The Fire This Time (Open)

[The Resurgent Dream]

Peace for Ambara. That had been the dream of the Confederated Peoples. In some ways, it had been the founding dream. The modern Confederated Peoples had emerged from the fires of the Second Ambaran War. It was also the dream of Pantocratorian Ambara. Abt, on the other hand, might have a different dream, one that involved more territorial expansion. None of them, however, shared the dream of Abdel Abdelsetta, Prince of Alekthos.

Abdel stood on one of the many balconies of his large palace, located several miles outside of Abna. The Ambaran sun took its toll on the land. It was a sparsely inhabited desert. Abdel liked it that way. He didn’t like the trappings of modern life. He didn’t like the immodesty. He didn’t like the fornication. He didn’t like the fundamental godlessness which every day became more and more a part of Confederal culture. He didn’t like that Alekthos was forced to recognize same-sex couples married in more liberal Confederal Members. Despite his distant relationship with the High King, he didn’t feel a part of the country at all. How could servants of God ever belong to a country which allied itself with enemies of the Almighty as proud and unrepentant as Pantocratoria of Knootoss?

Abdel sighed heavily. His wife Ditas didn’t approve of the arrangements he’d made. Of course, he didn’t need her approval. The decisions had been made. The princes and governments of several of the other Ambaran Members had agreed. Troops had even been raised on the pretext of keeping the peace against Ambara’s terrorists. Special troops had been raised who were those very terrorists. There was nothing left for Abdel to do. The plan went into effect tonight. Either it worked or it didn’t.

~ ~ ~

High King Owain sat in the Solomon Opera House, a polite smile on his face. He rather enjoyed the performance of Madeena Chertok as Liubima. She was one of the rising stars of Selinia, even of the entire Confederated Peoples. Of course, it wasn’t for her that the opera was packed with nobles, captains of industry, legislators, ranking officers, even local government ministers. They were here to see the High King. Unfortunately, Owain was not the sort to scour boxes to see who was in attendance and who wasn’t.

The High King turned to an old man sitting next to him and spoke quietly. “Have you ever heard better, Professor Daei?”

“Never,” the old man said with an indulgent smile. It was a terrifyingly mundane moment, an amused half-lie told in the spirit of enjoying a performance. It was a rather lame note to end on but it was the last thing Daei ever said and the last thing the High King ever heard on this earth. There was a brilliant, blinding flash of light and then nothing.

~ ~ ~

With alarms blaring everywhere, Sarah Sacker found herself in a secret bunker before she was even fully aware of what was going on. Amalad and Alekthos had seceded. Solomon was destroyed by a smuggled nuclear device and the High King was destroyed with it. Selinia was largely leaderless. There was fighting in Marlund, Zutern, Carasia, and Victoria. Sporadic terrorist attacks had taken place all over the nation. The rapid changes, the lack of a cohesive national identity, the turbulent politics, they had all come to their final, grisly conclusion, as hard as Sacker had fought to tame them. It was naïve to believe Ambara could be tamed in a mere twenty years. The Confederated Peoples was about to pay for that naiveté in blood.

[The Resurgent Dream]

Western Zutern

Captain Leget Abernethy hopped down from the back of the lorry. "You're good to go!" he called to the civilians crowded inside. He sighed as the rumbled away, walking over to the small, hastily thrown together structure which constituted the base of their checkpoint. There were more like it stretched along the line. The Danaan heartland of the Confederated Peoples remained safe as any other developed democracy but the Vasconian and Ambaran lands the Confederals had claimed were integral parts of the nation, they were falling apart. The project of the Confederated Peoples had failed in just a few years and spectacularly. At the very least, it was on the verge of failure.

Abernethy smiled grimly as he saw missiles lightly up the night in the distance. For the moment, the Rebels held large parts of Alekthos, Amalad, Laneria, Gandara, and Nabarro Abarca. However, virtually the whole of the Armed Forces remained loyal. The Rebellion, absent some sort of foreign aid, could not last more than a matter of weeks.

[Xirnium]

Except for that there was a vaguely grim note of careless surrender to their partying and wine-drinking, a stranger could not have told that the island economy was in its third quarter of bleak recession. This note was in the blurring, last-ditch whirl of the roulette table, red pockets chasing black around and around its rim and the little white ball whizzing in the other direction, in the blaring flourish of glinting brass trumpets and saxophones, in the impatient comings and goings of the fancy-dressed crowd, always hurrying, twisting and turning and weaving amongst one another, returning to their chairs, climbing to upper levels, descending to the ground floor.

Bursts of wild laughter. Curls of blue-grey cigarette smoke, rising to join the gathering fog under a ceiling rich with heavy relief and painting. Here one elegantly dressed dandy in silks and lace provoked the banteringly admiring exclamations of some jewelled maskers, there poisonously polite witticisms and jeers. For the most part the crowd ignored the crowd, and the various circles of which Vargárlaithian society was composed concerned themselves with their own internal affairs.

The first floor was, according to tradition, frequented by men of business. Leaning along the gleaming marble banisters in the balconies, land agents, stockbrokers, bankers and well-to-do burghers discussed money and finance, often with traces of restrained panic in their babbling and paper-waving that indicated they had lost millions in tulip speculation. On vividly patterned velvet or brocade sofas and at smaller white damask tables and benches, men of letters, revolutionists, philosophers and political schemers questioned one another and argued over ideas and ideology. In their boredom and idleness they preoccupied themselves with abstract concerns. Elsewhere the major euphorias were music or gambling, spying and being spied upon, as well as the subtle oblivion of opium or the seductive deception of cocaine.

‘Stop dancing! Civil war engulfs the Resurgent Dream!’

The intruder was thin lipped with stern, unmotherly features, pale under a suspicious narrow brow. Crisp linen and her necktie, coming to the chin in a ruffle that might have been in fashion seventy years ago, gave her an air of authority and stability.

Wrapped about her to the knees she wore an old coaching cloak edged in black otter, while resting on her iron grey hair was a large tricorne, its brim pinned with revolutionary red and white cockade so it would not lose shape in the rain. From under her cloak protruded the sleeve of an impeccably cut military coat, a lace wrist, and a white glove gripping the pommel of a sabre sheathed in an antique cavalry scabbard. Her jack-leather boots were black, and she wore about her neck a high-wrapped muffler of cambric.

The brass band stumbled to a halt, punctuated by one last ringing cymbal, and the dancers paused uncertainly as the pale woman marched into the room, clearing a path before her with a withering gaze from under small, iron-framed circular spectacles that she adjusted with gloved fingers. Behind her crowded officers of the Committee of Public Safety in Inverness coats of check or plaid material, with grey or tanned fedoras and revolver pistols in their gunpockets.

‘Several hours ago,’ announced Fréya za Naugérlam-Gildine-Angyâr, for so the thin lipped woman was, ‘Owain ap Cunedda, the King of Dana, was slain in a surprise attack upon the capital of Selinia.’ She appeared to be quietly amused. ‘The Eternal Republic publicly mourns for the loss of our gallant allies! I am told that in the palace of our own erstwhile tyrant, where the ten thousand captured standards and banners of the monarchy are left in ruin and decay dragging upon the ground, Parliament has decreed the flag will fly half mast.’

She issued brief orders to an officer beside her. Nodding and indicating for two others to follow him, he threaded his way through the crowd of flappers with their bobbed hair and their short skirts shapeless as if hanging suspended from hooks and each a different watercolour hue. Most were shocked at Fréya’s bad news.

Not used to addressing such gatherings, and a little at a loss for words now that she no longer had the element of surprise, Fréya became embarrassed. Maybe she should have prepared a speech.

‘It’s treason then?’ asked a confused man with a nosegay of lavender-coloured violets where a cravat would normally be. His accent was Ambâlievan by its muddling of rounded and unrounded vowels.

‘Just so,’ said Fréya, grateful for the prompting. ‘Just so, citizen. The royal dominions are in open revolt! Alekthos and Amalad have fallen under rebel control, as might have Laneria, Gandara, and Nabarro Abarca by now. Half the nations that joined the Confederated Peoples have either seceded or are planning to. Sacker has declared a state of emergency, and her armed forces clamp down on guilty and innocent alike.’

Mercifully a revolutionary official returned and pointed out the man they were looking for. Fréya made her way to the back before he could discreetly slip out. Outside the front there waited a small cavalcade of Silverflyte Six Model C vehicles, motor grills shaped like knights’ shields, bodywork gleaming in polished pewter finish and with an iconic Art Deco owl leaning forward, wings outstretched behind her, ornamenting the hood. They had been positioned so as to form a barrier across the rain-wet street.

‘Flávian Anfaúgadrien zy Valtâriel,’ said Fréya in a sour tone.

The count wore a scarlet nankeen frockcoat with a waistcoat of a slightly paler shade, both held by amethyst buttons, with sleek white trousers and a fine white shirt. His wig was unostentatious, save for a trace of old-fashioned violet powder, his paint was restrained, and his clothing relied on lace for decoration. The amiable dissolute had about him a hint of lavender and rosewood.

‘To what do I owe this uncommon pleasure, madam?’ Flávian asked with a note of recognition and much false good cheer. He was the type of older-school misogynist who preferred courtlier references to representatives of the fair sex than endearments like “old sow”.

‘Are you the one responsible for this?’ asked Fréya all businesslike, placing a hand-painted poster obviously torn from an outside wall face-up upon the table. It was a bill for some fanciful scheme or other promising to enrich investors overnight.

‘Oh my dear creature, don’t tell me they have you enforcing municipal regulations now?’ Flávian almost grinned, nonchalantly pushing brushes and ink under stacks of far-fetched airship plans and maps and images of undiscovered lands, goods in which he seemed these days to be in trade.

Fréya did not seem humoured. ‘Lieutenant General zy Valtâriel, I want you to come with me please.’

‘By what authority?’ said Flávian.

Fréya was all full of righteous pomp. ‘By the Bright Republic’s! By Parliament’s!’

‘Yes but by the hand of which magistrate are your orders signed? You need a valid warrant before you can arrest me, and I should like to know what charges are brought against a gentleman and an honest rogue,’ continued Flávian, holding to the role and looking bored. He whispered some words into the ear of a courtesan on his arm and she giggled.

‘Did I say I was arresting you?’ asked Fréya, increasingly impatient at this game. ‘You’re a villain and a damned royalist but we’re after your assistance, not your liberty or your life. That smart hanging you’re sore in need of can wait. Here are the mobilisation orders, now come with me!’

Flávian took his time examining the documents, a mixture of vellum and printing, flourishing script, decoration in a dozen different colours, including gilt, and several waxen seals and ribbons. Still reading he raised himself to his feet, collecting his silk umbrella and with a fuss or two at his buttonhole.

‘We’re to lead an invasion of Ambara?’ His loud exclamation was so melodramatic he might have been an actor in a play.

‘Secret!’ hissed Fréya, fixing the count with a glare. ‘What part of “these orders are secret” do you not understand?’

[The Four Heatons]

Special Agent Nick Mephis, of the FBI wasn't happy. He was meant to be on vacation, instead he found himself in the middile of a civil war. To make matters worse, this country didn't have an Embassy with the allied States. He'd already phoned his collegues at the FBI who had promised to speak to the State Department. For now, Nick would have to keep a low profile. At this moment, he had no weapon, little local money and limited contact with home. All in all it wasn't going well.

OOC: I'm taking this isn't going to be good for foreigners, and theres a lack of government present. So I'm going to RP my agent trying to get out, and my peoples responce to getting said agent out.

[Xirnium]

For an Admiral of the Grey lately commanding a High Seas Fleet, few things might have seemed more galling than the prospect of confinement forevermore to the muddy, shallow canal that was Nachhôth next the sea. There Infelice was, dreaming of nautical adventures far out in the snarling storms of the north Atlantic, with the scream of the wind in the rigging and the roar of the sea past the bows, restricted instead to duties that could have been carried out with equal skill by any respectable ferryman or bargee. Romantic ambitions thwarted, the Admiral of the Grey had pursued no more desperate courses since her commission than to sit and watch her warships on a wharf, imagining them ducks on a silent dark tarn.

So rarely did the High Seas Fleet leave its landlocked anchorage that it was one of the permanent landmarks of Nachhôth next the sea. It was at least as widely recognisable as the city’s walls and battlements of white granite, flecked with tiny deposits of iron and quartz so that they glittered in the light even when overhead flew grey clouds from which snow and hail whirled. And the High Seas Fleet was certainly no less pretty a sight, with the hulls of the various warships camouflaged brightly in technicolour “dazzle” paint, that is to say in countershading and strongly contrasting patches that resembled nothing so much as a Cubist’s scattering and swirling of the jagged shards of a shattered multicoloured chessboard.

For just these tethered warships had the crows abandoned their haunts about the noble steeples and irrationally-facing dormers of Nachhôth next the sea. As the afternoon sun spread its bloody light into the water they formed croaking silhouettes upon the masts and rigging of cruisers and battleships. Colonies of seagulls perched flapping all over the turrets and barrels of guns, cormorants nested on yardarms, pelicans hunted fish from radar housings. About the halyards of the flagship Nostalgic an erne had even made herself an eyrie.

Recession had starved the navy gaunt of funding. It had been first to face massive and crippling slashes to its budget after the price structure for orchids had collapsed, sweeping away the fortunes of countless bourgeois families who had mortgaged homes, estates and industries so that they could participate in an unseemly speculative frenzy over the sale of bulbs. Now this navy with more admirals than warships sailed once more abroad.

In Närväryn the joke currently circulating around Parliament and the Committee of Safety was that the Foreign Ministry’s response in times of crisis was always first to insist that nothing was going to happen. Now something had happened, something in the Resurgent Dream, something big, and the Foreign Ministry’s response had been elevated to the position that, though something had happened, nothing could or should be done about it. Consistent with the law of nations’ general principle of non-intervention, the Eternal Republic had always treated civil wars as internal matters, absent requests for assistance from regional organisations and from the Government in control of the territory. But this was much different. Over the years the Foreign Minister had pursued a policy of ever-tightening economic ties with the Resurgent Dream, signing treaty after free trade treaty, cooperating in the coordination of international commercial policy and moving closer towards the vision of a Europe-Atlantic common market.

