tour because, as the second-biggest military force among the three, their support of an overall integration with greater Holy Panooly was pivotal. With them, dealing with the other two would be far easier.

Continuing with his tour guide narrative, the co-pilot was saying, "They don't like outsiders. None of them do."

"Don't like outsiders?" asked Césario. "Don't they answer to you guys?"

The co-pilot shrugged. "They do what we ask them when we do, most of the time. But as far as I know, we keep what we ask from them to a minimum. All of that is above my pay grade, anyway. What I do know is that all of the militias hold their own against the Walkers well enough without us. We just keep the peace between them now for the most part, outside of of our patrols to and from..." he trailed off.

"To and from what?" asked Césario.

"Like I said," restated the co-pilot, "above my paygrade."

Inside the GAZ the Panooly jungle was struggling to come back to life. Green trees and colorful plants sprouted up like beacons within the otherwise charred, desolate landscape left behind by the nuclear warheads dropped on the city. In the early days after the imperial annexation, when the quarantine zone was first established, the fighting in the region had also been heavy leaving behind its widespread ruin and destruction. Hundreds of millions of souls had been laid to rest in these jungles. The vast majority of KN-755's victims were here in the northeast. KN-755 claimed more than two hundred million lives. Civil war and the War of Panooly Reunification cost another three and a half million. All of Holy Panooly had suffered, but the ghastly ruin of Guamlumpeiron's devastated rainforest was a clear indication of just how bad the last few years had been for this land in particular.

Césario grimaced and turned away. He couldn't bare to look at it. To the co-pilot, he said, "Guamlumpeiron really hasn't come a long way, has it?"

"You'd be surprised," said the imperial soldier. Then, "Hold up, we're coming up on Efuru's outer perimeter. There'll be a couple of checkpoints we'll have to go through."

"A couple?" asked the Plánol.

"Yea, yea," the soldier replied, nodding. "Don't worry about it. We should get through both of them just fine."

Just like the driver predicted, their convoy reached a checkpoint flying the imperial flag with its golden double-headed eagle. Césario peered up at it. Flapping and waving in the air, the flag evoked a mixture of emotions in Bagamba's aide. It certainly inspired only the awe that an almighty conqueror and guardian of liberty that the Golden Throne had earned in Holy Panooly. First with their quick response to the KN-755 outbreak, and second for the protection of the Plánol nation against fascist Ordenite aggression. But it also provoked a deep suspicion and fear. It provoked these two emotions because Césario could not say for certain that he would die in a Plánol-ruled Holy Panooly. One day the empire would place their own governor in the executive position. But when? Surely not while the emperor's man, Joao Bagamba, still lived.

A rifle-totting guard waved them through an open electric chainlink gate. The convoy continued through the blackened jungle remains for a little while, following the paved military road. Bombed-out carcasses of buildings in the distance suggested they were not far from Efuru. Guamlumpeiron itself was still mostly out of view. Finally, they arrived at the second checkpoint. This one did not belong to the Golden Throne.

A dark-skinned Plánol man carrying a black assault rifle in one hand and with his other held up for them to stop. The lead vehicle in the convoy did so and the rest behind it emulated the leader.

For a moment, neither the guard nor the imperial soldiers did anything. Césario wondered whether they'd be let through. Why shouldn't they? Why did the militants think they had the authority to stop an imperial convoy? The aide was about to say something as the official representative of His Excellency the Satrap of Holy Panooly Joao Bagamba. If not the imperial military, then surely the Panooly government had the freedom to access whatever corner of the country they were pleased to visit. Well, that certainly wasn't true in Pretoria. But in Guamlumpeiron? Césario always believed that the only parts of Guamlumpeiron the Plánol government didn't directly rule were just those tainted by the virus. It was beginning to dawn on him that there were entire Plánol communities living inside the GAZ who did not answer to the central government in Panooly City.

Then, just as suddenly, the militia guard waved them through. "They like to keep us on our toes," said the co-pilot.

Two of the HIM-TACs stayed behind while the other three vehicles continued into the suburb. Although Efuru was on the outer edge of the greater Guamlumpeiron megalopolis, it was nevertheless a large city in its own right. Before the civil war, it had over one million inhabitants, most of them Plánol workers. The multi-story apartment blocks came upon them quickly and just like that the two AFVs and the HIM-TAC were in the urban remains of Guamlumpeiron's southern marche.

Almost all the buildings were in utter ruin. Most had probably already suffered considerable damage during the rebel assault on the city during the civil war. But the nuclear strikes must have done their part too no doubt.

But it was not quite as drab as Césario had expected. Wooden beams and columns replaced brick and steel in some places, like primitive skeletons trying to mimic with their paltry means what their industrial betters were able to accomplish. The deeper into Efuru they went the more people he saw. Women were hanging wet clothing on drying lines outside makeshift balconies in their multi-story brick-and-wicker shanties. A boy kicked a ball on the side of the street, a group of other children chasing him on the side of the street. Men looked at them suspiciously, if they looked at them at all. It was certainly an eclectic crowd and whatever Walker menace afflicted the GAZ it evidently did not discourage what looked like all Efuru to be out and about on its day-to-day business without a care in the world. Apparently the co-pilot hadn't exaggerated at all. The Gardeurs were holding their own in Efuru quite well.

Long green vines grew out from manicured weeds alongside the main road. They crawled up the walls of the brick and steel buildings and wrapped around their corners like tentacles. It was in this milieu that wooden pillars and walls, with planks to cover the holes, revived Efuru into a city once again capable of hosting human life. Assuming, of course, that the city had a source of food.

Reaching a square organized around a concrete obelisk now chopped in half, its upper half shattered across the street, the convoy came to a stop just outside a building flying three flags. First the imperial flag, then the Panooly, and finally one that Césario didn't recognize. He assumed it was Efuru's own flag. These brigands think themselves sovereign and independent, Césario muttered to himself in his mind.

It had just occurred to Césario that the soldier sitting next to him hadn't muttered a word during the whole ride. The Plánol aide only noticed because it was this soldier who exited the vehicle, walked around the back, and opened Césario's door. The co-pilot and the driver opened their own.

A man flanked by two others, all of them bearing weapons, was waiting for them. "Come with me," he said.

Not the warmest of welcomes. Césario and his escort followed the man nevertheless. The building they entered had a broad facáde, with what looked like were once balconies jutting out from what were now gaping holes in the wall. This building had probably served as a government building before the war, during the Templeton days. Inside, the staircases that were functional were only so because the militants had restored them as best as they could with wood. The planks creaked loudly beneath their feet as they climbed up to the third story.

Their destination was a large conference room. Inside, three men and two women sitting behind a wooden desk waited for him. The armed guard that had brought them here, as well as his escort, waited outside as double doors closed behind him with a heavy thud.

"You stand before the Supreme Council of Efuru," said a fourth man, armed, standing just beside the five seated individuals. "State your name, who you represent, and your business."

Césario was stunned. He said, after a moment, "My name is Césario Ginga and I am the chief aide to Joao Bagamba, Satrap of Holy Panooly. I am here to communicate my government's intention of restoring the city of Guamlumpeiron, recovering its contribution to the Panooly treasury, and repopulating it with Plánol refugees. My offer to you is to give you all important parts in the future government of Guamlumpeiron, with sizeable incomes as official public functionaries."

One of the women scoffed. She said, "We are already public functionaries in our city. And we already make sizeable incomes."

"How?" he asked. "What is there to make an income from here? Your residents will pay more in taxes once the entire megalopolis of Guamlumpeiron is restored."

"It's from taxes that we earn our wealth," said one of the seated men. "But that's of no concern of yours, of course."

There was a moment of silence. Césario was unsure how to proceed now. What did these people want? What did they need? He suddenly wished he had asked the co-pilot more questions about the Gardeurs back in the armored car. Truth be told, the aide hadn't expected the negotiations inside the GAZ to be difficult. He thought the militias inside were half-starved barbarians living on shoestring budgets that made them convenient fodder for the empire, but nothing more. Quite evidently that was not true.

"Maybe there is something more to your offer?" asked one of the other men, with emerald green eyes shining behind his coffee-colored flesh. "You said there were positions in the future government in it for us. Of the city? Or, of the prefecture? I think the details could make the difference. What exactly would be our roles in this future Panooly land of bliss that lives in your imagination?" His words twanged with skepticism.

Césario's face was emotionless as a stone. "What exactly is your setup here?"

It was the man from earlier this time who said, "None of your concern, as aforementioned."

"But it certainly is my concern if I'm negotiating with you over your peaceful incorporation into the Panooly state after our Taipolisi takes possession of the quarantine zone," replied Césario. "How can I make an offer to the standard of your current status here if I don't even have the faintest idea of what that is?" He paused, then added, "We can talk about prefectural power. But I'll need something more from you lot before I commit to any deal."