Hundreds of nationals of the Eternal Republic now lived and worked in the Resurgent Dream and Ambara, mainly in places like Laneria or Nabarro Abarca. With a chill of fear the Foreign Minister could hazard a guess what the punchline would be. Maybe they could and should have done something about it, but now there was nothing left they could do. It would be the final epitaph of the Swallowtail Parliament. Failure to protect the citizens of Xirnium could bring about the downfall of the Government in a single afternoon. Thus behind closed doors unprecedented pressure was brought to bear upon the Resurgent Dream. An army of diplomatists, ambassadors, visiting legates and éminences grises demanded that Sacker immediately extend a unilateral offer of ceasefire to the rebels in Ambara. The Eternal Republic could mediate if the Prince of Alekthos was dubious about good faith or sincerity, but all nationals of Xirnium had to be evacuated before hostilities resumed and the secession was suppressed.

It mattered not at all to the Foreign Ministry or to Parliament that a respite in the fighting was precisely what the rebels needed, time to entrench and solidify their position and arm against the Government, to seek foreign allies for when the truce soon ended. Benighted by subversion and civil strife, the Resurgent Dream had lately risked coming between a mother wolf and her cubs.

And ominously out of the galing dark, black against the livid lightning, there reared suddenly the steam-billowing funnels and smokestacks of rolling warships, snaking a line disappearing in the mist. Like an apparition came the decades-old, twelve-inch gun flagship Nostalgic, a venerable old fast battlecruiser which was veteran of the Nuekallayan Incident, flying Infelice’s ensign. Dashing against pitching bows was sleet-mingled rain and black sea, whitened with foam and fury. Above the lashing clamour of a wind that put the masts to reeling and tore pennants from rigging, it seemed the warships should surely be swamped or at least dashed to pieces against darkly gleaming, fang-toothed skerries. They sought to round the ness at flanking speed, listing to port recklessly. The rolling and roaring of the thunder appeared almost to promise the booming of naval shellfire as the High Seas Fleet left the perilous rocky cape of Vasconia behind it. Ambara ahead.

[The Resurgent Dream]

Sarah Sacker rested her head in her hands. There had been no real question of military action against most of the seceding Members. The Confederal Constitution provided for secession, after all. Most of these Members weren’t going about it the legal way but Sacker was not willing to go to war to force them to go through the six month waiting period and go through the other appropriate formalities. The recovery of Xirniumites form those locations was a simple enough matter and taken care of without a lot of fuss. It was Alekthos and Amalad which were driving her mad. They wanted to be independent. That was fine. But if an independent country attacked the Resurgent Dream as they had it would be war. There was no way she could let Abdel walk away with so much blood on his hands. It would brand the Danaans as cowards before the world.

“We’re tracking vessels approaching the West Coast of Alekthos,” Admiral Wid Abethell said. The stout old man had worn a grim expression for the past several hours. He was a military man but Sacker doubted it was the military situation that worried him. The Confederal Armed Forces could overcome anything Abdel had. That was never in question. It was geopolitics that created the somber mood in the room. The dream which the Confederated Peoples had represented was over.

“Only interfere with the Xirniumites if they seek to land on loyal territory,” Sacker ordered sadly. “If they want to try to recover their people from Alekthos and Amalad, let them. How is the regrouping order going?” Sacker had ordered troops stationed in Alekthos and Amalad to pull back behind the lines to avoid being surrounded and overtaken.

“Well, ma’am,” Abethell said. “You’ll also be pleased to know that all our nuclear materials in Alekthos and Amalad have been safely recovered and secured. They won’t have nuclear weaponry.”

“Unless they have more like the suitcase bomb they used in Selinia,” Sacker commented glumly. Abethell didn’t respond. It was then that an aid ran into the room. He wasn’t one of the many young interns the President normally had at her disposal. They didn’t merit a trip to the heavily fortified secret underground location. He was an older man, balding, pudgy, but reliable. He’d been with her a long time. She took the sheet of paper he was holding without a word and read it. Then she read it again as if unable to believe what it said. “Dammit!” She balled the paper up and tossed it aside. Abethell looked over, arching a brow. “The core Danaan Principalities have seceded,” she said. “Not effective immediately but soon. That’s the end, isn’t it?” No one answered her.

…

As the Xirniumites approached Ambara, small boats came out to meet them. There were yachts and ferries and fishing boats. There were antique sailing boats and small racing boats. There were garbage scows and tugboats. They were all broadcasting a similar message. They were the lost sons and daughters of Xirnium, fleeing the theocratic nuts who had taken over Alekthos, Amalad, and much of Zutern. They only wanted to go home.

…

The resort where Nick Mephis was staying lay along the Alekthos coast. It was the sort of place one often saw in tourist brochures. The climate was tropical and the beaches pristine. There was sailing, surfing, and miniature golf. Fat tourists with their families dominated most of the beaches but an appealing man could easily find buxom, university aged girls in thong bikinis. Mixed drinks flowed freely. Humpback whales could sometimes be seen from the shore.

All that changed when the Religious Police showed up. About fifty armed men in white uniforms barged through the front door. The leader, a bearded man of about twenty-four, started barking orders and the men began arresting tourists. A middle-aged housewife in a conservative one-piece bathing suit was arrested for indecent exposure. A couple of pre-teens were arrested for extra-marital handholding. A preacher was arrested for encouraging apostasy. The situation did not look promising.

[The Four Heatons]

Nick had came down to the lobby and saw all this happen. As much as he didn't like it, he couldn't do anything about it, this wasn't his country, he had not jurisdiction or authority. He leant against the wall as this played out ahead of him. He noted the weapons, and decieded if push comes to shove, he'd run and try and trap one of the armed people, disarm them and take their weapons. Hopefully if wouldn't come to that. He discretly took pictures with the camera on his cell and sent them back home to the FBI Officer in Reddish.

[The Ctan]

“What is happening there?”

“We are without information on the matter. We don’t habitually spy on our allies. All we really know is what’s in the news.” Paul de Vere said. He’d only been present by chance, his normal residence-ship docked at one of the city’s piers. Nonetheless, he was the senior C’tani official according to the crisis and emergency procedures, therefore he was currently in the city ship’s war-room.

“I still don’t get it,” the Senator frowned.

“Aiyana: we’ve known they had a lot of religious idiots in some of their states for a while. But this goes somewhat beyond our estimates. We’d certainly imagined their own internal security could handle it.”

“Your talent for understatement is immense. The question is what are we going to do about this?”

“We have a number of legitimate ways to attack these bastards. The issue would be how the Danaans want to handle it. Our reports imply that this isn’t just secession now, but outright breakup.”

“Why didn’t you folks react to this one sooner?” she demanded.

“Oh, I don’t know. We were a little concerned with the whole business of the Kajali home-worlds disappearing into a time hole recently!”

“Granted. But this is a crisis that needs resolution.”

“You’re the politician. How do you see it?”

“We must follow the local lead,” she said, “for now. We’ll have to consult with other allies about this,” she added.

“And if that local government’s leadership is not how we’d do it?” he asked.

The walk from the war room to the main control room was a short one, both were hexagonal protrusions from the top of the city’s central tower, and they walked into the control room, where the city’s Governor-Captain currently sat in its control chair. “We need to speak to Sarah Sacker, of the Resurgent Dream immediately.”

The Menelmacari woman, Vende nos Marwan simply nodded, turning slightly to the main communications station, a complex affair covered in not just controls, but with ports for dozens of types of data media. News coverage disappeared from one white wall of the room, replaced with a blank screen. The operator looked behind him for a moment. “What should we tell them?”

“Tell them we’d like to know what humanitarian and military requirements they have of us,” Aiyana said, “We stand ready to assist in any capacity possible.”

[Havensky]

Crystal City, Capitol of the Skybound Republic of Havensky

In the floating Crystal City, the three leaders of the Skybound Republic and their aides met in the Challenger Room of the Capitol Tower. It was a fairly smallish room for such an important meeting - but this was in fact a feature, not a flaw. Only very private and important matters were discussed in this room. No need for the media, no need for a bunch of politicians, just a few people to decide what needed to be done right now.The video screens on the wall had maps and news coverage of the events in the Confederacy.

The table was triangular, reflecting the unique form of Havensky's government. On one side, sat Prime Minister Kristopher Windcharmer. Windcharmer was dressed in a dark blue business suit. His face was framed by silver glasses and topped with brown hair that seemed to be showing signs of grey. As the head of the Skyan Senate, he was the head of government and was there to ascertain if there would be enough political will to take the actions that were needed. If Senate approval for an action were needed, it would be his job to sell it.

Windcharmer, despite his name, wasn't particularly charismatic as politicians go. He had won office because he out-campaigned and out-worked everyone else. When it came to meetings with the Three, he was often the balancing point between the two other men.

One of those men were Titus Darkwind, the High Executor of Havensky. Dressed in a black pinstripe suit, he had a no nonsense demeanor accented by his silver hair. He was the chief administrator of all government ministries and it would be his job to carry out whatever was decided on today. Darkwind was a bit of a hard-ass and a realist. His success as an administrator came from always planning on the worst case scenario and planning for it. His immense attention to detail and his instinct for how events would play out would be crucial.

On the opposite end was King Drake, head of state for the Skybound Republic. Drake represented the Skyan People and tended to embody their idealistic hopes, dream, and sheer will to see them through. A former Airship Captain, he wasn't a wimp, but he was known globally for his compassion and fierce loyalty to the ideas and principals of the Skyan People.

Wars happen. They happen all the time. Every Single Day. War. War. War. War. and more War.

So, most of the time, another conflict breaking out hardly produces a blip to the Skyan Government. However, so many nations going to war or potentially going to war all at once - with one of them being an on very good terms with Havensky - this was different.

And this is why we keep Chruch and State separate!" , stated the Prime Minister taking a drink from his glass. Of all the stupid reasons for bloodshed...."

"I can assume that nobody here wishes to get involved militarily? Even though we are friendly with the Eternal Republic, getting involved in a regional civil War would be foolhardy - assuming that the Eternal Republic decided to get further involved in the first place.", voiced the High Executor - his gruff voice reverberating around the room.

"Agreed, however, I think given the situation we should send the Mercy Fleet to help evacuate refugees and treat the civilian wounded. It's the least we can do as humanitaians. We should at least react in some way.Once things cool down, we could offer assistance in peace talks", suggested the King.

These guys just blew uo a whole god damned city! What's to stop them from attacking a hospital? Why should we risk Skyan blood for something like this Your Highness?", protested Darkwing With all due repect, You're going to get a hospital ship blasted out of the sky....which would draw us into the conflict. Kristopher, surely the Senate would never support such a move!

Windcharmer thought for a moment, doing political calculus in his head while computing the aspects of the moral problem at hand.

"The Senate....would agree with his Majesty. Although, with the caveat of a statement of neutrality and offering to treat all civilians from all sides.

Darkwind grunted. I see I am once again the odd man out. I'll send the orders - however, I will have the Ministry of State do this quietly. I'm would not recommend a grand announcement...just a quiet telegram to all involved that if they wish to have help evacuating or treating civilians, our airships are close at hand.

The three men nodded in agreement and the King hit his gavel on the table. The orders would be executed at once.

Each nation involved in the conflict would receive the following message.

The Skybound Republic of Havensky offers her assistance in evacuating civilians and in treating civilian causalities. The Skybound Republic is neutral in this conflict and is extending this offer to all nations in the conflict. The Hospital Airships Mercy, Hope, and Redemption, will be just off the coast treating wounded. They are painted bright white and are marked with Havensky flags and Red Hearts. Please note, that any attack on these ships will result in severe action by the Airship Armada. If you suspect foul intentions by the hospital group, the Captains of the Ships will provide a inspection tour to address your concerns. - Signed, King Drake of Havensky

[Xirnium]

If Pablo Picasso or Georges Braque had been commissioned to paint the sides of a warship, it might have looked something like the one anchored before Zuhayr al-Asnam. The starboard of the corvette Sleep Daunted was a collage of fractured, angular shapes, of overlapping red and black and yellow triangular planes, of straight-lined stripes fragmented here and there by acute angles, in some areas giving almost the illusion of sculpture, where the images seemed almost to leap out from the hull.

Chaos and raw possibility and razzmatazz, like bebop made visible. Agitated and disordered, it swirled and bounded and delighted al-Asnam with its flourish of unsubtle colour and variety. He smiled as he thought how his delightful little daughter ’Ablah would have brightened and widened her eyes at the sight, how she would have laughed and clapped for joy.

‘Isn’t it prideful and defiant, surely the work of Iblis, the enemy of God. See how it tempts all but the truest believers to evil.’

The High Seas Fleet had arrived with the cool grey mists of the morning to watch the sun rise, blazing forth brightly at noon before sinking on a sullen horizon, behind heavy storm-clouds scudding across the sky in the west. Cold and gloom had deepened almost hour by hour as night replaced stifling-hot day. The High Seas Fleet lay moveless and at anchor, spread in an loose interrupted zigzag over a handful of miles or so, and its warships rocked ever so faintly to the wine-dark waves, which were unseen and unheard save for their muffled slap. Now that Zuhayr’s yacht sailed over darkened silver-sparked seas a wolf-fanged wind had picked up over the running waters. It gnawed through clothes and flesh and bone, into the very marrow.

The Eternal Republic! Who were its people? Where were they from? Why had they come so to Alekthos, with gunboats and haughty ultimatums? Was it not outrageous that strangers, unknowns, should just like that, all at once and senselessly, upset one’s whole life, all one’s aspirations and dreams, simply because it had pleased them to bring the blight of war to his home? To bring rape and torture and slavery to the sun-baked land of cypresses and date palms and tall sandy-white minarets, a harsh, beautiful country where oleanders brightened the bleak and windswept desert and figs flourished in the oases.

From his hiding place near the pitching bows, Zuhayr cursed aloud and grieved for his fate. ‘Ash-Shaytan! Demon!’

The proud and gallant and beautiful yacht had been built by Neúvenârtan shipwrights, and thus chosen to lead the cobbled-together armada advancing in a lazy curvilinear sweep, its port flank lagging behind the vanguard. She was a small and slender craft, the name “Pale Fire” stencilled with a mimeograph in gilt on her thin and silvery hull, her mast inlaid with pearl and her sails and cordage broidered with silk. The Eternal Republic’s colours raised at the mast flapped forlornly in the wind, which harped at the rigging. It blew salty spindrift from more northerly climes keen in the face, making Zuhayr thirsty, so that he took three long gulps of water from his rattling cloth-wrapped canteen, each in quick succession.

So he was a young father, he would still fight! To help steel his fraying nerves Zuhayr had entered ihram, the sacred state, shaving his head with a razor, cutting his nails short and trimming his beard before wearing the pure white two-piece habit and covering all but his eyes behind a plaid scarf. Could it be possible that he was afraid? His heart hammered uncontrollably, his pulse throbbed in his throat, his mouth remained parched. Every noise of his comrades startled him, heightened his dread, and to ignore them he stared nervously at the nearing corvette Sleep Daunted. Naught stirred, naught seemed to live aboard the warship. He began to feel shortness of breath, and a rising panic.

‘Jihad must be fulfilled first by the heart before it can be waged with the sword,’ Zuhayr reminded himself.

But such empty words were little comfort, his agitation was worse than ever. Drifting moon-ghostly the corvette Sleep Daunted loomed in front, her arrogantly curved prow climbing steeply to the stars. Zuhayr began to understand something of the size of the warship. Up towered her hull, up, up, and its superstructure stormed the heavens, its sides blotted out the grandly wheeling stars. His arms and fingers trembled, he could not remain still, neither sitting nor standing braced below deck at the rolling bows. Zuhayr dared not even speak, nor wish his beautiful wife ’A’ishah fretting anxiously at home a final goodbye, nor utter a single steadying word lest his dry, jerky voice betray his growing terror. His bravery had fled him.

Yet even up until the very moment Zuhayr perished he always maintained, in the presence of his comrades, that gaunt and steadfast bearing which was necessary of a true sahid. Of a martyr.

[Xirnium]

Explosions. Explosions. They came again and yet again in the night, a booming like the intermittent, fitful, irregular striking of a monstrous bass drum. Except from the iron railing or the decks of individual warships chosen specifically as targets, the bombs were not deafeningly loud, but they were of a pitch so deep that their bottom registers shivered in the bones of officers at the furthest end of the High Seas Fleet’s column. Each detonation seemed to thunder for an eternity as though it were the end of the world, only to fade away eventually into a towering geyser of water and a shower of salt-smelling spray.

Before long the sounds of guns blasting their furious replies were added to the battle. First a quick-firing two-pounder mounted upon the corvette Intellectual Beauty, then a pair of automatic cannons a hundred yards away, and in an instant the night was alive with crisscrossing tracer rounds. Brilliant white flashes sparkled around muzzles cut with holes like Swiss cheese, black puffs spread out around the flashes, and away from the fighting, where the lapping of the waves was still audible, was heard a faint yet never ceasing, never ceasing, tap-tap-tapping. These were the machine guns. Brave indeed were the mujahedin to press their attack in the face of that terrible roar, for the High Seas Fleet seemed to snarl and moan and whine and rage at them. From Zuhayr’s yacht the scream of the bullets made a noise like the tearing and breaking and smashing of a corrugated iron shed, and they shattered timber to splinters. The shells of automatic cannons howled at the mujahedin and only occasionally snarled abeam or astern, more often bursting murderously in their midst.

Against the high-hulled warships like bleak and terrible cliffs the mujahedin snarled defiance and with brave despair shattered themselves. Hopeless was storming these cataracts of height.

This all seemed fainter and dimmer, smaller and further away, from the flagship Nostalgic. As news trickled slowly into the bridge the blood in Infelice’s veins ran cold, like the bitter water from squeaking brass taps sometimes does in older, run-down apartments, those vast and gloomy places full of dark corners and dusty lion-footed wardrobes. Unmoving, saying nothing, and empty-eyed, the Admiral of the Grey looked out across the lately troubled sea. The frigate Disdainful and destroyer Autumn Song had sustained concerning damage, their pretty, abstract hull designs, their miscellaneous mismatch of zigzagging stripes, fragmentary chequerboards and spatterings of polka dots, marred by heat-cracked iron and scorched with streaks of charred and smouldering ash to the railing. Surprise had been total, and the ruse only too lately discovered after the lead vessels had failed to head the repeated calls of men-of-war launches to heave to. More than eighty naval personnel had been injured in the attack, and a further seventeen had perished.

When she zipped half-open some of the rubberised body bags Infelice saw the dead, saw their beautiful pale faces still and white and with dead eyes staring accusingly at her, such proud and fair young men and women of the Eternal Republic, lying in a gore of clotted blood or brains. With morbid obsession she rattled morgue trays out like drawers clattering open, seeing here a midshipman hideously wounded, there a sub lieutenant with frightening gash. Touching a cheek and lips Infelice found them icy cold, feeling dark hair she found it matted with blood. She fled the surgeon’s report in disgust.

Fifteen minutes bled into half an hour and then two hours as Infelice received the reports of damage-control teams. Ever a sallow woman with pinched lips that looked as if they were cold, tall and thin of figure, high shouldered and stooping, and with a careworn head, she issued orders to the High Seas Fleet in a lifeless manner and looked at the officers who saluted her in a slow, fixed way.

‘Infelice z’Arväthägne!’ The hand that slapped the Admiral of the Grey across the cheek, with enough force to send her reeling to a knee and spit blood upon the floor, was thin and long-fingered and gloved in white, belonging to a Fréya incandescent with fury and hate. ‘You’d be found guilty of sabotage were it not obvious that your incompetence was at the root of this disaster.’

Astonished, appalled, the bridge crew froze in their places and stared unbelievingly, feeling unbearably awkward, each wishing they were somewhere else. Oh but to have been invisible!

With a supreme effort of will Infelice held her rising fury in check, though her eyes flashed like the passing of a sudden squall at sea. When it cleared a deceptive calm remained.

‘I’m sorry madam,’ muttered Infelice with her dry throat. She returned the other’s gaze with a black rush of hatred, straightening formally. ‘May I engage the enemy and restore the honour of the High Seas Fleet?’

Fréya ignored her question. ‘Come with me.’

The cabin they entered smelt strongly of beeswax and tallow, oiled brass sextants and compasses and other pieces of nautical ephemera, bright wood-polished panelling, mouldering maps and books in tattered binding, and the scraps of old parchment. In the centre of the room cluttered with uncomfortable chairs strewn with leather trench coats and a miscellaneous collection of marble busts, many improvising as holders for peaked officer’s caps and cocked bicornes, there was a disorganised mass of spread out and rolled up charts and a scattering of quills waiting to squeak on vellum. An ornamental stove in blue and black tiles had been left on in the corner, and it made the room oppressively hot.

‘How is it that the Newly-Modelled Navy finds itself in the same situation here that it did at Nuekallaya?’ sneered Fréya. ‘I want to know! Must we forever repeat the mistakes of the past?’

‘Intendant the High Seas Fleet was not at war and was at anchor in international waters, nor have we have ever pursued or proposed to pursue an unfriendly or belligerent course of conduct towards the secessionists of the Resurgent Dream! They betrayed good taste and common sense! The vessels that attacked us tonight employed outrageous deception under false flags in violation of the articles of war!’ Infelice seethed with hate. ‘The suicidal attacks against the High Seas Fleet were without warning or cause. My men and women slain tonight were the victims of coldly-calculated murder!’

‘Nonetheless their blood lies on your hands! For that only the noose awaits your neck at the yardarm. Don’t worry, you’ll be tried fair,’ Fréya promised sardonically.

The candlelight caught her lenses and flashed across iron-framed spectacles, giving Fréya the unnerving appearance of a dummy somehow remotely control. She looked at the Admiral of the Grey without bitterness or pity.

If Fréya had been a commissioned naval officer or a gentlewoman with a trace or two of honour, not a zeal-maddened revolutionary dignitary and the Committee of Public Safety’s baying hound, Infelice would have duelled her at once with her dragoon pistol. ‘Should the Admiralty recommend disciplinary action then I shall accept their sentence without regret and shouldering full responsibility. But you will not besmirch the name of my officers madam! In calmly returning fire and quickly silencing the threat to the High Seas Fleet the men and women under my command performed with the precise same heroism and honour of the finest and most admirable officers of the Newly-Modelled Navy!’

At that instant the finely stuccoed, white-panelled doors crashed open and Flávian marched in, with a dramatic gesture throwing his scabbarded sword clashing on the floor. ‘Intendant I refuse to accept the Bright Republic has sent us to these abominably low latitudes, these southern shores of dust and shifting sands, in order to wage war against Arab peoples! Such misguided notions of bringing civilisation to the benighted members of alien societies will lead only to destructive racism and imperialism, and I will have no part in it. Never has Holy Xirnium demeaned herself by involvement in the unseemly clash of cultures that lately takes place on the borders of East and West, a cause which serve despotism and privilege, madam, not international liberation.’

‘Don’t you dare garb your sedition, traitor, in the lofty ideals of the Elderflower Revolution!’ Fréya’s face twisted with revulsion. ‘If you ever again burst into a private meeting of mine making sweeping grandiloquent declarations I’ll have you clapped in irons and thrown inside the bilges! And that’s the last word of casual treason I’ll hear spoken by your tongue, or I swear you’ll suffer to have it removed.’

Flávian paused uncertainly, his thin, well-formed lips curving in the suggestion of a smile. His acquiescence was sardonic.

‘Pick up your sword.’

Swinging formal dress cape off his shoulders and over his arm, Flávian replaced the sword at his side. He adjusted a perfectly cut military frockcoat and remained silent. Fréya circled slowly around the table to a high-backed chair with greatcoat draped over wing, making herself an angular, spidery creature as she settled into it, folding trousered legs over one another such that a knee came almost to her chin. After re-creasing her huge tricorne hat she brought the tips of her gloved fingers together in front of eyeglasses that were monstrously agleam.

Infelice’s face was worn and gaunt and pitiless, but the bitter flame of cold murder burned in her heart. ‘Intendant, listen! Let us not draw snarling back from these upstart cowards! We should pursue, cut them down, trample their broken corpses in the mud. Now is the time for boldness and daring.’

‘Maybe you have forgotten, but we came to these desert shores only to parley for our countrymen,’ Fréya replied. ‘How can we be certain that they do not hold nationals of the Bright Republic captive?’

‘All the more reason for decisiveness then! A swift, decapitating strike against the palace of Abna!’

Fréya sighed and lifted her dark brows. ‘Our foemen are fanatics. If their Mahdi were killed then his dead hand would urge on his follows to deeds of horrid barbarity, a degenerate orgy of revenge and animal savagery. It would imperil our countrymen.’

‘We don’t know that the Prince of Alekthos has arrested anyone from Holy Xirnium yet,’ Infelice reasoned. ‘We have the means to move now and disrupt his ability to do so.’

‘I will not have you try to justify your lust for the High Seas Fleet’s vengeance with paltry concern for the welfare of expatriates!’

Flávian listened patiently with a mixture of boredom and discomfort. ‘The decision is neither of yours to make, my dears. Only Parliament may command the fullest obedience of the Newly-Modelled Navy.’

And Parliament was quiet.

The hours passed in the night expectant with the promise of bloodshed and violence. A sense of bewildered silence settled over the High Seas Fleet, like a duellist who feels the relief of his opponent’s pistol discharged, who hears the bullet hiss past and sees the powder spark, but is denied for now the satisfaction of marching straight up to his foe and placing a bullet between his eyes.

At every moment they expected the trill of a telephone with Cabinet’s answer, but it was only the grinding of springs and gears in a mantel-clock preliminary to the striking of the hour.

Or seabirds waking in the pre-dawn light and curling, crying hoarsely, to the horizon.

And then Parliament replied.

[Xirnium]

‘Surrender?’

Fréya stood at the bows with white-gloved hands resting lightly upon the iron railing, her wisps of grey hair blowing from beneath tricorne hat and her coat’s lapels and tails flapping wild in the wind. She was watching sullenly the gloomy, silhouetted forms of warships in the dreary dawn-light. ‘Yes, you must.’

Disbelieving, incensed, Infelice blinked back hot angry tears of shame. ‘Intendant this is lunacy! And an unbearable indignity! Parliament would place an undeserving black mark against the name of every warship in the High Seas Fleet, when it should be giving them the opportunity to restore their wounded pride. The Autumn Song and the Disdainful, granted with their noses bloodied in that cowardly strike, could on their own wreak a terrible vengeance across half of Ambara. They await only Parliament’s word to do so. Only Parliament’s word!’

‘They shall not get it,’ Fréya said, not without compassion. ‘Now I need your sword, Infelice z’Arväthägne. You’re to offer personally the surrender of the High Seas Fleet.’

Infelice was furious and her manner was charged with mutiny, but her cheeks, one already bruising blue, were sunken in and her eyes hollow. There was a resigned look of fatalism in her brow. ‘If that’s to be the case I should need only keep my pistol and a single round, madam.’

‘And why should I allow you even that small honour?’ Fréya smirked sympathetically.

Infelice kept firm. ‘Let me at least resign my commission then! To have one’s hands bound behind one’s back when insulted so, the shame is too much!’

‘You damned aristocrats playing at loyal republicans! You will not desert the Bright Republic in her moment of greatest need.’

Mourning at the senseless loss of seventeen naval personnel and the outrages committed against the honour of the destroyer Autumn Song and the frigate Disdainful, the High Seas Fleet had torn down its gaudy silken battle standards and replaced them with morose black pennants and streamers festooned about the rigging. Plain white flags of surrender fluttered sheepishly at the mastheads.

In the Crystal City, haughty tall ambassadors from Närväryn who but lately had been fine-talking figures lifted direct from fashion-plates now dressed themselves in black draping gowns and starchy white shirt-frills, black-gloved, buttoned to the chin, wearing old-fashioned periwigs and tailcoats reminiscent of a Quaker cut and with only subtle silver-wire adornment upon their enormous cuffs. They sought audience with the “illustrious prince” of the Skybound Republic, Drake of Havensky, appealing to him on behalf of the undisturbed friendship that had so long bound together the fates of the Bright Republic and the successor states of the Kingdom of Fourhearts.