The second woman, the one who hadn't said anything yet, was smiling. "You don't know anything about what goes in here, do you?" she asked.

"It's been news to me that there's life in the GAZ at all," he said.

"There's forty thousand of us living in Efuru. Maybe fifty if you count all of the squatters," replied the woman. "Life is booming in the quarantine zone."

"So why keep it quarantined?" he asked her.

The other four looked at her with devious smiles. They all knew something he didn't. "To contain and kill of the Walkers, of course."

Césario wasn't quite persuaded that was all there was to it. He asked, "How do you feed fifty thousand people?"

The woman brought her hand up with an open palm, as if presenting it all, and answered, "How do you think?"

"C'mon, you know what she means, think about," said one of the other seated men, when Césario hadn't replied in some time. The aide was dumbfounded. What were they implying? There was no agriculture to speak of along the way to the city. There probably weren't any cultivated lands anywhere around Guamlumpeiron. The soil was far too corrupted for that anyway. So where was the food coming from? From the outside, obviously. But who was supplying it? Césario's eyes narrowed.

"The Golden Throne," he said.

She nodded. "The Golden Throne."

The man leaned forward. "Food for fifty thousand people. All of it coming through the Efuru Red Eagle, more commonly referred to as the ERE. The ERE is overseen by the Council. That oversight includes auditing the value of the inbound supplies in relation to their market value in the GAZ, based on which we regulate the prices that the ERE can sell these supplies to the people of Efuru. This oversight allows us to make sure that our people are not cheated by the white man's imperial government."

"And by the sounds of it, you're making a healthy profit to boot," scoffed Césario.

The man shrugged. "Alas."

"Alas," retorted the aide. "You want a payout that makes leaving this little rackett of yours behind worth it."

"This little rackett," said the first woman this time, "is sanctioned by the Imperial Bureaucracy, don't forget."

"And you need us too," added one of the seated men.

Césario turned to that man. "How so?"

The man chuckled. "Do you really think that the...what did you call them?...the Taipolisi, do you really think they'll just be able to waltz into the GAZ and govern the city as easy as relieving the imperial soldiers at their posts? There are large armed groups that operate in the quarantine zone independently of the Fuermak. These armed groups are just as likely to turn on their benefactors as they are to fight the Walkers, so they'll have no second thoughts in fighting whatever military forces Joao Bagamba has managed to cobble up. You'll need allied forces in the city to join your cause if you are to succeed. And you know that, what's why you're here. So now that we've played your game, given you a little bit more just like you asked, I think it's time for you to elaborate on the offer."

Bagamba's aide nodded. He thought for some time. Then, said, "Very well. The future megalopolis of Guamlumpeiron will require a department in charge of collecting, auditing, and disbursing all public revenues. I am sure you that you will find opportunities for kickbacks and any other distasteful tyrannies you lot are into, and these opportunities will be worth more than your little monopoly scheme here. But know that Panooly forces have grown and strengthened. They are no longer weak, like before. One way or another, Guamlumpeiron will be restored to the state."

"Very well, indeed," entered the woman, the one who had spoken second, in reply. "And one more thing. Cut the Timbakta out of the deal."

"Why?" he asked.

She looked at him. "Those fanatics are not worth negotiating with."

"I will mull the terms over with His Excellency the Satrap of Holy Panooly Joao Bagamba," he said in response. "I will be back in exactly two days."



Back in the vehicle, Césario asked the co-pilot, "Why did I know nothing about the situation here?"

The patch with the double-headed eagle on his left arm moved as he shrugged. "You didn't ask."

"Tell me everything you know about the Timbakta."

[The Macabees]

OPERATION TROPICAL STERILIZATION: CACIQUES OF THE GAZ, PART II

"The truth is," said the HIM-TAC's co-pilot, "the GAZ militias have transformed into something more than what we expected."

Césario leaned forward in the back seat. "What exactly does that mean?"

"I'm not sure how much you've already learned," responded the imperial soldier. He paused briefly as if to think about how much he should divulge. After a moment, he continued, "The population of the GAZ has grown much more quickly than anticipated. At first, there were maybe two thousand living people in Guamlumpeiron. All of them male guerrilla fighters settled there to help blockade the Walkers into the city. First, they brought in reinforcements—other guerrillas looking to escape the doldrums of life under occupation. We turned a blind eye to it because it got those fighters out of the jungle elsewhere. Then, they brought women and children. Over time, outsiders have slipped through the quarantine to live in the populated suburbs. During the reunification war, a trickle of newcomers became thousands. These helped fuel—"

"I think that's enough for now," said the soldier sitting next to Césario, who until now hadn't uttered a single syllable.

Bagamba's right-hand man was increasingly suspicious of the empire and the secret it was hiding in the GAZ. The quarantine blockade had indeed weakened during the reunification war, Césario knew that. The Ordenite invasion required the entirety of the comparatively small imperial garrison to conduct a heroic defense of the capital city, which it pulled off only by a whisker and thanks to the rapid deployment of reinforcements from Theohuanacu. But surely the Ejermakt had sealed the quarantine zone off again after the war? Why were they letting new fighters in even after the reunification? Even with the demands of the far away in Drana and also in Theohuanacu, the imperial presence was large enough to suppress and control the guerrilla groups elsewhere in the country, why not here?

There was another rebel group the empire had yet to stamp out. In fact, one that it refused to touch—the Hakara Hunters and the Pretorian renegades. There, Fedala preferred to coddle the enemy, just to lower the costs of occupation. Was it the same here, in the GAZ? The koronel in Panooly City had said refugees could join the GAZ as long as they also joined one of the sanctioned communities. Why? If the militias were growing large enough to have leverage over the empire, why did that same empire keep feeding them?

The co-pilot moved on to the Timbakta, breaking Césario's train of thought. "Sakou is not far from here. It will take us forty-five minutes to get there. We'll collect the other two HIM-TACs back at the checkpoint and then head out to meet with the Timbakta leader. This will not be the same as our experience just was in Efuru. The Timbakta is the largest militia, almost double the size of the Gardeurs. They do not like outsiders."

"But you patrol their zone?" asked the Plánol.

The co-pilot shook his head, "No, they hold it down well enough. The GAZ commander has monthly check-ins with the Master of the Army."

"I've heard about him," said Césario. "He's elected every quarter, is he not?"

"Yes," replied the soldier. "This one is popular, though. He has a cult following."

That piqued Césario's interest. "A cult following?"

Cults of personality around the little Plánol chieftain were not rare in Holy Panooly. It was a growing cult of personality that had propelled Joao Bagamba to the highest reaches of Plánol power in the country. Before the Plánol-majority government in Panooly City, the only power that the Plánol people had—if any at all—were as small guerrilla warlords resisting the long-standing colonial regime that controlled the country for more than one hundred years. They were known as kgosi.

"His name is Yakumbo Texeira and he's something of a celebrity around these parts," said the co-pilot. "He's been here only since the reunification war. He came with a private army of some ten thousand followers." A big war pack for any kgosi. "I heard His Excellency the Kríerlord Bas wanted them relocated from south of the Jumanota Frontier to the GAZ. 'Reckon he wanted to pacify the canal zone and reinforce the GAZ blockade all in one fell swoop. Two birds with one stone. You have to remember that the Ejermakt had to be shifted to South Panooly Frontier at the time."

"Yes," replied Césario. "The Ordenite invasion."

The co-pilot nodded. "Yep, the Ordenite invasion. Anyway, since Texeira's arrival, the situation in the GAZ has gradually...changed. Initially, his men increased the culling raids into Guamlumpeiron proper. He was charged with reducing the ghoul population in the city and expand the Timbakta's zone of control. It was all part of the reclamation project to extinguish the Walker population. But as they've started to wrap that purpose up, Texeira has turned his attention elsewhere. He's also been able to increase his forces by bringing in additional fighters from outside the GAZ. Just like the Gardeurs. All the militias bring in outside fighters. It's become something of a race, in fact." He paused, again, as if to re-chart the course of his debrief. "Suffice to say, he is the single most powerful warlords in the quarantine zone. And his cult is a religion."

"A religion?" asked Césario.

"Yea, a religion," answered the soldier. "They are fanatics."

"He's not exaggerating," added the other soldier, sitting next to Césario in the back. "They say that the forces of the Timbakta have taken to eating people. Cannibals."

The Plánol scoffed. "Cannibals? We can't negotiate with cannibals."

Turning around in his seat to peer at Césario, the co-pilot said, "I suppose you can't."

The convoy had never left the outer urban area of the greater Guamlumpeiron metropolis, but parts of the suburbs were noticeably in worse condition than Efuru. In many parts, there was no habitation at all. Even the tens of thousands of, even a hundred thousand as Césario was beginning to suspect, people did not compare to the tens of millions that lived here before the civil war. The main road was well maintained enough, although you could tell that the asphalt was older. But the flanks were trimmed back in most parts, not in all. Aside from the road, though, everything else was overgrown with vegetation was green, purple, orange, and dozens—maybe hundreds—of different colors. Giant vines sprouted out from the ground and traveled up the faces of decaying buildings, wrapping around them. At least, those that stood. All of them were damaged. Almost half were barely buildings at all. At least a third were completely razed, little more than tumuli of rubble.