‘We wish not to play this children’s parlour-game of nations and empires, where each decision results in the deaths of thousands and in the enslavement of millions. Having rid ourselves of imperial rule, we republicans would not spread for our part the rule of might by gun and by sword in Arab lands. Do you the angels’ work, King Drake, since you would claim the noble trappings of disinterested neutrality, and mediate in this unseemly affair!’

Aumérle was a revolutionist of strictest conscience, ready to on the most ridiculous premise die any death one might please to mention, or at least to declare not without some swagger his intention to, rather than suffer the least impeachment of his integrity. It grieved him to involve himself however tangentially in the deception of states. He was honourable, stubborn, honest, high-spirited, intensely prejudiced, and an infuriatingly unreasonable man, and he lied only under the greatest pressure.

In the courts and in the halls of more brutal or depraved kings and generals, inside the astonishingly perpendicular flamboyance of Närväryn’s castles, where lately there gathered the intricacy of alliances made by the Eternal Republic over centuries, diplomats and ministers spoke more darkly, with more obvious cunning, making less frequent reference to Reason and Enlightenment. With unadorned, honest and sober calculation they spun their webs.

If the Skybound Republic could not be persuaded to vouch for Holy Xirnium’s sincerity and convey to the murderers and thieves of Ambara Infelice’s gold filigree-wrought bucket-hilted sword, then there were other methods for rendering the High Seas Fleet’s bitter surrender. A trained erne, majestically tail-feathered and silk ribboned, could carry aloft the thin, light, sharp-pointed rapier, wrapped delicately in the Admiral of the Grey’s personal brocade colours taken down from the flagship Nostalgic, and together with signed and sealed letter, written on purple vellum in gold, bear the burden in its talons to the palace of Abna. It would be noon though before the thermals warmed enough to allow the sea eagle to spread wings and launch from gauntleted arm, to soar into the sky.

Negotiations with the Prince of Alekthos and his followers to allow the High Seas Fleet to extract any nationals of the Eternal Republic from strife-torn areas would be more problematic to conduct, since they would have to be direct and private. The local consul from Närväryn could offer his Government’s assurances that there would be no reprisals over the rebels’ criminal act, and other things of value could be traded away as well. Diplomatic recognition. Arms and weaponry. Or sacks of gold.

But the family of albatrosses that had perched gingerly only yesterday on the tips of the long grey barrels of naval guns, like fidgeting, preening, living front-end iron sights, and the flock of petrels that had nested lately inside silent muzzles, had gone. They did not return in the morning light, but wheeled away to rocky shores. Nor did anywhere seagulls jostle for placement on the turrets of cruisers or battleships. Only hungry crows gathered darkly in the sky. They knew that if there was no word by nightfall then the fully unleashed, murderously indiscriminate fury of the High Seas Fleet would descend upon benighted Ambara like a winging, lightning-veined storm. Already thunder rumbled.

[Havensky]

As a people, Skyans are idealistic, optimistic, and often pursued impossible dreams. Only such people would ever have succeeded at building castles in the sky.

By mastering the hidden secrets of the aerostone, the Skyan people were able to live out their lives in a floating impossibility that defied all laws of physics: a flying city of glass, steel, and lights – modern and sleek. If not for their great loss of their homeland, they would never have discovered the aerostone beneath the oceans of their new home. If it wasn’t for the friendliness and humanitarian feeling of the region that first welcomed them to their shores, they would be homeless all together.

As such, Skyans never refused a request for help in the interest of life and peace. To refuse would be to contradict the essence of their spirit. And nobody embodied the spirit of the Skyan people more than King Drake of Havensky.

The Throne Room of the Crystal City was located at the very top of the Capitol Tower – the tallest spire in the Crystal City. The room was a glass pyramid, with the edges inlaid in steel. The floors were dark red marble with a thick white carpet leading from the stairway to the throne. Tall Skyan banners hung suspended from the roof, emblazoned in maroon, dark eagles and white stars.

It was all very regal and very showy and seemed to contradict the nature of the Skyan King. Drake grew up on an airship, and was much more casual than the room seemed to let on. Most days, Drake could be found wearing just an inexpensive sports coat and casual shoes. However, for this occasion he wore his formal white frock coat, red shirt, and a crown of white gold. The Eternal Republic’s request was a serious and honorable one and it demanded the highest of protocol and ceremony.

At the Drake’s insistence, the ambassadors were seated comfortably in front of the throne. The beautiful rapier and beautiful words on parchment rested on the glass table between them. The King had cleared the room of all others – save for the Legionaries that stood behind the throne as the King’s bodyguards.

”Ambassador Wendëlbëth, my People and I are honored that you have come to us for such an important request. I say without the slightest hint of hesitation that we will help you., said King Drake.

Drake breathed in deeply, However, I do not understand completely. You were on a non-threatening mission to retrieve your citizens from Alekthos, when you were attacked without warning by those flying false flags. Instead of hunting those responsible, your fleet surrenders. I am sure it is within the capacity of your naval forces to distribute a great deal of punishment on Alekthos. Instead, you present your sword. While I would never seek to interfere or attempt to influence such a decision, as your friend Aumérle….I would like to know why.”

The Ambassador from the Eternal Republic spoke clearly and without an ounce of doubt

” Tragedy has fallen on us at the hands of murderers and outlaws. In this our hour of misery, all hate and anger has left us. Our eyes are opened and see clearly. No longer can we think merely of ourselves as civilized, and they as barbarians. All of us are, before all else, human beings.

Do not suppose that the High Seas Fleet is defeated, and that this surrender is a cry for mercy. Their armaments are intact, and the resources that they can summon still very great. Yet we will not fight. No warship, no aeroplane, no soldier of the Bright Republic shall commit any further act of hostility. The murderers and outlaws may do what they will.

But they will not strike again. As our own eyes have been opened by misery, so too will their eyes be opened by our act of compassion.
Drake took a moment to let the ambassadors words sink in. He then stood.

”I understand.”, said Drake with certainty. Drake’s face looked deep in thought for a few moments while he thought about who to send for such an important task. He turned to his bodyguard and commanded, ”Summon Sir Vincent Profeta at once!”

[Havensky]

In Havensky, Knighthood was not a ceremonious honor. All military officers with the rank of Captain or above were considered Knights of the Order of the Armada. Therefore, knights were fairly commonplace.

What was not common was to find an Oathholder. An Oathholder was a military officer who preached a chosen religion in order to provide the Armada and the Legion with the guidance, service, and support that only a man of God could provide. Unlike their counterparts in other nations, the Oathholder participated in combat. They were warriors and preachers. The Skyan’s consider it hypocritical for the religious man to talk of being brave in the face of enemies, without ever having to face them The Oathholder was more than a religious leader, he was a brother-in-arms and a father to the men he served with.

Sir Vincent Profeta arrived within a half hour – record time considering that Vincent had to change from his everyday utility uniform into full regalia. He marched up the stairs with his aide carrying his banner. His armor was painted kevlar woven into white leather with a bright red cape draped behind him. On his left arm, was the Havensky flag and on the right, the patch of the regional defense forces. The gold sash around his waist and the small gold cross on his mandarin collar identified himself as an Oathholder. At his side, a sheath held a silver gunblade. Sir Vincent knelled before King Drake and awaited the quest to be assigned to him.

Drake spoke, Rise Sir Vincent, I have a quest for you.

Drake motioned to the jeweled rapier that lay on the table.

This is the sword of Infelice z’Arväthägne, Admiral of the High Seas Fleet of the Eternal Republic of Xirnium. You are to carry it along with the colors of the Admiral of the Grey to the Anbar Palace and present it to Prince of Alekthos. The High Seas Fleet is surrendering seeking an end to hostilities in exchange for the safe passage of its citizens out of Alekthos and back to their homeland. You are to offer the assistance of the full Airship Armada in ensuring the swift evacuation of their citizens. Do you understand?

A thousand thoughts ran through Sir Vincent’s head. Vincent was a simple man of the cloth, and he felt himself being placed in the middle of a fierce political and violent conflict. However, he understood the King’s reasoning. Who better to negotiate with a religious warrior-prince than an Oathholder? He understood the King's need for somebody who could speak the same language as the rebellious prince.

”It is my honor to serve the Skyan People. I shall leave at once.”

Drake spoke again, “Sir Vincent, trade swords with our honored guests.”

Vincent drew the blade from his sheath and presented it, hilt first, to Ambassador Aumérle Wendëlbëth. The handle was like a dark mahogany flintlock pistol, with a barrel running thirty-one inches along the length of the samurai-style blade. Atop the handle was a flat slightly wider piece of titanium which could be used to block. The blade itself was four three inches thick of white titanium. Engraved on one side were three dark eagles. On it's opposite side was Roman's 12:19, "Dearly beloved, avenge not yourselves, but rather give place unto wrath: for it is written, Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord."

The gesture caught the Ambassador off-guard for a moment, unsure of what was going on. He took the less majestic weapon and held it in his hands. Vincent then placed the rapier onto his belt while his aide took the banner of the Admiral of the Grey and in its place left the Vincent’s.

Drake spoke, “It must have been quite the selfless act to give up one’s sword in the interest of peace. I refuse to allow your Admiral to be without a sword or honors.”

[Novacom]

OOC: Excuse the fluid time

"The debate was considerably longer than is the norm, then again, they’ve been a fairly unreliable “ally”,” finished Izalien gently rotating a large glass swirling the thick opaque fluid, a strange liquid of emerald and ruby colouration as she recalled the somewhat heated debate. The council of Ministers had certainly raked the issue over from a great deal many viewpoints, the thoroughness was typical yet the process long given the many angles anything involving Xirnium must be reviewed, the masters of the hidden political agenda, there was no telling what they could do, even though their intent to send a fleet to evacuate their nationals was known.

“I can Imagine, indeed I can though I’m glad to know we’re standing by them, I’ve had a fair few good working relationships with my counterparts, though they were abruptly cut off during the chilling, they couldn’t afford the association, and to think at one point knowing a Novan was fashionable over there, I’ll never fathom their culture truly,” the man was shaking his head intently his cropped ash blond hair shifting slightly with the movement beneath the brim of his cap, throwing his head slightly back as he closed his eyes he contemplated the many varying shades of Xirniumite culture, some of it was perfectly understandable, until you went into the more populist shades of decadence and excess that strode directly out of some time lost Havenic count’s court, at times it was sickening yet at others it was confusing, as it ill fit with the fighting spirit and enduring spirit of the Xirniumite soldier, nor the government they had previously been under, strange was right.

“I can imagine they say the same about ours Reece, but what I can say is whenever they go to war they usually attract adverseries like moth to a flame, make sure they don’t get too in over their heads, they have after all been hit rather hard with a recession,” her gaze locked with that of Reece as she brought her fingertips together nodding her head subtly as in the background a subtle ringing began, “Ah, the stroke of three in the afternoon,” the ladies crimson smile growing wide her lashed lids closing as her head fell back, her tight ringleted hair bouncing with every move, and not once did her Vzaaqke, her Ministerial Mitre quiver, and she listened.

From the balcony could be seen four distinct towers, thrusting up from a main building, as if they had been set upon a pedestal, within the enclosure of the four towers hovered a maelstrom that could be seen from most points in the city, thousands of crystals wove in an intricate orbit, and several fragments of a strange artefact, usually disparate temporarily united and it was this along with the rest of the crystals resonance that suffused the city with ethereal tones, the entire building towers artefact and all was known as the Vaartil’ai’karrur.

A sweet chime rang out, followed by a series of counterparts weaving together in an intricate pattern, creating a vital harmony, the music seemed to tell a tale of a grand time, a reputed Likezdhe, a teacher and a friend, he regaled his assembled compatriots with a tale, a great journey, a trek across the stars across time and space, a tale of destiny and fate, one could almost hear his words as he beseeched his ancestors, so that they may bear witness to his words and truly recount their story through trial and tribulation their path a grand journey through history itself one could almost envisage this wise sage and his tale as they faded away to the times to whence they belonged

As the chiming ended Izalian’s piercing cerulean eyes snapped open she swung round and stalked out onto the great balcony the Srihacul in tow, grasping the rail she stared out across the city of Novesia, the many tiered spires, the delicate Novan caligrams stencilled upon the buildings, the great expanse of Vruzanazan square below, the sheer canyon walls, the four towers resting upon their platform, the whole that made up the Vaartil’ai’karrur, the port district and the many governmental buildings, everywhere the Novan flag was prominent, upon every building was mounted a monitor upon which a myriad of media could be seen, truly the city lived and breathed as a living organism. “Be careful out there Reece, the Xirniumites are always one for overtly elaborate politicking, be sure to demonstrate due discretion, Vistakal Anatos and the rest of your ground forces will meet you en route, their just being resupplied in the wake of the fall of Takyjumi Proztiynuaey, Zeon’s starting to lose territory rapidly now, but it will mean little unless we can locate Citadel.”

“I know Izalien, we will track it down in time, but until then we will fight with the same commitment that we have thus far, we need to end their threat, if only so those who will succeed us may know peace,” returned Reece as he himself grasped the rail to admire the view, and such a view it was, especially as many joked Minister Izalien had double the offices the other ministers did, her actual office, both in Novesia and in Kraviriez when the Suprainister was away and Auria summoned the government there, and the war room with sweeping layered layout, and grand scale, again in both places, while most ministers only had the former pair.

Izalien smiled once again, before nodding her head slightly, “an admirable sentiment Reece, now I won’t keep you, I know you have some packing to do before you head to the berths at Gorogozhnen to join your fleet, be sure to keep well, and be careful Reese,”

“As always Izalien, As always,” Reece saluted and then in an additional mark of respect inclined his head gently before spinning on one heel and making his departure, leaving an altogether more satisfied man, like many in the military the home front made him edgy, especially when Kukonois’ lackey’s were still allowed to run rampant, like that mechanical mass murderer the self styled Lord Iccaproti, then again how a machine could have a sense of arrogance was beyond him, he momentarily stopped, chiding himself for such arrogance, no, the beast wasn’t quite a machine, but he wasn’t quite human either, then again, he probably hadn’t even been truly human, even before whatever forced him into becoming that abomination, this and other such thoughts drifted through his mind as he wove his way through the Tower of Destiny, and out to the nearest rapid transit system hub.

-----

“Ah, Excellent so they are here after all,” rasped a figure who could have easily strode out of a nightmare, it strode across the bridge, his baleful stare sweeping the station canyons, his command cape billowing being him, casting an ominous shadow in his wake, which was punctuated by the crewer’s resumption of respiration all avoided his lethal leer, the capriciousness of this figure was legion and despite that many would not trade their presence here for much else, this vessel was known for being a fast track to promotion, if you survived that is...

“Captain, get us out of here, the Zordigal and the Loxtrigar are to remain and should the Novans take note of our presence, provide a scapegoat even if it means sacrificing themselves.” The dread figure turned away from the straight-backed captain and his guard followed him, of similar aspect bearing diabolical looking staves accented with the barest hint of blade, so slender were the lethal protrusions, all the more accented by the discharge blades further down the staves, so slender and innocuous that one would presume such things to be museum pieces or purely ornamental, not a weapon whose history had cleaved through countless millions.

Their master turned once more, to stalk off to his chambers causing the entirety of the bridge to once more suspend breathing as the tall skeletal monstrosity stalked out of the bridge, few Zeons would dare look the dread Lord Iccaprotii and his Cydivax guard in the eye, few had lived to tell of such things after all....

-----

And so it was that the Novans found themselves enmeshed in yet another conflict with their hated foe, this one however not of their doing, being as they had in the process of transiting to destinations rarely travelled to by the Novan Military in the past few years, the Locale of the Eternal Republic of Xirnium, indeed the last major presence had been at the decisive battles of Iathern, yet the fleet that know graced the general area was an altogether different animal to that of the first coming, gone were the broad lumbering behemoths of the Novan Fleets scarce years previous, jet black with red accentuation, with extended superstructure often with swarms of Tokon perched atop most spare space. In their place graced slender and sleek vessels, of the purest white highlighted with simple slim line granite grey and red stripe, while the superstructure was compact yet towering replete with spires, everything had simple clean lines, angular and precise, the layout itself however did have some irregularities, such as the prow of the vessel being forked and scaling vertically, banners and pennants fluttered from lines from the twin points to the tiered superstructure flying high over a pair of lethal looking turrets gracefully roosting upon accented pedestals, the great guns of the vessel shifting slightly and glinting in the sun. The Bridges of these vessels, these battleships, the Yaxodorokivishirada, but one of many of a new generation in Novan Military vessels, for around the slender lethality’s swarmed a host of Moroquzehrokivishirada cruisers their outlier pylons slicing through the azure currents with a pronounced rapidity. Indeed, the whole range escorted the fleet, Delkuruurokivishirada’s, Trukasiirokivishirada’s, Vruokanziarokivishirada’s among other new classes.

These slender vessels, whose profiles has much akin with sweeping many bladed weapons were dwarfed by what pursued them, for within this fleet’s midst were a pair of prodigious proportions, great vessels by mere technicality, the twin’s Kimenroteahya and Vuroktilledghse the twin behemoths were but two of by now a large number the Novans had in service, these floating fortresses, the Dalniartexniotii housed a shattering array of weaponry and what was considerably more lethal were the swarms of Novan “aircraft” held within its cavernous interior in addition to manufacturing facilities, repair dry-docks marshalling areas for troops research facilities and a vast myriad of other facilities, yet despite the colossal scale of the vessels they kept pace with the swift and nimble ships of the rest of the fleet, ants being pursued by some great gargantuan beasts.

Both sides were well aware of the other, one via orders, the other via stringent measures ensuring no vessel got close without its presence first being carefully noted and analysed, owing of course to the titanic struggle the Novans fought with their fallen kin. A struggle that some could refer to as one of the no-holds barred variety, as a result the entire Novan force was at full combat readiness by the time the two forces came into range, “Tavriliiam’s are to prioritise Missile Batteries and Turrets, the Tokontu will put paid to anything they throw into the air, I doubt we should have further concerns,” Reece’s tone was calm and collected, his words resonated around the multi-tiered bridge subtly, as Quohortzii’s meticulously ensured their stations were in order and several took a preparatory swig from nearby sleek black and red Thermals while others saluted. Yet for a vessel entering battle the crew was calm, veterans of a thousand campaigns, and all had served under their commander for many a year several of whom had declined promotion leading as it would have to being given a command of their own.

The big guns of the fleet elevated and turned in their mounts tracking their inbound foe, while controllers waited for the right moment to unleash their missiles while the Tokontu and the Tavriliiam danced together in mid air as the hurtled towards the enemy force, while not of excessive size, focussed as it was around a pair of large Zeonic battleships with attendant support ships and carriers could be an unneeded distraction at a more critical juncture.

“When their committed to their attacks launch the Valgen and release the gunners to fire at will, when launching is complete your to set a course for these co-ordinates and make all due haste without degrading combat ability” murmured Captain Traskt, leaning over the shoulder of an ensign and tapping at his monitor his features tightly focussed his eyes drifting as they observed his bridge, a worrying string of retreats as of late had slowly begun to erode morale, yet discipline was still high in the fleet, and most were aware that these retreats had a purpose, even though that maniacal machine’s battle plan was not yet widely known, the fleet had garnered something was afoot, not since the grand assault on Valjsguard had they fought so cautiously.

The Zeonic fleets in their crimson and ochre spewed forth anti aircraft fire tearing the sky asunder as the roar and tumult of their various guns and missiles let loose with lethal intent dancing in midair with the avian forms of the Tokontu and Tavriliiam and, to of course compound matters, a terrible roar rent the chaotic scene as the dread Valgen shot out of their launch tubes at lethal speeds, flash frying several Novan craft in their wake with the sheer heat they could emanate their serpentine death’s head visages spewing laser fire in every direction as they shifted midair with surprising ease for monstrous metallic serpents.

The reaction from the Tavriliiam’s and the Tokontu was rapid, the Tokontu hurtled into the attack showing incredible speed as they begun to fly tight circles around the Valgen, in a lethal game of cat and house all the while hurling missiles into them while the Tavriliiam’s opened fire with cannon in support while other Tavriliiam’s swooped in close while others soared before diving sharply, everywhere the Novans utilised bold manoeuvres, diving sharply pitching before swinging in for a sharp dive skimming close to the surface of the enemy fleet before loosing their munitions, one thing that was clear however, is that either the Novans were made of even sterner stuff than most thought or something was amiss, as more than just a few of the manoeuvres the Tokontu and Tavriliiam were pulling would have knocked most pilots unconscious, if not worse...

“Srihacul Kenzal, Valgens!” called out Vistakal Amenzias, the concern in his voice evident, Zeonic Valgens had wreaked considerable havoc in the past even when direly outnumbered and there was no serious reason to doubt this trend would end in the near future he cast his gaze away from the aerial control centre to his commander who seemed to be staring intently at the shimmering hologram at the core of the split level chamber that was the bridge.

“Calm yourself Vistakal, Have the Vrazens go to standby, Tavriliiam’s will be utilising the new rounds. Ensure proper data is gathered on their effectiveness and replenish the squadrons already engaged after that launch the second wave.” Reece cast his gaze once more over the shimmering glyphs descending down over the Holographic planning table as the mid-air dual was being fought with infinite care, every movement was graceful and with purpose, the wings of the Tokontu shifting and reconfiguring manoeuvre and graceful flight sometimes inverting to a harsh forward swept delta edge as they ascended to the skies nimbly dodging laser barrages, flicker did those who lacked due diligence as their signals faded. Their partners the Tavriliiam’s reconfigurations were more radical shifting contours, even the tail split and reformed swung up and canted, indeed these machines of war had more in common with the lords of the skies, perhaps instead were they some work of art by a great philosopher far beyond his time.

“Interesting, they appear to be retreating, and using our own Tokontu and Tavrilliam as shields preventing us from bombarding them for fear of loss order the gunners to open fire, but only with the Impulse Wave turrets, Squadron DLK-92 focus fire on the tail segment, the armour appears to be breached,” this last was spoken out louder than the rest in the direction of a Kutolon who nodded before relaying the message, seconds later several 27mm shells were loosed upon the tail segment of one of the Valgens which under the assault buckled and split, the laser emitters under the Jazeraint armour firing again however the ones mounted on the tail segment were by now direly misaligned and the beams instead lanced out slicing through one of the turrets on the battleships and causing numerous secondary explosions filling the air with a thick billowing cloud of acrid black smoke billowing skywards as a macabre pillar to some dire god. Evidently unwilling to risk repeating such an event again the pilot of the sinister serpent ejected the tail segment which spun and writhed in midair before colliding with a Zeonic Tresken, an aging Zeonic fighter craft, it’s tri-fold wings spinning around the cockpit section shattering it in midair before exploding, the fragments mournfully falling to the ground in a morbid rain.

-----

“The Novans are certainly putting up a fierce resistance, indeed they don’t usually managed to damage two of the Valgen’s this early, perhaps, yes.” Trask rubbed his chin in thought as he intently stared at the monitors while in his left he constantly turned over a small icon wrought from the brightest of silvers, “launch the next Valgen Covenant and remind them that they are to remain close to the fleet while damaging their fleet would be a desirable goal, our task is to delay them, and on that note get me Captain Raiskel,”

“Captain Trask,” came the curt words of his counterpart, the bridge behind him looking considerably more frenzied than his own, “Captain Raiskel, I’m dividing the task force into two sections, your ship and it’s support will alter course while mine holds to on it's current one, our intent must be to make it so a pursuit of either of us will take them too far off course, as for once their task isn’t to smash us

-----

“I want those Valgens neutralised,” returned Reece, evidently deep in thought, having strode forth from the planning table and it’s intricately updating holograms, “It’s most disturbing the numbers we’re starting to see them in and these ones don’t have to dive into the sea for cooling either, most disturbing and their tactics, something is definitely amiss,” pausing once more for his reverie he placed one hand upon the transparent expanse before him and gazed over the rapidly firing forward guns of his flagship the Troit’zek’natar, or as it was known in English, The Hand of Fate, a vessel most unique among the fleet for having been equipped with Impulse Wave Laser Cannon systems in place of traditional cannon, and it was considered by many in the upper echelons ironic that the future of the Impulse Wave Technology rested in the Hand of Fate. His thoughts drifted away from the rapid firing laser blades to the vessel as a whole, “We’ve been distracted enough lure the Valgen within range of the fleet and dispose of them, then recall all craft and resume previous heading, full speed.”

“Sir three of the Valgen have broken off and are speeding away from the battle, however it’s not heading in either of the directions the enemy is dividing to either,” came the call from one of the crew enclaves, and as if on cue a shimmering hologram and attendant wireframe shimmered into being showing heading and speed.

“Send a Tavriliiam Squadron after them, Vistakal, I want Dalsulse to report to my chambers in 2 hours exactly, I have a hunch about those Valgen,” it was an almost offhand statement by Reece who tilted his head slightly and looked over his shoulder at the captain of his flagship, “Carry on Vistakal,” were his last words as he strode away.

“Yes Srihacul, apparently their going to surrender their fleet to these terrorists, through some archaic gesture of surrendering a sword, tell me when is your ETA for a linkup?” came the casually measured tones of Minister Hugoro, his features dominated by a wry smile and a sly look in his eyes, his jet black hair glimmered in the light and pure silver streaked the sides of his head in perfectly precise lines, his head canted ever so slightly to the left as evidenced by the angle of his four pronged Vzaaqke his head held high and his neck embraced by the high collars favoured by the Novans as his piercing stare fixed upon Reece from out the viewer.

-----

“About two hours Minister Hugoro, likely less as we’re pushing the engines harder than the initial recommendations due to the Valgen that got away, the last thing we need is our arrival being heralded, I’ve ordered the emitters to project an image of nothing but open ocean and as usual our radar signature’s are being scrambled not to mention the new stealth geometry patch is exceptional,” Reece smiled tightly, he had been very vehement about getting the software patches out as rapidly as possible, yes the Tokontu and Tavriliiam’s were incredibly capable, but being able to have them to adopt geometry for a specific task without first having to run simulations was priceless beyond all measure.

“Yet they knew you were coming,” returned Hugoro, a simple comment overlaiden with implications, unless a reason could be uncovered it would be a dire cause for concern, this much was evident by the overtones and it’s inflections on pronunciation, just enough to accent words, yet not enough to transform them.

“With all due respect minister, it doesn’t take much to plot a course between two points and run reconnaissance over it, given our previously tight relations with the Xirniumites it was a safe bet we’d be here, though why that would concern them I don’t know, their up to something.” He finished with a self depreciating chuckle, his eyes dazzling from the holograms filling the room, a great globe, NS Earth surrounded by a nimbus of data holographic representations of wars across the world, of specific note were the Novan battles with Zeon, the Star of Destiny clashed with the Shield of Revolution across the globe, Vrazen did battle with Valgen, great sieges involving fleets beyond all measure, noble vessels shattered and splintered by another in a desperate kamikaze, urban warfare as Enforcers did battle with Covenant guard, great aerial battles involving great swarms of craft and the inevitable victory as a Psychic Beacon descended over a distant city. Glyphs and Caligrams shimmered and shone some hovering over certain places, others descending and ascending throughout the entire projection some regions shone a myriad of colours as charts and intricate readouts hovered and flicked, the entire room shimmered with a rich fulsome blue suffused with an accentation of red. It is indeed as Viginias predicted, it is the age of war.

“Perhaps, regardless be aware and stay safe,” Hugoro smiled through the projection making to end the transmission before pausing, “oh and an old friend is on his way with Vistakal Anatos should any negotiations crop up,” a slight smirk was visible before the transmission exploded into a thousand drops of light falling away, leaving Reece with a distinctly worried expression across his usually placid features who emitted a soft groan at the possibility implied...

-----

A primal world-ending roar tore the tranquillity asunder, the air shimmered with carefully released bursts of oppressive heat a gentle clinking counterpointed to a high pitched thrum, which seemed to combine a high pitched trilling scream accented with a metallic kazoo, both the clink and the thrum were subtle a quiet whisper upon a gentle breeze as the Valgen hurtled through the air spinning and weaving amongst themselves emitting strategic surges of heat to thwart the pursuing Tavriliiam’s which seemed to be maintaining the ferentic speeds with casual ease their wings constantly in motion shifting subtly closely swept to their main bodies, their tails forked and swept as they wove their lethal dance a quartet of trio’s graceful yet deadly. The performance long since hurtled away from the fleet action, at such speeds that another fleet was in the distance before them, this one bedecked in the style of a depraved artist...