Reaching another imperial checkpoint, this one very heavily fortified and garrisoned, they were waved through. Then, just like at Efuru, they reached a militia-held checkpoint. This one waved them through as well, although the heavily armed men watching over them as the vehicles passed on by did not look to be friendly at all. Césario peered at them, taking it all in. Sakou reminded him of what the old warlord camps were like. It had the same feel.

Three pick-up trucks joined them. One in the front and two in the back. The one in the front sported what looked like a small anti-aircraft gun on the truck's bed. "Heavy machinegun and some sort of missile system in the back," said the driver, who was looking at his left mirror while following the leading pick-up. "Looks like thirteen fighters in all, including three drivers."

"Shit," muttered the co-pilot. Louder, "Stay calm."

They were led deeper into the suburbs. More people lived here than in Efuru. Many more. There were thousands of people on the streets, going about their daily business. Every side street seemed to have a market of its own, with throngs of people buying produce, clothes, and other wares from all of the vendors. There were more children, more women, and even elderly folk walking about. The buildings were also in even better condition than in Efuru, with many of the buildings rebuilt with stone, plaster, and concrete.

"More resources to rebuild," said the soldier sitting next to Césario, who had caught the aide studying the buildings. "They use some of their proceeds to import the necessary material from outside the GAZ, but they produce a lot of what they need here as well."

The crowds were getting larger and thicker the deeper into Sakou they went. "Is there some kind of event going on?"

"I don't know," answered the co-pilot. "They didn't tell us about it, if so."

Césario tuned his ears to outside the vehicle. The crowd was chanting something. Simboko. Simboko. Simboko. Simboko. It became harder to push through the people who had flooded the main military road through the suburb. At places, their pick-up escorts had to stop and usher people from out the way. As the tedious process continued, a tall pyramid-like building came into view. It sat in the middle of a broad square that the military road opened into.

He counted six stories in all, like steps that followed the building on all sides. It was made of stone, likely pillaged from the rubble, which was intricately carved. That must have taken some expertise to do. On the top of the structure sat a colonnaded building, in front of which stood a man wearing a colorful headpiece made of jaguar pelt and bird feathers. A jaguar cape flowed down to the man's heels. He was flanked by six soldiers. In front of them were six people, six men, with their heads down on bloodied stones. Down along the corner steps on either flank drummers beat down on skin-covered instruments, as the crowd chanted on with raised fists in the air. Césario observed in awe, he couldn't look away. The chanting got louder and louder, the crowd building up the intensity of the moment.

It reached a crescendo when suddenly Sakou went silent.

"Timbaktans, for years we have been led by false idols," boomed the man with the headdress on the temple top, waving his sword in the air in circles. The crowd jeered at the six men with lowered heads. Some started to throw rotten fruits and vegetables, and they were quickly joined by others, until almost all of the crowd was participating in the public shaming of the prisoners. "For years, we have been slaves to others. Slaves to the white man. No more!"

With little more warning his sword suddenly swooped down. One head tumbled to the ground, rolling to the crowd's feet. They went wild in excitement. He quickly proceeded to his next victims, until he was done with all of them.

By now, one couldn't hear his own thoughts, the crowd's noise had reached such an extraordinary level.

"Today on forward is a new day for the Plánol!" the man exclaimed. "I declare a taiku-usuru against the occupiers!"

"Death to the occupiers!" chanted back the people in the streets as one. "Death to Pretoria! Death to the Golden Throne! Death to Pretoria! Death to the Golden Throne!"

Everyone in the HIM-TAC was so caught up in what was going on that they at first didn't realize that attentions were being turned to them. The crowd suddenly caught eye of this convoy of armored vehicles, trapped on either side by their escorting pick-up trucks. The driver chambered a round into his sidearm and decocked it. The soldier sitting next to Césario tightened the grip on his rifle.

Then, the man on top of the pyramid, shouted, "That convoy! Kill them all!"

[The Macabees]

OPERATION TROPICAL STERILIZATION: CACIQUES OF THE GAZ, PART III

One of the eight-by-eight AFVs released a rippling spurt of fire from its 45mm chain gun, setting the technical in front of them alight. Cesario's mouth was agape in twisted horror as he watched the militant on the anti-aircraft gun be cut in half by a 45mm round.

The second AFV split off from the convoy to start turning around, all the while traversing its turret to face the two technicals blocking the convoy's route of withdrawal. As the eight-by-eight got out of the line of fire, the three HIM-TACs began to maneuver an about-face to exit the suburb the way they came in. The remote overhead weapon stations sputtered to life, racking the two trucks with heavy machinegun fire.

Suddenly, the second heavy AFV that had been turning was struck by something that made a loud gonk, the vehicle slowly lurched forward, and finally creaked to a stop. Cesario followed the line of smoke to the truck bed of a technical sporting a two-launcher anti-tank missile system. The HIM-TACs suppressed it in heavy machine gun fire in unison, riddling the truck, its driver, and the other militants on it with bullets.

At the sight of the knocked-out heavy armored vehicle, the crowd surged forward. Despite the crippling firepower of the mechanized convoy, the sight of wounded prey was like blood to sharks and the masses rushed to the rotting carcass in search of spoils. The rear hatches opened to a strong kick from the inside, as two crewmen helped each other pull a third one out. One of them then swung the body over his shoulders and followed the other toward the surviving heavy AFV. Rocks, bricks, and even bigger began to shower them as the enraged crowd threw whatever they could find as they approached ever closer, like hungry hyenas dancing their way ever nearer to the prize of a fresh carcass.

One of the rocks hit the crewman carrying his comrade in the head, causing him to collapse to the floor. Although he quickly got up, the second heavy AFV had already started opening fire. Its heavy 45mm chain gun mowed down the front of the approaching mass of people, sending them all running back in the other direction. The massacre ended very quickly, leaving eight additional bodies on the street.

But the situation was still very precarious. There were thousands of militants around and they'd all start to converge here soon, if they hadn't already. So the crew of the knocked-out AFV was loaded onto the survivor, and the four-vehicle convoy rapidly left the suburb of Sakou.

About thirty minutes later, as Cesario was later told, a fighter aircraft put a missile in the knocked-out AFV to destroy it completely.

As they quickly high-tailed it out of there, and put some space between them and the chaos they left behind, he could still hear the chants of "death to the empire" and "death to Pretoria" for miles. Then came the gunfire. That he could hear even from the edge of the Ejermakt's quarantine perimeter and it only got louder overnight. The gunfire wasn't directed at them, rather at the neighboring militias. A civil had erupted in the GAZ, Cesario and his escort had witnessed the spark firsthand.


The great Joao Bagamba, the lion of Panuli, was still in the hospital when Césario returned to the capital the next morning.

"You're looking better," he said.

The satrap smiled and replied, "You bring me good news?"

Césario wanted to, but could not return the smile. "It's worse than you think, in Guamlumpeiron."

"The walkers?" asked Bagamba.

Shaking his head, the aide said, "No, sir. I'm believing to suspect there aren't any 'walkers,' at least not anymore. If there are, they must only exist in the deepest recesses of the city. Otherwise, Guamlumpeiron is inhabited. By tens, perhaps hundreds, of thousands of people. They, at least a large number of them, have been armed and formed into militias, originally to supplement the Ejermakt in cordoning off the sector. But I believe the Ejermakt has lost control and is otherwise uninterested in investing the resources to resolve a problem it's undoubtedly content to leave alone in a half-abandoned part of the country. Or, they're looking for us to do it, and die, for them. Anyway, there's more they're not telling us. Everyone in the GAZ, the entire population, is living on food brought in by the Ejermakt. Why? I don't know. But I believe now that it is more important than we ever thought to occupy Guamlumpeiron, bring it back under Plánol control, and open it to the eyes of the public."

"Then do it," said Bagamba. "I command you to take the Taipolisi into the GAZ and secure the city of Guamlumpeiron."


Césario talked to the satrap for some time longer, but eventually said his goodbyes and left the room. Outside, Kríerlord Angiko Bas was waiting for him. "Mr. Ginga, hello."

"Hello, Your High Excellency," said the Plánol, bowing slightly as was called for by the etiquette of the imperial system. "Here to visit the satrap in the hospital?"

The kríerlord nodded and replied, "And, to see you."

"You know I was here?" Not that Césario was surprised.

"I was told you left the base on the GAZ perimeter." The Díenstadi moved on to other things. "What you saw in the GAZ, in the city...is being suppressed as we speak. I have ordered the Ejermakt to secure all food holdings inside the quarantine zone and deny food to Timbakta until that madman, Yakumbo Texeira. The situation is, in any case, rather fragile and I've escalated the matter to the highest rung. Given the facts on the ground, His Imperial Majesty has vested me with the power to officially kick-off the process of handing the responsibility of the GAZ to the Panooly government."

How convenient. The Golden Throne was losing control, so it handed the mess to its vassal to clean up. Sarcastically, "Very generous."

The kríerlord noticed the tone. "I know how it looks," he said, "but in the long-run, I think you, the satrap, and the Plánol people will thank us for what we've done for you in Guamlumpeiron."

"Done for us?" asked Césario, angered almost after what he had seen. "What has the empire done for us in Guamlumpeiron? All I see there are tinpot dictators, illegitimate paramilitary groups running rampant, and ruins. And a destitute population that you, the Golden Throne, are feeding on your ríokmark. What is that all about, anyway?"

Bas smiled. "You're a smart lad, you'll figure it out soon enough. Anyway, I must go see the satrap now, as I have a flight to Tarn in a few hours." Likely to see a fight, gamble, or find one of those luxury nightwalkers.

Before the kríerlord left, Césario said, "Our forces will be ready for a handover at the GAZ within 24 hours."

"Good," responded the kríerlord. "Don't wait too long. Or, the surprise we've left for you in there may no longer exist. Who knows what that zealot Texeira will do."

[Tarn Emerita]

EDGE OF PRETORIAN REBELLION ZONE — Mt. Mahlalani, a tall mountain with white peaks rising above a sierra that separated southeastern Holy Panooly from the rest of the country, overlooked the city of Sintralj like a watchtower. Indeed, General Reinier "Bloodhound" Van Zyl had turned it into one. He ordered his men to establish a command post on the face of the mountain facing the city, looking down upon the quaint town of 300,000 folk. From there, he could direct his brigade while it conducted its reconnaissance of the sector just south of the city, through which the rest of his brigade was about to advance and seize Sintralj.

It was easy for him and the platoon-sized force with him to slip into government-held territory. These municipalities and regions were still nominally loyal to Panooly City and the new government Taipolisi had occupied strong points throughout. The intelligence he had been shown suggested favorable odds. Local informants, as well as satellite-collected data fed to him by the company, told of about two brigades worth of government forces. They would be no match for his men. Still, it was best to be cautious, and so he observed the movement of his enemy for one long week.

Sintralj was not the obvious target of his brigade's offensive. The government in rebellion, in Qadesh, had ordered an immediate decapitation strike on Panooly City. But, Van Zyl protested. The upcoming siege of Panooly City would be a costly urban battle that would attrite his forces beyond reasonable loss.

Ultimately, Sintralj was the easier target. And its capture would essentially fold the rest of the Prefecture of Pretoria into the fold of the rebellion. Then, Governor Ricus De Bruyn could proclaim his 'Satrapical Republic of Pretoria.'

The Satrapical Republic. Clever. They courted the Golden Throne, overlord of Holy Panooly, in a bid for their own independence. But, would Fedala take it?

Van Zyl had his doubts.

Still, Sintralj was the better choice given the situation. The general was certain that he could smash the two government brigades quickly and overrun them, denying them the opportunity to reform and hold their ground. That would bring the frontline closer to the capital on the western side, a partition closer to that which existed when Ordena launched its 2026–27 invasion of North Panooly. But, where the Ordenite offensive against the capital had failed, Van Zyl's would succeed.

"I grew up on these foothills," he said to his XO, casually.

Lt. Colonel Garo Baveraat turned and replied, "I thought you had said you were born in Guffingford, sir."

"I was," said the general. "Born in Valkenburg. My father earned a work contract in the old mining town of Rooiberg." He pointed at a town perhaps a sixth of Sintralj's size, sitting nestled between two long hill-country fingers of the sierra. It lay only a couple dozen kilometers southwest of Sintralj. "We'd go to the city maybe once a month, sometimes more often, sometimes less. But I know the ranches and backroads of western Pretoria like the back of my hand."

"Then, welcome home, sir," said Baveraat.

Van Zyl smiled and raised a pair of binoculars to his face. "Not yet, Garo, not yet. But soon."



Three mornings later a thick fog had rolled from the sea to the mountains, covering southwestern Holy Panooly up to the foothills of Mt. Mahlalani like a thick white blanket.

A low buzz, almost like a swarm of bees, cut through the low-hanging clouds. Van Zyl woke from his late-night slumber. Despite the anxiety over today, he had actually slept quite well, though of course he had been guaranteed of that thanks to the army-issued sleeping pills he took. But the general needed to be well-rested for the day of battle. Most of his troops benefited similarly, although their pills were not as potent, as the men may have needed to be wakened overnight for whatever emergency. As it was, there was no overnight emergency and so his brigade awoke before the sun had crested the horizon. They were ready in their forward laagers just as the first rays of light cracked the sky.

He had chosen to remain at his forward headquarters in the mountains. From it, he could see Sintralj and its grid-like streets of white-washed homes with stepped gables and red-tiled roofs. He gazed over it through his binoculars, barely making out the cathedral's tall steeple through the haze of the fog. Van Zyl swept from it to the highway leading into the city from the south, surrounded on both sides by the expanse of plantations, ranches, and farms that soaked in the morning marine layer to irrigate their fields.

From the foothills of the mountain, he had an almost perfect view of the most of the field of battle. Thus, his decision to remain behind enemy lines at the dawn of his brigade's first offensive. Plus, given his commanding height over the area, he'd have perfect communication with all of his units, as well as a better visual understanding of their predicaments as he defined their operational boundaries.

His XO, Lt. Col. Baveraat, posted up next to him at one of the lookouts with the best view."Beautiful," he said.

"It is," replied the general. "And will be soon again."

"You fought in The War?" asked Baveraat. He was a Frommian and The War was how he knew what Van Zyl called The Otium Aqua Oil War.

Nodding, he answered, "Aye, in the Guffingfordi army, at the Stroomwijk River Battles and for the defense of Nieuwhaven. Was captured there, but was turned over to imperial authorities after the war as part of the prisoner-of-war handover. Then I came back here to retire, when Templeton was still around, only to find myself traveling north to find my calling in Tarn. And now here I am, back home again."

They were interrupted by the first explosions. There was no artillery preparation. Instead, the opening strike was conducted by some three hundred drones laden with bombs and grenades that struck police stations, military outposts, and local infrastructure, including power stations and water distribution plants. He wanted to paralyze the area. Flashes of light and bulbs of fire soon pierced through the morning haze, the bright flares reverberating against the fog like sparks.

All the while, his shock brigade was on the move in five columns. 4,000 armored mechanized infantrymen rapidly traveled up the major highway and roads, converging on Sintralj from the south and east.

The Battle of Sintralj had begun.

[The Macabees]

BLOUKLIP, GOVERNMENT-CONTROLLED PREFECTURE OF PRETORIA

JOAQUIM MASSANGO.

That's what the name tag read on his bloodstained uniform. The captain now lay at his post, dead.

The checkpoint post he once commanded aflame, soon to be little more than smoking ruins.

Later, it was recorded that Primeiro-Cabo Massango was survived by three little boys, one girl, and his widowed wife. But his death would hardly be remembered. Neither would any of his comrades who died at Blouklip. The dusty town just south of Sintralj was overrun by one of Van Zyl's columns while the early morning dew still clung from overhanging rooftop edges. All that was left behind them were dead bodies. Plánol men, children, and the elderly alike were slaughtered wantonly. Women were played with and tortured, then killed later when they were no longer of use. Blouklip would not go down as the worst atrocity of the war, but certainly as one of the first in a long line of Hakara warcrimes.

Yet, the mercenary-led offensive on Sintralj was unfolding almost unopposed. The city was soon under siege, its garrison of a few thousand government security forces hoping that relief would come soon. But, elsewhere, at that same moment, the cream of the government's crop was launching what would be known as the Liberation of Guamlumpeiron to future generations of Panooly children.



OPERATION TROPICAL STERILIZATION: BATTLE FOR THE GAZ, PART I

Twenty thousand Taipolisi officers were amassed along the southern edge of the GAZ in preparation for the handover of security operations from the Ejermakt.

Despite the troubling news of defeats in western Pretoria, there was a genuine air of excitement concerning operations in the quarantined zone. It was the first time since the city's destruction that the government was attempting to reassert its power over the abandoned Plánol heartland. Although most of the men knew only myths and urban legends about post-war Guamlumpeiron, the knowledge that there were human communities in the GAZ had spread through the camp like a wildfire. Some wondered how "human" the people in the GAZ were. After all, those who "survived" KN-755 could hardly be called human at all. It was this mixed energy that dominated the men on the eve of battle.