The Valgen drove for the skies spinning and weaving narrowly dodging a bridge tower and driving hard for the clouds, The Tavriliiam spun as their wings swung forward their entire profile shifting as they loosed a missile barrage at the Valgen driving hard to close the gap hugging the sea closely as they approached the fleet following the counters of the vessels over which they flew what was once a quiet thrum now broke the sound of a babe’s cry as more missiles shot forth the launchers shifted slightly, and the black birds form changed again, the landing talons retracting and they spun again the sun catching the Star of Destiny as the Tavrilliam’s trajectory shifted radically the wings in motion the speed increasing even more despite the nigh 270 degree turn, the manoeuvre should have killed a normal pilot yet in less than a blink of an eye they were within the Valgen’s formation loosing a barrage of shells in extremely close proximity and were past them in a second as explosions rippled across the three incarnations of slaughter one of them it’s armour buckled leaking what appeared to be molten metal, so direly hot to the point of evaporating before detonating violently, peppering the other two with debris and fragments forcing them to veer sharply away one of them releasing two of its tail segments, the Tavriliiam’s shifted again diving down for another attack as the Valgen shifted and hurtled themselves towards the ocean lasers belching forth from the many still functional emitters, causing their pursuers to dance weave and dodge intricately only slowing down marginally, so perfect were their manoeuvres that an artist would weep such was the sheer exquisite grace of their choreography harnessed to such lethal purpose as they loosed more missiles and set up for another run, but for naught as they impacted against the foamy surface the Valgen having won the race causing the Tavrilliam’s to swerve sharply and saw them hurtling over the fleet again causing a series of white flags to flutter as the Novan birds drove for the sun as they shimmered out of sight...

[Pantocratorian Ambara]

Map of Ambara (with thanks to Tarasovka)

Cabinet Rooms, Parliament House
Andrium, Pantocratorian Ambara
When the Solomon Opera House had been destroyed, Pantocratorian Ambara had sealed its borders. The Sixteenth and Seventeenth Provincial Infantry Legions had been mobilised, and before long were fortifying major border crossing points. The First Colonial Infantry Legion, Pantocratorian Ambara's first military formation raised entirely from the colony itself rather than deployed from the mainland, was also mobilised, and troops were frequently found on the streets of Andrium and the other major cities and towns. Premier Louis-Isaac Fontainbleu had been on the phone to the Imperial High Command and to the Pantocratorian Imperial Government several times a day since the bombing, but at least from his perspective, the reactions of the mother country's leadership had been almost disregarding of Pantocratorian Ambara's immediate concerns. His briefing to his cabinet colleagues said as much.

"At this very moment," Fontainbleu said, moving off the main events and onto the immediate repercussions. "Thousands of refugees are crossing the borders of Ambara. There's fighting in Marlund, and the anti-Danaan rebels already have control of Gandara. Refugees from the fighting in those Confederal Members have already arrived on the doorstep of our colony. As I mentioned earlier, the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Provincials have been deployed to border patrol and protection. So far, they have prevented any refugees from entering Pantocratorian Ambara, but in truth, so far there have been very few refugees. With recent events, we believe there will be more, a lot more, and worse, that they'll be much more desperate."

"Pardon me, Premier, but why don't we let them in?" asked Marie-Thérèse Benedicte, Minister for Primary Industries, Fisheries, and Natural Resources. Several of her cabinet colleagues seemed to be in agreement, but several more visibly bristled at the idea.

"It seems to me that if we let large numbers of refugees in, we'd be significantly changing the character of the colony." observed Charles du Mont, Minister for Police, Corrective Services and Public Safety. "Just as the Governor did before responsible government was established."

"Quite so." the Premier nodded. The party leader having made his position clear, those cabinet members for whom political advancement was more important than having their own opinion quietly resolved that du Mont was right.

"We could establish refugee camps, they need not permanently settle..." Benedicte persisted.

"You know, as do we all, that 90% of the people temporarily settled in those camps will stay forever." the Premier replied. "Besides which, there is no indication that this situation will be resolved satisfactorily in the short or even medium terms."

"Meaning that for fear of having to accommodate refugees permanently, we are content to have them crowding our borders with nowhere to go?" Benedicte asked.

"There are plenty of places for them to go." du Mont snorted. "There are other Confederal Members in Ambara, more or less untouched by the fighting. There's Abt. Why do they have to come here?"

"You can't expect people put to flight to..." Benedicte started to argue, but was cut off by the Premier.

"I've made my decision." Fontainbleu interrupted. "I trust I have the cabinet's support."

The overwhelming majority of the cabinet nodded. Benedicte and her few adherents looked around, before indicating their support too.

"Very good." Fontainbleu said. "I have ordered the Colonial Legion to secure the uranium ore storage facilities..."

[Havensky]

Sir Vincent detached his airship, the Shepard, from the large hospital airship Mercy after a breif rest and resupply.

The Rescue Group was stationed just outside international waters preparing for a possible evacuation operation. It consisted of three hospital ships and several dozen supply craft. It also included a number of privateers who had volunteered to assist with a possible evacuation. Sir Vincent had every intention of offering the full support of the Airship Armada to help evacuate civilians. The Rescue Group would stay a safe distance away until given permission. If they were given permission.

Sir Vincent's aide flew the winged airship into Alekthos, ensuring that all officails - on all sides - were aware of his presense and that they flew under the white flag of true. The Shepard flew without escorts or any protection other than the international law and custom that vessels flying under the flag of truce wouldn't be attacked.

The Shepard desended deep into the desert toward the Palace of Anbar. As a former sniper, the concept of going all alone into a war zone didn't bother him all that much. Sir Vincent wasn't full of bravado, wasn't overconfident, or under the impression that he was any kind of hero. He was just a man making a delivery and asking for a humanitarian gesture of goodwill.

The airship landed outside the Palace and Vincent stepped out of his airship in full armored regalia carrying the jewelled sword and letter. His aide carried the banner and followed close behind as they went inside and requested an audiance with the Prince.

[The Resurgent Dream]

Resort

As long as he didn’t do anything provocative, the armed men didn’t seem to take much notice of Nick. The man was just standing there, looking around. At least that’s how it seemed at first. Then one of the soldiers saw that Nick had a camera. He frowned and walked over to the ranking officer on the scene. The two men conversed for a moment, quietly. Several others joined the conversation. It got heated. One of the men pointed at Nick, shouting angrily. The ranking officer continued to shake his head. There were several more minute of discussion. When the men finally broke up, they headed to arrest more tourists. This time, on their way out the door, they made sure to pass Nick.

“Indecent exposure,” one man said happily as he hauled off an overweight blond in a bikini.

“Sodomy,” said another soldier, pushing too terrified looking young men before him.

“Infernalism,” said a third, pushing a teenage boy carrying a Harry Potter book.

“Idiolatry,” was the comment on a nun being taken away in handcuffs.

This went on for nearly an hour. Almost a hundred tourists were taken into custody and those arresting them wanted Nick to tell the rest of the world. When the arrests were done, the soldiers piled back into their vehicles and left. They had no purpose holding a resort.

Undisclosed Location

Sacker stared sullenly at the missive from the C’tan. What kind of help would resolve this situation? Nothing she could think of. “Tell them we’ll let them know,” she said. Bringing a hand to her forehead, she muttered under her breath, “when we can think of anything that would help.” She stood, slamming her hands on the table. “Dammit! Dammit all!”

Border Camp

The refugees clustered around the large fires along Pantocratorian Ambara’s borders. Every day, a few would try to sneak across, around the fortified points. Usually, they would come back with reports of failure. When they didn’t come back, that could mean more than one thing. The rebels had stopped pushing. The Confederals had pushed them back out of most of the non-secessionist territory they’d occupied in the beginning. It had been easy enough, the refugees had heard. So why was there no help for them?

“Look!” little Talaemenes yelled, pointing at the sky. “Holomopters!”

“That’s helicopters, sweetie,” Jocasta Cooper noted, placing a hand on her son’s shoulder as she, too, scanned the sky. “Thank God! Thank God! Helicopters!”

The large transport helicopter settled down in the center of camp. The flag and the uniforms were of Carasia, not the Confederated Peoples. Still, it was help. The refugees had somewhere safe to go.

Anbar

Sir Vincent was shown into the vast palace. He was escorted to the large throne room where Abdel sat. Abdel did not rise. “I understand you bring a surrender? Here are my terms. The Xirniumites might go home in peace, provided they turn over their ships and arms to Alekthos.”

[Havensky]

Sir Vincent Profeta was not afraid of being alone in the heart of hostile territory. Sir Vincent was not afraid of the thought that they might try to capture him and use him as a bargaining chip. Sir Vincent was not afraid of a lot of things.

He was afraid of something like this happening.

Vincent was not authorized to negotiate on behalf of the Eternal Republic and the instructions he did have were to get the civilians out. Period. End of Story. As long as the civilians were returned safely, the Skybound Republic was flexible with what they would offer.

Sir Vincent said nothing at first letting the tension in the room rise just a bit.

Vincent stepped forward and bowed ever so slightly, the weight of the lives he was trying to save weighing more heavily on his shoulders than his white kevlar armor ever could.

Your highness, My name is Sir Vincent of the Skybound Republic of Havensky and I have indeed come bearing the surrender of the Xirnium fleet that now stands silent just outside your shores. I have seen this fleet, and rest assured it is still operational, still fully capable, quite dangerous and very angry. Her admiral is extremely intelligent, disciplined, and is truly a fearsome commander. This is her sword.

Sir Vincent unsheathed the rapier, and turned the blade slightly, letting the light shine across the silver blade before placing the blade back in the sheath.

The owner of this sword would like nothing better than to seek vengeance and retribution by wrecking havoc across your lands. Given your current situation, I imagine this would make things more difficult for you. However, cooler heads in the Eternal Republic have prevailed.

The Eternal Republic offers this and this only. They have ceased hostilities immediately without conditions as a sign of good faith. They will not advance another inch nor interfere in your affairs in the least bit. The only thing the Eternal Republic desires is the safe return of their citizens. Either you accept this as it's laid on the table or you do not.

As for the Skybound Republic of Havensky, we would like to offer whatever assistance is needed to ensure the safe evacuation of evacuees. We understand that having the Eternal Republic's vessels so close to your waters may be uncomfortable given the situation, so as a neutral nation we offer our own unarmed humanitarian fleet for transportation of the evacuees.

A leader of your caliber must see the wisdom in accepting this offer.

Vincent's hand reached into a side pocket and pulled out a parchment with the offer of surrender written on it. He walked up to the prince and offered up the scroll.

And as a man of God, surely you know that the Almighty smiles upon the merciful.

[The Ctan]

Isasrach

“They say they’ll let us know when they have an idea what we can do,” the left communications operator said.

Aiyana frowed, “Okay. Send this: We understand the confusion of the current situation. But unless we mis-read it, there are bound to be a substantial number of refugees and displaced persons from these various coups and secessions. We are equipped to set up reasonable quality temporary housing and medical centers within a very short period for numbers up to millions of people. Similarly, we have some of the best medical facilities available should you require any assistance on that front.”

The Senator walked around the hexagonal room, looking thoughtful, “Also,” she said, coming to a stop by the other communications officer, “cancel all leave for medical staff and brief emergency volunteers and staff,” she paused, looking at Vende for approval, and the Governor-Captain nodded.

“Also, recall all external missions,” Vende said, “tell hangar bays to prepare for equipment and personnel airlift in the next half hour, bring reserve capacity online, too.”

Aiyana pouted for a moment, “Additional for the missive to the Resurgent Dream: We remain at your disposal as you may require in whatever capacity.”

[Xirnium]

Depression-griped Xirnium was in the throes of a pitiless, endlessly-grey winter. It had been long and cruel and grim and showed no signs of dying soon, indeed it was life and joy and love that died, day by day in the wintry hardness. Even the little sparrows, on the gargoyle-festooned gutters of Närväryn’s gloomy-dormered roofs, or the bristle-haired black rats, with their ugly naked tails scurrying furtively in the dripping, vaulted catacomb-like sewers of Ingàthern, even they were growing scarce, killed by the embrace of the cold. Frozen solid.

And yet it was colder still in the immense, ill-looking, flooded grey marshlands of Aräwyn. The marshlands were quiet and dead, indeed frozen to death, hard and silent and still except when disturbed by the tremendous crack of some mighty, centuries-old oak splitting in the frosty air. Enshrouded in a dense, endless fog.

It was the fog which was most malignant, most evil. Windless, choking sound and breath and hope alike, dripping and freezing and damp. Eternal greyness. From somewhere there carried a fugitive sound in the murk. A sharp clopping followed by hollow echoes, horseshoes over stock and stone, cracking through mouldering fallen logs, and wheels creaking around axles, snapping mossy fallen twigs. Then the wan light of paraffin lanterns, swinging and rocking jarringly in their brass brackets.

And perhaps the fleeting shadow of a miserable coachman. Tall and top-hatted, stooped, his hands stuffed in his tailcoat even as they gripped the reins or clasped an oft-striking riding crop. Churchwarden pipe in his teeth.

Drawn by a team of pale white, high-plumed mares, the ornate dark landau, muddied though splendid, plashed through the gloomy low forest. The horses waded knee-deep, sometimes nearly swam, shiveringly, along the narrow, undergrowth-choked, waterlogged trail, sending up a fine, shimmering white spray in the pale moonlight. Dried-up rushes rustled and swayed in the wash of the carriage’s progress. Crows balancing uncertainly from long ribbon-like branches, bending and dipping under their weight, croaked hoarsely at the carriage as it passed beneath the tangle of darkling firs, their eyes suspicious and untrusting of the horses.

They were bare-limbed horses too long in the neck and legs, skittish, lame-footed, the stagnant and muddy water sluicing icily over their gaunt white flanks and bony haunches. Trotting homewards full of hauteur despite their age and weariness, there was a hunger in their sunken bellies and their skin was taught over arching ribs. They were a strange Angärthän breed, terrible-looking and tall, wan beasts, with rolling eyes like smouldering hot coals and slavering, frothing muzzles. Their breath became jets of steam in the cold, issuing out between vicious long buck-teeth, vapour misting off lolling tongues. Angärthän steeds were known to bite.