Fighting had been raging inside the zone for almost a week now. It had spread everywhere. Drone footage had caught fighting in suburbs of Guamlumpeiron thought abandoned by all things except the "walkers." Clashes could be heard loudly decided during long nights, where the heart-wrenching screams of the butchered matched the booming explosives in preponderance. Yakumbo Texeira's Timbakta army were overruning their neighboring militias, massacring the men and children, doing unspeakable things to the women, and then hacking them down too.

"Confirming that all brigades earmarked for Phase Two of Operation Tropical Stabilization are poised at their assembly areas just inside the perimeter," said mansa ajani Diogo Ngandu, his rank (mansa ajani) equivalent to that of a division commander.

He, four other members of his headquarters unit, and Césario Cinga were cramped inside the back of a Macabéan armored personnel carrier. Large, and sporting a forty-five millimeter autocannon, it and hundreds others like it had been donated by the Ejermakt as a housewarming gift for the Taipolisi. All of the vehicles, including these and others, were leftovers from the War of Panooly Reunification that had been warehoused for future reconsideration. It was these armored vehicles that formed the backbone of the division moving into the GAZ. Five hundred heavy armored personnel carriers, eight hundred assorted MRAPs, about two hundred assorted self-propelled mortars, and just over a thousand other light-skinned utility vehicles. A mightier army may have scoffed, but this division was in theory the government's crack internal security force.

Cinga watched on as the military commanders discussed the unfolding operation. By the end of the hour, the first units were pushing into the suburbs most distant from the city. These had been maintained as a military zone by the Ejermakt and were therefore mostly uninhabited. He heard the radio messages come in, often in a flurry and speaking over each other. Radio discipline would be something that the Taipolisi would have to learn on the job.

"Goldhound, this is Firenest. Possible movement in tree line east of Point Kappa. Thermal showing three to five hot bodies. Moving fast. No ID yet. Waiting for PID. Over," a garbled voice said over the radio.

"Firenest, Goldhound copies. Hold fire. Drone One is redirecting to your AO for confirm. Out."

"CONTACT FRONT! I say again, CONTACT FRONT! Small arms. Close range. Grid 22-Charlie. Engaging!"

These messages started becoming more frequent the deeper the armored columns moved into the once-great megalopolis of Guamlumpeiron. In the distance, the abandoned, twisted, rotting steel corpses of the city's high-rises taunted them to liberate such a wretched place. Even through the thick skin of their APC, Cinga could hear the thump, thump, thump of heavy mortar fire. The line of contact was not but a dozen kilometers into the labyrinthine urban zone of the GAZ.

"Citadel, this is Firenest. We have three critical, one urgent. GSW chest, GSW abdomen, and suspected spinal. Request vehicle medevac at Bravo-Papa. Hostile fire intermittent, RPGs within 200 meters. Copy?"

"Firenest, Citadel copies all. Vehicle medevac dispatching now, callsign Caduceus-Two, ETA 6 mikes. You must clear approach route of IEDs. Say again, no green lane, no medevac."

For hours, the radio chatter was constant. The fighting became especially heavy as the vanguard of the armored columns began reaching Efuru. Efuru hosted the second-largest militia and it was friendly to the central government. The Timbakta had of course targeted the suburb early on, pouring into it from Sakou, but Cinga hoped that the Gardeurs had enough will to hold on in hope of government reinforcement.

Just after midday, their command APC lurched forward, as the HQ unit relocated to the town of Bela Nguvu. Before the nuke, the remote suburban country town was inhabited by approximately twenty thousand souls. Behind it spread the lush, green rainforests of Cubinga, where the young townsfolk labored in the now-abandoned mines hidden behind the thick foliage.

"We'll relocate to Efuru tomorrow morning," said the mansa ajani. "Once the men have it completely secured."

Cinga stepped out of the vehicle as soon as he could. He hadn't realized just how sweaty, filthy, and smelly he was until he had re-learned what fresh air tasted like. Even air-conditioned, the APC's claustrophobic interior was hot and musty, not just from the men but also from the wiring and equipment. But aside from the air, outside of the APC things were little better. Bela Nguvu had suffered much from the nuclear strike, but it had been essentially abandoned except for a military outpost that had been evacuated by the Ejermakt the previous day. Even so, the stench of death and destruction reached even this part of Greater Guemlumpeiron, as did the black and gray tendrils of smoke that rose like whirlwinds in the sky as vast tracts of the city burned below.

Even now, the fighting remained fierce. Cinga, always keen to pick up whatever fact he could from the chit-chatting soldiers around him, overheard that while Texeira's forces had been mostly pushed out of the Gardeur's territory, pockets of resistance continued to tie down Taipolisi forces otherwise focused on enclosing the Timbakta back into Sakou.

As he listened in on the chatter around him, Bagamba's right-hand man observed the chaos before him. Even he could see that much of Efuru had been razed to the ground, still smoldering from the previous days' ferocious combat between the two largest GAZ militia factions. He'd learn in his morning brief from the divisional intelligence unit that the Gardeur's fighting strength had been reduced to thirty percent.

Cinga, chief aide to the Satrap, but leader in this enterprise in all but name, could not sleep that night. He had slept little the previous night, too. The anxiety of what was to come was too much.

The next morning, the HQ unit moved forward into Efuru as the commander had promised. That's where Cinga saw the first heaps of bodies. Not enemy bodies. Civilians. Taipolisi and Gardeur forces together were collecting the dead in piles to burn them and prevent the spread of disease. He had seldom seen a thing as gruesome as that in all his years, and it took all he had in him not to wretch right there and then at first sight of the butchery.

"Two thousand," said the briefing officer, "two thousand fighters at full-strength." He was referring to the remaining strength of the Gardeurs. There were another three thousand wounded. More than half could be eventually sent back to the fight with the proper medical attention, but neither they nor the Panooly government had the resources to administer quality battlefield medicine to their own troops, let alone a militia. And so hundreds of the wounded died over the next few days, succumbing to their wounds, which became gangrenous with bacteria, oxygen, and age.

Continuing, the officer added, "Our forces have also liberated the suburban towns and cities of Muzenko, Quibamba, Luquessa, Nzari, and Chivavo. As such, the Panooly government can now claim to fully control much of the southern megalopolis, as well as much of the eastern edge."

"But we still have to cross the river," interjected Cinga, somewhat out of turn. He had said the words he was thinking aloud almost unintentionally.

If the intelligence officer was annoyed, he showed no signs. "Our primary objective today is to cross the Quiboco and seize bridgeheads on the other side, with the intention of cutting Sakou off from the central islands of Greater Guamlumpeiron. That will put our forces at another day's reach of the Kumbeleza. More importantly, it will allow us to cut Sakou off from the south, containing enemy forces in that suburb alone."

The two rivers cut into Guamlumpeiron from the northwest, the former forking from the latter somewhere before splitting Greater Guamlumpeiron into eastern, southern, western, and eastern quarters, divided by a series of once densely inhabited islands. The decaying highrises of the once prosperous provincial capital still gave testament to Guamlumpeiron's former magnificence, though they were now little more than mausoleums to the many millions entombed here. Much of it had been alight under the moon's lazy gaze, illuminating the city as if it were day, and the foretold apocalypse of the second coming was finally upon them. Fires spreading from the ongoing battles, as intense for the other militias holding out against Timbaktan aggression as it was for the Taipolisi, had converged and grown into a tempest. It still burned on with ferocious intensity in the morning and later that next day, as it spread. By that evening, a great blaze engulfed a large part of inner Greater Guamlumpeiron.

Beneath the dancing flames, the fighting continued. Indeed, it only got worse.

With significant Taipolisi forces crossing the Quiboco that evening, the Timbakta launched a full-throttle counterattack upon the main government force. Although they failed to achieve surprise on the well-disciplined Taipolisi, with the city ablaze and the stink of burning corpses entering even the pores of one's skin, the counterattack was a signal that the Taipolisi would have to put in a good fight if they wanted to achieve the anticipated glory of finally fully reincorporating the heartland of the Plánol people into the new Plánol-majority state.

Eyes bloodshot, hunched over inside the confines of the APC, Cinga militantly listened in on the radio chatter. He followed the unfolding battle as religiously as did the commander, Diogo Ngandu.

For Cinga, Guamlumpeiron would be a crowning achievement, as much as it was for all the other Panoolies fighting in the city. But for Cinga, it was not a military achievement he was after. The liberation of Guamlumpeiron meant something much, much more to him. As it did to Bagamba, Cinga's mentor to whom his loyalty was forever unwavering. For Cinga, Guamlumpeiron would be the first crucial victory in the greater war of survival that the government was waging.

Once the abandoned megalopolis could be reopened to habitation, and the Taipolisi had proven themselves as combat-worthy forces, Cinga could turn his attention to the southern rebels.

But now all that was thrown into doubt. With reduced forces, due to the river crossing maneuver, the government forces resisted the savage counterstroke.