The landau belonged no doubt to some haughty northern noble, decorated in intricately beaten metal of dark gold, iron and copper, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, silver and onyx, veneered in glossy black ebony like a beetle’s shiny carapace. Its wheels were much too large, like that of a penny-farthing bicycle, wire-spoked and spindly like a spider. On the doors was an excessive, overelaborate coat of arms displaying many quarterings in which were the frightening-looking creatures of myth, armorial weapons, and symbols of an ancient and disturbing nature. There was a distinct funerary quality to the heavy brocade curtains drawn to conceal the carriage’s occupants, with rows of the noble owner’s devices in cut black velvet upon cloth of silver. The fabric might almost have been mortuary cloth, or the carriage a horse-drawn hearse.

Yet the voices of the living came muffled from inside. Strange lilting accents.

‘This is going off like a fire in an ammunition factory.’ The foreign minister’s vacant eyes showed no hint of amusement as she looked at the others over her midnight edition Times-Advertiser.

The terrorist attack had received universal censure from the Eternal Republic’s press. “Uncool” was the Times-Advertiser’s verdict.

‘I’m not sure that that’s the most appropriate turn of phrase given the circumstances. Isn’t a nuclear detonation rather more tremendous than a fire in an ammunition factory?’ Into a small glass, Huguétte poured a noxious admixture of boiling brandy and red pepper.

Even after two cups of hot coffee and several glasses of cognac, despite the ruddy glimmer of a fire burning in the grate of the landau’s brass stove, Eléanor’s teeth clapped in her head at the frightful, bitter cold. She accepted the murderously incandescent brew, made a promising scarlet colour with the clever addition of some cochineal dye, but it would do little to warm the darkness and the void in her breast.

The coat of arms on the carriage door belonged to one of the Bright Republic’s most powerful and infamous nobles. Eléanor was countess of House Nelyâmnar. She shifted awkwardly on her seat of dark polished wood and pushed away a roe deer she had shot, now stiff and blood-clotted, with rime in its greyish-red fur, pressing it against the hunting rifles. The carriage’s interior was cluttered and over-furnished, carpeted in deep pile the colours of autumn leaves, with tapestried pillows of time-faded browns, blacks and blues and those embroideries that served the role of frescoes in chill northern halls. They were dimly discernable in the gloomy half-light of sputtering naphtha, yellow gas and guttering candelabra. A clockwork orrery of the Ptolemaic solar system turned slowly above their heads, flashing with precious metal and gemstones, and in various corners or discarded under seats were astrolabes and globes of worked iron and brass and silver. Sprays of marigolds decorated the carriage, and it was hung with snipe that had been shot by the hunting party.

Eléanor was feeling her age tonight, more than a little petulant. She blamed it on the crisis of affairs and association with that abominable Resurgent Dream and its intolerable ways. Her hair, her joy and pride, had once been the bright golden auburn portrayed in many of Titian’s works, but was now streaked white and grey like matted spiderwebs, her skin was a papery yellow and her eyes black and wet and bird-bright. A thin disdainful nose. Lips she touched frequently with a cambric napkin paranoid lest they should drool. She sat with her jowl morosely over the ominous brandy and pepper.

‘What shall we toast to?’ A look of interrogative bitterness held Eléanor’s face.

Huguétte smiled thinly. ‘We can toast to pulling their fangs presently.’

‘And to enemies under foot.’

For a while there was only the distant sound of the horses sinking under their weight, wallowing about in the icy black slush and whickering indignantly. Snorting indignantly. The twigs and underbrush that crackled under hoof and wheel seemed to emphasise the silence in the carriage as the hunting party was jostled and shaken.

‘I’m sure you’ve read the official minutes from this afternoon’s Cabinet meeting,’ Eléanor told Huguétte.

‘Yes,’ she said, exchanging looks with the other two occupants. ‘It was called in order to advise on measures to be used in reforming the evil security conditions in and around the Gulf of Vasconia. As highlighted most recently by the disastrous event off Ambara.’

Eléanor waved a negligent hand. ‘That was how the prime minister opened the sitting. But Admiralty and the flying corps have already recommended a number of practical measures, all of which seem to me very appropriate, in order to deal with the critical situation.’

‘Oh?’

‘You know they have. In my opinion,’ said Eléanor, her black, sardonic eyes looking at Huguétte a trifle calculatingly, ‘the more important task is to make up our minds whether the moment hasn’t come for reducing our foemen to a state of permanent inoffensiveness.’

‘And who are our foemen?’ asked Huguétte, a weird wolfish flicker in the chill depths of her eyes.

‘Come now, Huguétte.’

The night gnawed at the hunting party with the silent fury of cold. Eléanor drew rich furs and silks over her panging knees. Now and then these days she had a twist of the gout that showed when she walked a little stiffly.

‘So decisive a blow cannot be dealt without previous diplomatic preparation,’ Eléanor went on. ‘Consequently I have approached the Havenskyer Government. Or is it the Havenskyey Government?’

‘I think it’s the Haveskyan Government,’ Huguétte replied.

‘Whatever it is, the conversations at the Crystal City led to a very satisfactory result. And well it is for the Bright Republic.’ She smiled savagely in the half-light, listening to the leaves scrunching suddenly under hoofs and wheels as they rode to higher ground.

‘I wonder how well it is even for the Bright Republic,’ murmured Huguétte. ‘And I think it is all ill for the Resurgent Dream.’

‘We must reckon on the fact that in face of such policy our situation is bound steadily to deteriorate. By bringing matters to a head in Ambara at least we can call a halt to the gathering momentum of events. Later it might no longer be possible to do so.’ Eléanor’s teeth gleamed snarling in the moonlight. ‘And as for the Resurgent Dream, this is their last gasp, and soon their power will be broken forever.’

Huguétte pointed out what a frightful calamity a Europe-Atlantic war would be under present circumstances. ‘The object of any unfriendly action ought to be the reduction of Ambara, but not her complete annihilation. First, because this would never be allowed by the Resurgent Dream without a life and death struggle.’

‘Well the question of warlike action was argued throughout the course of our long discussion. There still exists a divergence of view, and that’s why the meeting was adjourned until the morning,’ sneered Eléanor. ‘But agreement was reached that a purely diplomatic success, even if ending in a startling humiliation for Danaan Ambara, might be without value, and that, therefore, the legal and political groundwork must be laid, so that the way would be prepared for a radical solution by means of military intervention.’

‘Before making up your mind unconditionally for war consider whether you mean to break the Resurgent Dream.’

It seemed an eternity whilst the old lame mares slipped and staggered through woody shadow.

‘Are we lost?’ asked Hengist, one of the men opposite Eléanor, breaking the frozen silence. They sat still whilst the dark carriage bumped through the night towards the northern borders of the forest, branches scratching at horses’ cheeks and throat as if trying for their lunatic eyes, the sound of clopping, limping hoofbeats stumbling over time-gnawed gravel.

As if in answer to the question, a booming thunderous rumble rolled through the frost-silent hills. The distant-sounding cannon salute of Castle Elväwyn welcoming home its countess.

[Xirnium]

Stark athwart the sky, hidden behind grim frowning walls that snarled at the heavens, the small fortified consulate was an unfriendly and unsociable, gaunt grey hall, bastion of the Bright Republic in a teeming Oriental city. Its but lately insignificant consul Fluéllen had a romantic, sentimental streak to his personality that he rarely showed his tiny staff, but which he felt acutely now. He had grown to love Abna, with its clear blue sky checkered fantastically by the strikingly beautiful branches of almond trees in full blossom, with its warm shallow Gulf and its sapphire ocean, creamy-white in its gentle swells. In Xirnium there were no dear warm groves, no grapes hanging from ancient vines or fig trees heavy with fruit. The haughty complacent legates who came from Närväryn to check up on him once or twice a year noticed only still, hot air and dust blowing on desolate winds, they smiled tolerantly enough but privately they regarded the consul’s eccentricities with amused contempt, so different from their own obscure desires, from the strange and melancholy longings in their souls.

Let them return to dreary Xirnium! Land of mist and rain and soul-freezing iron winters, of morbid grey seas and pale malignant sunlight spearing through hurrying clouds. The proud disdainful lords of the Bright Republic, who imposed impolitely on Fluéllen’s modest hospitality and yet made him wait an unconscionable time before they appeared, who had only a twisted, intrigue-obsessed regard for the niceties of etiquette, they appreciated none of Abna’s subtle beauty.

For here in Abna were the most skilful musicians and admired poets, men plucking lutes and striking timbuls and delicately playing reed pipes. Such melancholy airs, such heart-wrenching sorrow! Their eerily enchanting melodies wafted to the lofty dormers from where looked the consul out upon besieging mujahedin. In the evening their sounds would mingle with the chanting of the muezzin giving the call for prayer, the sudden ululation startling storks and herons away from Abna’s magnificent cupola domes and its lofty minarets. Ablutions performed, the people praised Allah and the Prophet. Yet before Shari’ah the people would just as readily have engaged in thought-provoking disputes with the learned, turning over the speculative points of kalam, of theology. They had done so in the colourful tented markets where were kept perpetually burning censers of gold, flaring flambeaus and aromatic lamps, each producing an affect of agreeable delirium. Here young women as beautiful as the houris, with raven hair and huge, dark slanting eyes, sold the most wonderful silks and rugs.

‘Does the Prince of Alekthos not recognise his deadly peril?’ Fluéllen wondered. ‘They grow hourly impatient, they burn with hatred for Ambara and the Resurgent Dream. I can sense their mounting fury and their seething outrage. They will spare no life, no energy or inspiration in the effort to crush and utterly destroy the upstarts who dared insult the Bright Republic. We will all be raven food.’

And as Fluéllen, standing by the casement in his dormer, saw the gathering storm-clouds, watched the galing sky, he drew a sharp breath of dismay. A few unseasonable snowflakes danced in the golden sunlight, whirled on a bitter northern wind. The orient moon of Islam showed ever less often through the flying clouds, and the air grew ever more chill and dead and gloomy, until at last there hissed the rain. This was evil weather, surely the work of the fierce and haughty lords of Xirnium, for the screaming fury of the storm had come from the wrong direction, on contrary winds. Rain never raved over Abna. Infelice was seeding the swollen clouds with electrified sand, or else had tugged down from the north the drifting moon-ghostly mountains of icebergs, breathing forth cold.

As evening came the gale-cloaked sun stained Abna with unhealthy wintry shades. If the consul had never before needed proof of the congenital perversity of the admirals of the Newly-Modelled Navy, he had, to his mind, full evidence now.

A huge proportion of all this bother had arisen from the scarcely sane accusations advanced by the conspiracy sometimes known as the Urgent Issues Group, which seemed almost as anxious to drag the Eternal Republic into war as it was to ruin the Resurgent Dream. Contrary to alarm, the mujahedin were not yet hammering at the consulate’s gates and it was not yet certain that the gaunt grey hall would fall. The Prince of Alekthos was now playing a far-seeing game, and was calculating on a policy of being able to draw concessions from the Bright Republic. None of Xirnium’s nationals had been arrested, they were either fled from danger or secure in hiding or awaiting removal from the consulate itself. But hysteria-fueled rumors spread.

Of course the consul had few troops. Even the best defences could not hope to hold out long when finally the mujahedin came. He had already opened the cast iron safe and taken out the sealed orders. Sensitive documents had been turned to ash in quick-burning furnaces. Journals bounds in tawny satins or fair blue silks and wrought with heraldic arms were taken from the library, piled with rolls of magnetic tape and the consulate’s vast hoard of microfilm, then set alight. There was nothing else which awaited Fluéllen’s attention. Save this one last action.

From one of the fortified consulate’s towers a stand like a theodolite had been erected. With languid dash Sir Vincent of the Shepherd had been heliographed, gleaming bright signal flashing in the sleet-sullen clouds, the consular staff insisting that they be allowed to show the knight of Fourhearts all the Eternal Republic’s courtesy and hospitality.

‘Our chill halls are yours for as long as you wish to stay in Abna,’ declared the message, ‘though our fare is simple, we fear, in comparison with the richness that may be sampled at the board of even the humblest and most obscure noble of the Bright Republic.’

But other, more ominous, aircraft were bound for Abna also. And with more cruel violent intent.

If the bold, gaudy livery of the High Seas Fleet evoked Cubism, then the honeycomb camouflage decoration of the runway-taxiing heavy strategic bombers belonged to Impressionism and the Pointillist school. With their usual lack of imagination or grace, the mad military engineers of Xirnium had labelled this strange watercolour spectacle the “lozenge” pattern, and although its hallucinatory clash of repetative shades made the eye ache within seconds, its splotchy quilt-patches were scientifically chosen to blend from aeronautical distances into a single tone. The paint schemes were just as colourful and vivid as the razzle-dazzle warships, one aeroplane’s fuselage in sage green, dark ochre, Prussian blue, dark violet and blue-green, another’s in rust brown, yellow ochre and olive green.

Complicated and garish, the brightly contrasting colours were employed on the upper structure of the aeroplanes, with pale and more subdued colours underneath, and identification roundels pink instead of red, made so by the addition of “anti-flash white” to the mix of paint. These were bombers designed in the fifties for the thermonuclear era of the Cold War. Mosaic-like in effect, producing shimmer and a capricious harmony, the blotched disruptive patterns were each unique and distinctive, but every one repeated geometric hexagonal or irregular polygonal patches.

Able to fly ten thousand miles in sixteen hours without refuelling, laden heavy with bombs, they could take off from Vaumërlë Common military airbase outside Närväryn and yet still strike deep within Ambara before returning. The icy rage of murder blazed through the squadron’s airmen. Bright and handsome were their faces, cruel in their mockery as they lifted off and speared swan-like towards the golden cloud bank towering.

They could scarcely be seen as they gained respectable height, and then they were gone droning away west. The light faded from the air and the gnarly poplars grew dark against the sky, and the drowsing towers of Närväryn grew mournful in the gloaming, and night came. They would see what harm could be done in the desolation and ruin that they found in Abna.