[The Macabees]

OPERATION TROPICAL STERILIZATION: BATTLE FOR THE GAZ, PART II

Césario stared out at the Quiboco in astonished amazement, as it reflected the flames of the growing fire sweeping across the ruins of Guamlumpeiron. But the redness of the water was as much a reflection of the fire as it was of the blood spilled that night, as thousands of crazed fighters counterattacked against Taipolisi forces attempting to cross the river. He lowered his head, unable to look at the slaughter for long.

"This is war, aide," said Ngandu, solemnly. "Against the Hakara Hunters it will be worse. They will not be so easy to kill. It's better when they are easy."

Césario took the mansa ajani's word for it. Though he did not look through the portholes of the APC anymore, the animalistic sounds that came from the dying pierced his ears with the sharpness of a knife. He was almost glad for the heavy drumbeat of machine guns and autocannons firing into the waves of human meat that the warlord Yakumbo Texeira flung at them. His warriors crossed the river unafraid, and even as they were cut down like dogs, they continued their fanatical charge, uttering ululating cries of war as they were felled. Though their charge had pushed the Taipolisi back over the river, its failure was inevitable. Armed with small arms and rockets, the militias that ruled Guamlumpeiron were no match for the training and vehicles of the Taipolisi.

Soon, the command APC lurched forward once again. Incessant small bumps informed the passengers of every time the treads crushed another body beneath them. Looking out the portholes after crossing the Quiboco, this time behind Taipolisi forces that had secured the area beyond the opposite bank, Césario realized that he now knew what hell looked like. The dead were strewn about everywhere. Nowhere could the aide look and not see a heap of bodies. Buildings, already ruined, were turned into graveyards and crematories. And it was terribly, terribly hot, even with the vehicle's air conditioning unit on. Nearby, the rubble was smoldering, but not far from them, the fire was yet uncontrolled.

"What we call a liberation, they will call slavery," he muttered.

The commander turned to look at him, and said, "In 10 years, no one will even remember who they were."

That did not make Césario feel any better. He silently prayed to God that the battle would be over soon. The satrap's aide did not know how much more of this he could bear. It already took all he had not to vomit, though he purposefully refused to eat precisely because he knew he wouldn't be able to keep it down. Glancing out the porthole again, he quickly looked away again and said, "I don't think I will ever forget this."

Look, said one of the soldiers, pointing at something outside his porthole. Césario changes sides to look.

In the distance, small columns of fire burned almost vertically, climbing toward the sky. It was not the burning fire spreading across the city. These were smaller, more controlled, and their placement deliberate. "What is that?" he wondered aloud.

"Pehwas," replied Ngandu. Pyramids. "They are sacrificing victims to the gods." The commander looked at him. "Do you regret coming here?"

"No," said Césario. "The city's liberation is the will of our great leader, Joao Bagamba. But that does not mean I have to like it."



They slept for two hours. By the time he woke up, the sun was just barely coming out. The rear ramp of the APC was down, and Césario could see that the other men had already stepped out. Most of them had slept outside, under the vehicle. It was cooler out there, they said. Césario felt safer within the confines of the vehicle's armor. But he cautiously stepped out after waking, wondering what was left of Guamlumpeiron after that night.

Gunfire still rattled in the distance. Noticing him jump, the mansa ajani said, "The fighting is ongoing. They have not let up."

The aide gazed out at the remains of the megalopolis. In places, the fire was still raging, but it had mostly subsided by now. In its place, dark, black columns of smoke rose in the air, carrying with them the horrendous odor of human barbecue. This time, Césario did vomit.

"You eventually get used to it," one of the other soldiers said. Césario just looked at him blankly.

"We received word from a unit exploring the northeastern outskirts of the city," said Ngandu, suddenly handing him a sealed piece of paper. "For your eyes only."

He opened and unfolded it. It read: THE COMMANDER OF THE 56TH BATTALION OF THE TAIPOLISI REQUESTS THE PRESENCE OF CÉSARIO CINGA, CHIEF OF STAFF TO SATRAP JOAO BAGAMBA. URGENT. REPEAT, URGENT. MATTERS OF NATIONAL IMPORTANCE. What could it mean? Césario didn't know, but he was compelled to immediately set off to wherever the headquarters of the 56th battalion was located.

"I need you to lend me an escort," he said to Ngandu.



LIKUTAT OF TARN, THE GOLDEN THRONE

A beautiful symphony played through the room, as Angiko Bas sipped on a glass of golden yiski and flipped through the pages of a book. From his penthouse on the upper story of Stenhold Tower, one of the city's poshest residential skyscrapers, the kríerlord could see the glistening waters of the broad canal that cut through the city like a blue artery. He resided here along with some of the city's most powerful businessmen, including several past and present oligarchs.

His phone began ringing. He ignored it at first, but it did not stop. With reluctance, Angiko reached over to the side table, grabbed a small remote, and paused the music. Looking down at the screen, it read: JAGOR BLEZ.

Putting it to his ear, the kríerlord said, "General."

General Blez' voice could be heard through the speaker. "Your excellency, there is something you should know."

"What is it?" replied Angiko, irritated.

"They've found it."

Angiko hung up. Rising, he made immediate preparations to leave Tarn for Panooly City.

[The Macabees]

OPERATION TROPICAL STERILIZATION: SECRET OF THE GAZ

Césario wasted no time heading to the 56th's headquarters despite the ongoing fighting, which was once again intensifying as the Taipolisi probed the Timbakta heartland of Sakou. His mind could not stop racing through the horrors he had witnessed in the past few days; no matter what he tried, the visions of bloody, contorted bodies filled his vision upon closing his eyes. The scenes would fill his nightmares for years to come. As the escort made its way out of the city and into the jungle, Césario wondered if these were the same things Joao Baganba saw when he slept, and whether the great satrap was haunted by them now on his sick bed. Or, had the old kgosi found a way to forget the violence at Choisengel? If so, would he share his secret? Césario, never so free to explore the world as he had been since the satrap's injuries, was fast learning that said world was full of secrets.

Like the city, the jungle too was scarred from the nuclear blast. But unlike the concrete and steel buildings, the foliage was growing back. Most of the countryside adjacent to urbanity was green again, if not so lush as the rainforest's thick interior, and plants had even begun to cover and replace the buildings. It was a sort of therapy for Césario, who was glad to see life again in such an unholy place.

But even as they proceeded deeper into the forest, he realized that the road and the surrounding brush were much better managed than more than two years of dehabitation should have allowed. The highway was, in fact, quite robust and looked capable of taking on heavy, sustained traffic. This sort of infrastructure hadn't even been present before the events leading to the nuclear bombs, and there were hints of freshness, like the blackness of the asphalt.

"Is this road new?" he asked the armored car's driver.

Shaking his head, the soldier responded, "No, sir. This road was here when we got here. It and the installations at its end were abandoned, but only recently."

"Abandoned?" asked Césario. "By whom?"

"The Golden Throne," replied the driver.

The relative narrowness of the jungle-bound highway gave way to a suddenly colossal clearing that spread to either side as far as the eye could see, and perhaps farther still. Rows upon rows of barrack buildings passed them on the flanks, like vine rows of brick and tile. To Césario's surprise, there were scores of Panul civilians scattered among the buildings. Did they live there?

He must have asked the question out loud, for the soldier said, "Tens of thousands of people lived here."

"Where did they go?" he asked.

"To the city," answered the driver. "From what we know, workers living here fled to Guamlumpeiron's suburbs regularly. That's how they got their populations. The Macabéans would settle more and more of our people here to make up for the losses, just to continue feeding the suburbs. Seems it was cheaper for them to bring in new bodies, rather than chase down and bring back the ones who left. Anyway, that's what's behind this mess. And now that their laborers are in revolt, they bring us in to put down our own people wrapped in the form of a present."

Césario didn't reply. He didn't quite totally understand yet, but the pieces were quickly falling into place. It became obvious as soon as the gargantuan mining complex came into view. The fabled mines of Guamlumpeiron were rich in cobalt, tantalum, copper, gold, tin, tungsten, manganese, and other precious metals. But they had been inaccessible since the downfall of Templeton, the spread of KN-755, and the thermonuclear razing of the city. Nothing could come out, nobody could go in, as long as the Golden Throne maintained its quarantine of the GAZ. At least, that was the story everyone knew. It was now clear that things were moving in and out, though mostly in, and that the mines thought abandoned were actually in use. The Golden Throne was exploiting the mines, but they lost control and didn't want to — or couldn't — expend the resources to put things back in order. So they gave back to us.

He met with Ika-bo (colonel) Marizi Nyanjira, commander of the 56th, who took the satrap's aide on a thorough tour of the mining complex. The barracks went on for longer than Césario had first thought. Apparently, the complex could house more than a hundred thousand workers, not all of whom were miners. Thousands worked in the general and specialty stores where these workers shopped. It was an enormous company town; no, city. Beyond shops and stores, there were taverns, breweries, brothels, gambling dens, parlors, and all sorts of commerce that served the working people, their imperial managers, and the military guards. Churches and temples allowed for worship, along with shrines dedicated to the old pagan spirits still worshipped by the forest peasants. The ika-bo showed him captured records of wages paid by imperial authorities, all in the form of credit that could be redeemed at any of these places of business, sin, and piety. The commander gave him some samples of coins, stamped with the bust of Fedor on one side and a winged rendition of Will on the other, also used to pay the miners. The empire had obviously run a sophisticated operation here.

Though he remained mesmerized by the scale, which he had never seen with his own eyes and had only heard of in the form of legends, Césario ended the tour early. He had seen enough. Satrap Bagamba had to be informed immediately. Besides, the commander had interrupted his discussion of some of the processing facilities to pass on news that Kríerlord Angiko Bas had arrived in Panuli City. Bas must have known that Césario had found the mine. It only encouraged him to leave the GAZ more quickly.

Césario returned to the capital by helicopter that same day, arriving at night. Mind honed on the task of informing Bagamba of what he had found and confronting the kríerlord over the same, it was Césario who was ambushed first.

Minister Kinkoko and Senator Sequiera were there. With them were Ministers Hahirisiri Langui, Jumanasir Ganjira, and Kibwani Nyambi. Baraz leader Hakeendo Achoge was also there. Their presence betrayed dire news, and dire it was. To the south, while the Taipolisi toiled in Guamlumpeiron, the Pretorians were in revolt and they were laying the city of Sintralj to waste. The young satrapy of Holy Panuli was amidst a new existential crisis.

[Tarn Emerita]

SINTRALJ — With wide open eyes, the lifeless soldier stared endlessly into the eternal distance. Blood slowly oozed down from a corner of his mouth, splashing onto the black asphalt against which his molten face was pressed. Motionless, like the rubbled remains of the shelled-out tenement blocks strewn across the street. The destruction was utterly total. But it was no obstacle to the power armored soldiers marching down what was once one of Sintralj's most prestigious boulevards, its boutique shops now nothing more than ruins. A metallic foot came down on the corpse's head, casually crushing it like a ripe watermelon.

Sintralj smoked like a bonfire. Koen trucks carrying loudspeakers blared the conqueror's propaganda. "Live and do not resist. Live and do not resist. This is your liberation. We bring peace, stability, and prosperity. Live and do not resist. This is your liberation."

A family turned the corner. The father, pulling a ramshackle wooden wagon, saw the armored soldiers first. His draw dropped as he came to a halt, stopping his two young sons, his daughter, and their mother in their tracks. Terror filled their faces as they realized who they had stumbled upon. "Halt," said one of the mercenaries through his speakers. But before the soldiers could raise their weapons, the family abandoned the cart and scurried away into a nearby building.

Staring at the cart for a moment, one of the mercs lobbed a couple of grenades at it. Two explosions later, there was nothing left of the wagon but splinters and the tattered remains of their belongings. The family, which was likely trying to get out of the city while it still could, would have to make its journey without any of the things it had managed to save — including food. That was if they survived.

Many who had tried to leave the city in recent days now littered the countryside as fertilizer. The Tarnish mercenaries had been brutal, and their Pretorian buyers were worse. While the power armored shock brigade blitzed Sintralj, Hakara Hunter units had scoured the nearby towns and villages, looting, burning, and demolishing homes belonging to panúl locals. Residents were expelled, forced to trudge northward toward government-controlled territory, as they were no longer welcomed in these parts of their homeland. That is how it was for the fortunate. The less lucky were butchered outright, and these were more than just a few. It was a campaign of terror that would leave a deep rift in the Panuli soul for years to come. But once the anti-panúl extremism had swept across Pretoria like wildfire, the victorious rebel government had little option and saw little need for containing it.

Much grimmer than the human hunters were the drones. These prowled the warzone from the skies, nearly silently and practically invisibly. Putatively for the purpose of finding, tracking, and destroying pockets of resistance against the rebellion, to civilians, it seemed as if they spent most of their time killing the innocent instead. As the roads north to Mopata were clogged with traffic, with hundreds of thousands of refugees fleeing the Pretorian onslaught, these drones found themselves in a target-rich environment.

For this part, the Bloodhound was no longer in the vicinity of Sintralj. Once it was clear that the city was going to be overrun, Van Zyl moved his HQ further to the north. He wanted to push up against the border between the Pretorian and Mopatan provinces, where he could follow up the success in the south with a stunning strike on the government's capital. Taking Panul City would end the war; maybe he wouldn't even have to bother if Bagamba had enough sense in him to sue for peace.

It was much to Van Zyl's chagrin that not all of Sintralj fell easily. The city's surviving garrison, reinforced by a thousand more who had abandoned surrounding outposts, totalling three thousand, held out in Sintralj's fortified citadel.

Not wanting to delay his attack on the capital, the Bloodhound pulled his shock brigade from the city the next morning. In its stead, the Pretorian rebel government left a 10,000-man force to garrison Sintralj and besiege the fortress. Composed of hastily mobilized urban laborers and rural farmers, this garrisoning force did what it wanted in the homes of the people who were forced to risk their lives fleeing to avoid risking their lives staying.

Also concerning Van Zyl were the government's spoiling attacks against Hakara Hunter units in the vanguard of the rebel columns advancing forth to liberate the little of Pretoria that yet remained under Panúl control. Government forces were resisting in the northeastern sectors of the province, even as other units from the capital struck out across the provincial frontier elsewhere. He had hoped to catch the enemy unaware and unable to defend Panúl City, but they were finally beginning to crystallize a response to the rebellion. Worse, his intelligence sources from within the central government warned that a large military force was moving south now that operations around Guamlumpeiron were coming to a close. It seemed that the battle for the capital would be tougher than he expected. Still, Van Zyl doubted the Panúls had anything that could stop his brigade.

It was in this state that Holy Panuli found itself as Van Zyl fully settled into his new HQ. Pretoria, half of the Panuli mainland, was almost completely separated from the satrapical government, which desperately held on to what remained. And what awaited the Panuli people was not the long-awaited central government's offensive against these rebels, but an existential battle for the country's beating heart: Panuli City.

All the while, weapons and ammunition continued flowing through Qadesh and other ports. Success had also brought the rebels more support from the outside. Expatriates and sympathizers living in North Point, Guffingford, Tarn, and elsewhere were donating a significant amount of money now, which funded the lavish equipping of a growing rebel military force with which the Pretorian secessionist government could use to consolidate its victories into true, acknowledged independence.

The true winners sat in exotically decorated corporate offices and opulent penthouses in Tarn. It was to them that this golden river of ríokmarks flowed.

[The Macabees]

PANUL CITY: THE MERCENARY QUESTION

Césario's rubbed his temples. "Mercenaries?" he asked. "There is proof that the mercenaries are working with the rebels?"

The tall, lanky, bespectacled minister of justice, Antonio Kinkoko, confirmed, "Yes, Mr. Cinga, we know for certain that professional soldiers were involved in the seizure of Sintralj. Eyewitnesses confirm the presence of power armor."

Power armor. The empire had come in power armor. These days, with the best equipment sent to Drana, only the koro kirim boys who lived among their airships and tilt-rotors ever wore it. If the rebels had power armor, they posed a grave and immediate threat to the Panul people. The Taipolisi had nothing comparable. It didn't even have sufficient armored vehicles! "How many?" he dared to ask.

They were riding in the back of a truck, the seven of them. Césario had been met by Kinkoko, Baraz chief Hakeendo Achoge, Senator Sequiera, and Ministers Langui, Ganjira, and Nyambi at the tarmac upon arriving from Guamlumpeiron. He hadn't even found the opportunity to debrief them on the successful retaking of Guamlumpeiron and its secret satellite mining complex. Their updates on the worsening situation in Pretoria had taken up all of their time.

"A brigade," answered Kinkoko.

Jumanasir Ganjira, minister of foreign affairs, nervously said, "They will come for us next, Mr. Cinga. They will kill us all."

Senator Abasi Sequiera, short and rotund, lay his arm on Ganjira's shoulders, "Now, now, minister. There is no need to be pessimistic."

But as the truck snaked farther into Panuli traffic, it was hard not to be pessimistic. Kinkoko eloquently laid out the situation to him. Reports from units in the field, their commanders, and the ministry's intel sources all confirmed the presence of a growing number of rebel forces directly across the prefectural border. Estimates on how long it would take the enemy power-armored brigade to redeploy from Sintralj ranged from two weeks to two days. It was accepted as fact that the unit had by now abandoned the city. Government forces holding out in Sintalj's citadel remained in contact with the capital, and continued to report on the composition of Pretorian forces besieging them. It was very likely that the enemy would strike at the capital, with unknown political intentions.