[Xirnium]

Everywhere around were sparkling stars, unthinkably remote in the fathomless black inkpot of the heavens, unfriendly and bleak and hard. The gibbous moon flashed overhead, the Milky Way spilled autumn-bright constellations off its dim arch. The sky was a tremendous vault of utter blackness, frosted with uncounted, wheeling bitter-brilliant stars, and between them leapt and danced the silent spectral flames of the northern lights, unheard of sights at these subtropical latitudes. All the stars were cold.

Into this dizzying confusion, this empty vastness of sea and sky and rushing wind, into this the Novans with their strange flying machines hurtled, shrilling and wailing as they fought for control of the air. Swiftly, swiftly, over the surging waves running with cold white phosphorescence, under the luminous-edged clouds with the stars shining between them, rolling and banking and dipping their great brazen flying engines with their mechanical wings. In the depths of windy gloom dizzyingly far below their aviators could begin to make out the prows of the High Seas Fleet, sword sharp, sheathed in spindrift and sea-salt and gleaming under the moon.

But such an unending immensity of wheeling stars and running seas could easily bewilder! And now fog drifted in tendrils, glowing white where the gibbous moon touched, with a smell that might have been described as thick and cold, if thickness and cold could describe smells. Thicker and thicker glimmered the mists around the High Seas Fleet, thicker and thicker, as if they would hide it. The Novans could just catch distantly, intermittently, the sight of a forest of masts and the black warships grimly at anchor. Swiftly, swooping blindly through the vapours, they neared it. The flagship Nostalgic was seen in rare glimpses.

And then, too soon, for the surface seemed at last to rush up and meet them, the valgen were plunged beneath the gurgling waters with barely the slightest splash, diving mutely through a flurry of wobbling, surface-rising bubbles. The dull russet anchored hulls of the High Seas Fleet were nowhere to be seen, only a washy greenish murk and weed-covered sand and rock. Even as tavriliiam and tokontu wheeled and glided homewards, the faintest of breezes awoke and scattered the fog, the noiseless cold flame of the bitter-blue aurora was silently extinguished.

But the Novans were not alone beneath the sea.

Sir Vinaigrette the Younger of Myrrh, cyclist-poet and gentleman buccaneer, was reclining in great content with his velvety opium-laced cigarette when an announcement came through on the telephonograph. He had once been described unkindly by a prolific writer who had told of his implausible adventures in text, in plays, in comic strips, screens and radio as lifted almost from the slapdash, trembly-lined, Parisian night-life posters of Toulouse-Lautrec. A tall bicorne hat with a cockade in it, atop a face with a thin, handsome mouth and pale consumptive features, upon a lean, anaemic figure. Absinthe his drink.

The advantage of being a legend given gentle attention in folk tradition and literature meant his figure, as well as his accomplishments, both manly or unmanly alike, were universally adored, although it was only perhaps a schoolgirl’s adoration. Blushing behind their fans debutantes whispered of his eyes and his smile as Vinaigrette of Myrrh gallantly accepted their pretty purses. Their mothers boasted to other society ladies of his having kissed their hands and they found his gold-spun masked face haunting their dreams of splendid balls. By the time Regency romance authors were writing his adventures, a swashbuckling Vinaigrette of Myrrh was becoming involved in daring heroics abroad in far exotic countries like Fourhearts and Novacom, falling in love in the process with Lady Jessica or Izalien.

Star of screen and strip, increasingly self-parodied by writers burnt out on too many serials, Vinaigrette of Myrrh and the lurid tales that featured him were sore in need of a return to their roots. Scarcely a story was free of a ghost or an elf. Now however he was galloping straight out of the gothic and back into scientific romance.

‘Hells teeth!’ he ejaculated, recognising the Novans with genuine astonishment and sheer joy. ‘Oh ha ha ha! Kukonois, is that you? This is better than anything!’

Imperious lace and a white cuff like a card summoned forth his crew. Vinaigrette of Myrrh stood very tall with eyes glittering suddenly in the light, grasping the pommel of his rapier as he put the point to the deck and adopted the attitude of a duellist awaiting the words “en garde”. Dirk at his belt, long-handled automatic revolvers tucked into the full red and white sash of the Elderflower Revolution, he wore silk fencing-pantaloons and polished, buckled half top-boots, in a long embroidered waistcoat, fine lace flowing over his attire like foam down a tankard, in silk dress coat near as red as wine and high collared, with ribbons here and there and a dandy’s slender cane in his other hand.

From her position near the spirit case and gasogene, Viola da Braccio, the chevalier d’Amor, stopped mixing her hock and seltzer and turned, cocking a well-trimmed eyebrow. ‘I must say I find your speech a trifle confusing.’

Devilish jovial, Vinaigrette of Myrrh trembled in anticipated satisfaction. He pushed his tied long hair away from his face, removing his hat like a Sunday parishioner and fingering excitedly at the ostrich plume.

‘Up with the helm, go ahead!’

What the Gentle Reader might have been excused for mistaking as a smoking room or perfumed library was in fact the compartment of a powerful submarine monitor called the Whispered Sleepsong. It had been fitted up with high pieces of furniture, each veneered in black violet ebony and inlaid with gilded brass, and it was provided with elegant glass cases, fixed by gilded copper rivets and containing a great number of rare books uniformly bound. In the centre there stood an immense and costly mosaic table. This was covered with block-printed pamphlets, amongst which were scattered some newspapers already out of date. Yet despite such trappings Vinaigrette of Myrrhh was indeed in a submarine machine. Electric light flooded everything. There were heavy levers and cogwheels, leaking, dripping, twisted copper pipes, powerful pumps and clanking pistons. A valve hissed steam. Iron hatches were made watertight by means of India rubber seals. And here were the contrivances required for the navigation of the submarine boat, a crowded cluster of dials and gauges with pointy wobbling needles.

More accustomed to lounging in postures of studied boredom or inspecting others with her bored, disinterested eyes, Viola da Braccio rarely showed interest in the submarine monitor Whispered Sleepsong’s medley of complicated instruments, all irregularly arranged, indiscriminately checked, on every wall and at every angle, of various shapes and sizes. Large-faced clocks next to tiny whirling manometers. Yet to develop a firing solution required Viola da Braccio to take her bearings. She was a young girl with white-gold hair and a pale but healthy complexion, innocence personified, save for a sense of lewdness about her eyes, which she had the good sense not to intend for Vinaigrette of Myrrh. Brought up amongst red-brick manufactory chimneys that had blazed through the night and billowed smoke ceaselessly, evidence of the success of Värdlingén’s iron and steam industrial age, she was an urban creature, accustomed to opulent architecture and extravagant public parks.

‘Our course is north-north-east, our depth is sixteen fathoms,’ she called shrilly.

‘You clever goose! You might have said that a while ago!’

Vinaigrette of Myrrh was already pulling on his diving suit, trousers of hermetically-sealed India rubber, heavy and impervious articulated armour of shining brass and clacking heavy boots weighted with leather soles. In one hand a metal helmet, terminating in a copper collar and polka-dotted in thick lenticular glasses like the monstrous eyes of an insect. In the other a curious and singular rifle, its muzzle surrounded with a coil of copper wire, little bulbous vacuum tubes attached along its barrel with their filaments glowing luminously, and a comb of sharp needle cathodes around its aperture for the discharging of electric charge.

‘I fear we shall find conditions in the deep an inclement,’ he called sharply, ‘for in the murk it’s cruel cold and sharp. But that’s always suited the Committee of Public Safety, in season or in steel. Now dive after them like lightning!’

The submarine boat Whispered Sleepsong heaved jerkily under their feet, shafts and screws cavitating wildly, motor-driven flippers steering to starboard and port. Torpedo tubes and three-pounder quick-firers were primed and ready.

‘Fire!’

To be continued in next week’s number of the Queer Story of Vinaigrette of Myrrh and the Submarine Argonauts, or Under Steam and Sea. On sale in the Eternal Republic everywhere.

[Abt]

Events take place immediately after the explosion in Solomon. OOCly, could only post now due to prolonged OOC absence

Belgorod, Abt

A nuclear explosion in Selinia, one of the members of the Confederal Peoples right on the border with the Abt Republic, could simply not go unnoticed. Even before the news reported the event, the flash of bright light was observed from the positions of the Abtian 4th Mountain Division, dislocated in the Estaia Mountains of western Abt. Furthermore, while Abt did not have a particularly well established network of diplomatic representations around the world, it could pride itself on having a consulate in every capital of every Confederal member on Ambara.

The combined feedback from all of Abt's available ressources was delivered immediately to Peter Snejinsky, the newly elected President of the Republic. Aorin Kelberath, the first President and a hero of the Abtian people, chose to not stand for reelection and retire from politics. And yet, there he was by the table, with the Republic in need of his experience in this time when the established status quo on Ambara was going up in tatters.

Members of the government and the officers of the General Staff were debating the course of action to take in the event of the High King's assassination and the "parade of secessionism" amongst the Ambaran members of the Confederated Peoples.

Long story made short, there were three ways the Republic could react. It could turn its back on the Confederated Peoples and support the secessionists in Ambara, establishing itself as the leader of a coalition of Ambaran states in the face of the world. The second option was to support the central government of the Confederated Peoples and send the units of the Abt Republic Defence Force in to crush the secessionist movements. The third option was to turn the back on all sides and simply invade with intention to annex the comparatively little populated Sahorian members. Crossing the Estaia mountains and invading Adoki, Marlund and the Seven Principalities would have been problematic due to these having important populations.

The third option was defended by a minority in the political establishment. It was, quite clearly, also the one that would cause the Republic the most problems. It would put it in a direct confrontation with the central government of the Confederated Peoples and of their allies. And whilst the Taraskovyan Empire, the emigrants from which were the main source of Abt's ever growing population, was not formally allied with the Confederal Peoples, it would hardly be pleased with such an overt support for secessionism, given that it had its own "problematic" regions where the presence of the Security and Quarantine Forces was ever visible. Moreover, it would mean that Abtian soldiers would also have to fight the secessionists in what would turn into a "shoot everything you see that is not a confirmed civilian" type of war.

The second option was the one that was dictated by the long history of friendship between the Republic and the Confederated Peoples. After all, it were the Confederated Peoples that welcomed the first Abtian settlers on Ambara, in the face of international opposition to the move. It were the Confederated Peoples that continued to shield Abt from the hostility of Pantocratoria. As such, to go against the central government of the Confederated Peoples would mean nothing less than an overt betrayal and backstabbing.

Finally, the first option, to support a "sovereign Ambara" made up of a collection of sovereign states was, after careful consideration, rejected. Abt was not in a position to impose its will on a coalition of states and lacked the same ressources and capabilities that some much larger and much more powerful states had to maintain its diplomatic dominance over the continent. Moroever, considering the radical views of the Prince of Alekthos and some of his allies (even if Abtians did wonder how the Zwinglists of Zutern, for example, got along with the Islamist views of prince Abdel).

Thus, the second option clearly prevailed. The ARDF was ordered to undertake the necessary steps to prepare for an immediate crossing of the borders of Thorlund, Selinia, Marlund and Gandara when given the green light.

A diplomatic missive was dispatched to the Sarah Sacker with the offer of Abtian assistance to loyalist forces in restoring the status quo ante on Ambara, which would avoid the unnecessary intervention of non-Ambaran states into the events. Any such intervention was, after all, deemed by Abt as entirely hostile to the republic's continued sovereignty and well being.

In addition, the Confederated Peoples were offered the full humanitarian assistance that could be rendered by the Republic to assist the civilian populations in distress.

[Havensky]

~snip~ By the time Regency romance authors were writing his adventures, a swashbuckling Vinaigrette of Myrrh was becoming involved in daring heroics abroad in far exotic countries like Fourhearts and Novacom, falling in love in the process with Lady Jessica or Izalien.

Speaking of which, Lady Jessica Heart was not that far off from the shores of Abna. She was in fact, on board the H.R.A. Mercy. as the commander of the Skyan White Fleet.

It had been ten years since the Kraven War. It was almost ancient history, but in those times the Kingdom of Fourhearts had just entered the world stage and had sent out it's humanitarian ships to help treat the wounded civilians of that terrible war. Jessica Heart had been a nurse aboard the old Mercy when it had been attacked by Kraven vessels. She was captured by Kraven forces. She had been brutally tortured and....changed.

As she looked out across the bridge, she ran her natural hand against her titanium arm. As a nurse, she knew this was just her mind playing tricks. The arm didn't hurt. It hadn't been there for ten years, cut off when Kraven tried to turn her into one of their soulless machines. It had changed her in many ways. Her titanium arm and empathic abilities had made her a strong weapon against the Kraven, but at a price.

Lady Jessica had kept her figure despite having twin girls. She was still very blond, but it didn't quite have the girlish bounce that she had in her twenties. Her husband disagreed of course, but she would argue that he said so because he was a good guy.

She turned her head toward Sir Vincent's live feed. There had been a lot of progress towards protecting their non-combatants since the Kraven Wars. All Skyan troops and airships had cameras that sent a continuous live feed to Ruby City. If anything went wrong, Lady Jessica and the Airship Armada would be the first to know.

The Hospital ships were not large defenseless targets like they were ten years ago. They were still unarmed, but had installed all kinds of defense measures. Most notably, were anti-missile laser batteries designed to heat up incoming missiles and causing them to explode in mid-air. The hospital ships also carried flares, jamming devices, microwave anti-personnel devices, and armor thicker than any warship.

Never, Jessica had declared, would any Skyan vessel be as vulnerable as the old Mercy was. The Humanitarian Fleet may have been unarmed, but they were tough ships and not easy targets.

Also, the Crimson Fleet was always within striking distance if something went wrong. Lady Jessica Heart made sure of that.

As she waited for the Prince to respond to Sir Vincent, she thought about her twin girls. She wished she had more family for them, but for two little girls they had a lot of honorary uncles. She had remained close to the Legionaries who accompanied her deep into Kraven. She could no longer sense the pain of his victims as vividly as she once did, but she did have a knack for being able to locate those in suffering. She wasn't sure if it was some change that Kraven had made in her unintentionally, or just her good intuition.

For now, she went back to the live feed. The moment they got permission, they would swarm over Anbar and pick up as many passengers as she could.