"Do you think they'll stop at independence?" asked Hahirisiri Langui, minister of the economy. The narrow, grey-haired man had learned his trade as a bookkeeper for Semkamines, the giant mining corporation owned mostly by strongman Dominic Templeton and a dozen other politicians from the 'Panooly days.' He feared the same thing they all did. They dreaded the return of those days of dictatorship, when the Panúl people were little more than slaves — cheap labor for their masters.

"You don't think they'll try to reorganize the national government, do you?" wondered Kibwani Nyambi, minister of the interior. "If so, we must resist at all costs."

"We will," interjected Césario. "I will have the satrapical office issue orders to all Taipolisi forces to abandon operations in the north and redeploy to the capital."

Kinkoko shook his head. "Even with our forces in the north, we will have less than one hundred thousand men to defend Panúl City. That is not enough." Recruitment had been hard. They hadn't foreseen the challenge of imperial competition. Heavy fighting in the United City States, the occupation of Nicaro, and the build-up of forces for the invasion of the Scandinvan Empire required manpower, hundreds of millions, which the Golden Throne sought in its territories and satrapies. They came offering good money and, often for the guerrillas and criminals, amnesty, with the prospect of a significant settlement upon completion of their service. In their wake, they left few recruits for the Taipolisi. All that meant that when the time came to defend the capital city, government forces would hardly be strong enough to stop the rebel offensive.

Césario sighed. "We will figure it out. We must."

It was in this mood that the party arrived at the satrapical palace. Bagamba had finished his recovery from the market bombings in the comfort of his residence. Heavily armed guards stared them down as they passed through the outer gates. When they reached the inner courtyard, Césario was surprised to see another vehicle already there. It was a luxurious white town car, flying small imperial flags just behind either headlight.

"Looks like the satrap has a visitor," said Kinkoko, annoyed. "He probably came to chastize us for losing the south."

Césario sympathized with the justice minister in his dislike of the man for whom the car was waiting. But he had wanted to talk with the kríerlord. He said as much. "Good. I have some questions for him."

The other men looked at the satrap's chief of staff questioningly, but said nothing. They had little chance to follow up because the car came to a halt, and an attendant walked up to pull down the rear ramp. One by one, the attendant helped the gentlemen down. Compared to the fancy imperial car, the truck was modest and dirty. That was probably how Fedala saw Holy Panuli — modest and dirty.

After taking a few steps, an imperial statgard came up with a hand ordering them to halt. "His Imperial Excellency, Kríerlord Bas, would like to see Mr. Cinga."

"I am a minister," retorted Kinkoko. "We are all members of the Panul government. We wish to speak with our leader."

The guard shook his head. "No. Not now, at least. Just Mr. Cinga."

With a subtle growl under his breath, Kinkoko acquiesced. None of the others put up much resistance. So Césario followed the soldier into the palace, past the reception hall, through this corridor and that, until finally reaching the study where Satrap Joao Bagamba and Kríerlord Angiko Bas were talking. The Macabéan was talking about the emperor's commitments to his constituents, but stopped when the chief of staff walked in.

"Césario," said Bagamba, rising to greet his chief aide. "It is good to see you safe, my friend."

Dipping his head in a respectful bow, Césario said, "And I am glad that your recovery is going well, kgosi."

Pointing to the kríerlord, the satrap said, "Kríerlord Bas was debriefing me on the...gift in Guamlumpeiron. A fully operational mining complex. Fully equipped with state-of-the-art machinery. There, hidden in the jungle, all this time, operating under our noses." He did not seem amused. It seemed as the kríerlord had decided to come clean before Césario could spoil the secret. He gritted his teeth. Bagamba continued, "Though the discussion is veering toward the topic of the rebels and their...friends."

Césario didn't walk to talk about the rebellion just yet, though. "Those mines belong to the Panúl people! The ores that have come out of our soil were extracted by Panúl labor. The empire had no right to do what it did."

The kríerlord lifted his arms as if to block a blow. "You have to understand," he replied, "that liberation costs money."

"Strange thing you call a liberation," spat back Césario. "Do you think the mine workers living in those Guamlumpeiron shanty-towns felt liberated?"

Bas looked over to the satrap. "Consider that your liberty to speak to me in that way is a luxury afforded to you by the Golden Throne. I think you'd be dead by now, under the old guard, speaking that way." If the aide's cheeks could turn rose-colored, they would've at that moment. Beneath that cold appearance, he fumed. Unconcerned, the kríerlord went on, "You are welcome, by the way. Your government is desperate for money, and you cannot go on borrowing from imperial banks forever. Thanks to an investment made by the empire, the Panúl government now has a revenue stream. A rather significant one, at that."

"You're welcome?" Césario couldn't believe his ears. "You didn't gift it to us. We took it back."

"Potato, pota-toe," replied Bas, flippantly. "Anyway, you're only taking back 52 percent."

"What?" Césario had just about heard enough.

But the satrap put up a hand to silence his aide. "That was the share owned by the Imperial Bureaucracy," he explained. "I have decided to acknowledge and honor the share of ownership in the mine complex. Its corporate administration will of course have to be reorganized, with our people taking their proper places in the company structure. But the remaining 48 percent will be retained by the multinational corporate shareholders whose money and expertise keep the mines running."

"But, satrap, how—" stammered Césario.

But Bagamba would have none of it. "I have already decided on that matter. On to the topic of the rebellion."

"We have confirmed the presence of power armor in Pretoria," said Bas. "Satellite confirmation. A brigade-sized unit. It arrived at Qadesh a few weeks ago. We think it belongs to Finkirk."

Finkirk? They were making a name for themselves in Killia, as part of Valo'Kap. Otherwise, Césario knew very little about them. "I was informed about the power armor on the way here," he said. "They are amassing to strike at the capital."

"Indeed." The kríerlord smiled. It was an annoying, know-it-all smile. He knew the government had nothing to stop the rebel strike. "The rebels are becoming a big inconvenience. I didn't think they'd be so successful so quickly. But I should have anticipated the amount of funding they're getting from the outside. Anyway, the rebellion has become a real problem. It's threatening to cut our recruitment efforts short. And right now the empire needs all the able-bodied men it can get for the coming invasion." He made a shape with his hands to signal something large in size. "A billion men. One billion. That's how many soldiers the empire plans to put on Drana by the end of next year. The breadth of our efforts in Gholgoth boggles the mind. One billion men and twelve thousand ships, as many as we have in Greater Díenstad."

"All for what?" asked Césario, half-seriously. He was curious why the emperor was so enthralled with such an ambitious military operation. "Those Panúl men you're sending to fight your...liberations elsewhere, those men are needed by the Taipolisi."

Bas waved the thought away. "I acknowledge that my strategy of taking a back seat in your satrapy's...coming of age...is backfiring. Events have spun out of control. And I know your government does not have the means of defeating this rebel army. But your government's security is guaranteed by its federation with the Imperial Bureaucracy. As such, I have decided to activate three auxiliary corps based north of here. One of them is deploying in defense of the capital, effective immediately. The other two are being mobilized gradually. I don't think we'll need them, but I don't want to get caught by surprise and not have a backup plan."

"The emperor has decided to suppress the rebellion?" asked Césario, surprised.

Bas shook his head. "Not quite. He has permitted me to intervene to liquidate the PMC units in the satrapy. He has also commanded me to punish Governor De Bruyn, for bringing in mercenaries. He crossed a fat red line with that one. The last thing the empire needs is for Tarn to destabilize Holy Panúli all over again. But the satrap is still responsible for pacifying the southern prefecture. It is your government that must fight for legitimacy."

Bagamba, who had listened to the two of them go back and forth, interjected again, "The Taipolisi will need more men to secure the entire Pretorian prefecture."

Nodding, Césario added, "And we still have the problem of our recruits joining the imperial army instead."

"Indeed," the kríerlord sighed. "Indeed. As I said, the empire needs all the manpower it can get its hands on. But maybe with those new mines, your government will now have the money to offer a more lucrative salary for serving."

"Then sell us better weapons," replied Césario. Bagamba looked at his aide approvingly, then turned his gaze back to the kríerlord.

"That I can agree to," answered Bas. "I will approve the arms orders you need. Have your people put them in, I'll make sure they get fulfilled."

"The good stuff!" Césario wanted to make clear that he wanted more than just the oldest, lightest equipment. "Armored vehicles, artillery, and missiles. The whole nine yards; everything we'll need to beat these fascist rebels."

Rising to his feet, Bas answered back, "Yes, yes. Everything you need." He looked at the satrap. "It's good to see you back at it, Joao. I will be back soon. Until then, godspeed."

"Godspeed, kríerlord," said the satrap, standing up as well to shake Bas' hand. Césario rose then, too. He gave the kríerlord a shallow bow, which Bas surprisingly returned. The study's door opened to reveal two statgard standing on the other side. They escorted the kríerlord out of sight. Bas would be out of the capital within the hour, to where Césario did not know. Angiko Bas rarely stayed in one place for too long. That, at least, was what the rumors said.