Things Fall Apart [TG for entry]

[Nova Sylva]

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Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

- William Butler Yeats, The Second Coming

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Prologue

On New Years Eve in Csongrad, the snow was coming down in droves. Some people were in the streets, celebrating the change from 2008 to 2009. Most hoped, not without reason, that 2008 would prove a better year for themselves and their country than 2009 had. The two men and one woman in the downtown apartment felt the same – but far from celebrating, they were plotting. The one man who led the meeting had a shaped jaw and piercing green eyes, handsome features that stuck out despite his age.

Vaclav Cernik, the future President of Sylvakia, had fought in every war his nation had endured since its independence. Fighting in a militia brigade as a child during the Rozpad Wars, he knew firsthand the sacrifice and horrors of battle. His experience and obvious intelligence had given him a spot in the Kralovice Military Academy, where he had studied and become an officer. Leading a brigade in the 2008 Karpat War, Cernik had become a national hero and household name – the only successful commander in a conflict that had ended with his nation ceding the province of Karpatya to their centuries-old rival, Vlachavia. The defeat had cost Sylvakia dearly in terms prestige, economy, and internal domestic stability.

Throughout his military service, and especially in the Karpat War the year prior, Cernik had developed his own ideas about his nation’s future. These ideas, on New Years Eve in 2008, finally took shape into a manifesto with the help of the other people in the Csongrad apartment. They called themselves Obrana Naroda – National Defense. Amongst them: Saviley Sedlacek, leader of the minority National Party in Parliament and future Vice President, Josef Kasparov, the future Attorney General, and Katerina von Steuben, sole owner and executive of the von Steuben Mining Corporation. Far from plotting to help stabilize the unstable Sylvan democracy, each of these people would play an integral part in its destruction.

The Pevnost
Kralovice, Sylvakia
April 2010

What do you think of this tie, Katerina?” Vaclav Cernik rolled his shoulders and let the suit set a bit better. In front of him, Katerina von Steuben parched her lip. With gentle hands she tied a perfect double Windsor knot with the silky red tie, before feeling down the suit.

“Bright red. Either you're a communist, or a patriot.”

“Who says you can’t be both?”

“The millions of dollars I donated to your campaign, that’s who,” Katerina said with a smile, and Vaclav snickered.

With a friendly, but not intimate, pat on the shoulders, Katerina departed, and Cernik took a deep breath. His campaign manager came up did a last minute mic check. “You're on in sixty seconds, sir. And may I say, congratulations,”

He smiled and shook his manager’s hand. He, like all the people of his campaign, had been instrumental in getting him elected. It didn’t hurt, of course, that his competition had become the subject of just about every internet meme in existence after asking in a debate what Avondale was the capital of. It also didn’t hurt that his political connections and a generous foreign donation allowed him to outspend the opposition by a factor of three times. But none of that mattered now. He was here, and it was official. He could hear his cue coming soon on the speakers.

He took a moment and looked around him. Crown Hill, in Kralovice, the seat of the executive branch of the Republic’s government. It was almost surreal to think about! Who could have guessed that the son of a high school professor would end up leading twelve million people?

“...Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome, the President Elect of the Sylvan Republic, Colonel Vaclav Cernik!”

The cheers and applause was legendary as ever. Putting on his best smile and ignoring the sickly feeling in his gut, Cernik walked onto the balcony, hand waving at the crowd that filled the lawn of Crown Hill. About a mile ahead he could see the glowing blue waters of the Viery River. Between that and the Hill, however, the perfectly trimmed lawns, sectioned off by pine trees, was roughly ten thousand of his most fervent supporters. He took the stage, the applause still rolling.

He motioned for them to be silent, and after a few seconds, it died down. He went over the opening lines of the speech for a second, then took a deep breath and straightened his shaking hands. He hated public speaking, but unfortunately, it was a role he would have to get used too.

“My fellow Sylvans. These last years have not given us much reason to celebrate. Our armies and nation was humiliated in 2008. Our economy has struggled and stagnated, and our internal politics have resembled more a drunken brawl than a civilized nation. No, we haven’t had much to celebrate indeed.

“But it is always darkest before dawn. The fact remains that our most valuable resource – you, the people of Sylvakia – are no less ingenious, no less hard working, and no less patriotic than you were a decade ago. The same Sylvan traditions that carried us from the collapse of Panlarova into an independent nation, I am sure, will guide us into a future more prosperous and glorious than we have yet seen. I have absolutely no doubt, brothers and sisters, that this nation’s greatest achievements lie in her future, not her past.”

Cernik had never been known for his charisma. But when he spoke, he did so in a way that made others listen – carefully and calculated. The crowd seemed to be listening to every word as he continued anew after a short breath.

“Under this administration, I promise to guide the country based on the principles on which you elected me for. They are the same tenets that have guided me through my lifetime of service to this nation, and as I have now attended its highest office, that service shall continue manifold. These come down to three simple words. Sila, Svoboda, Solidarita. Strength, Freedom, and Order. Strength – that we, as Sylvakia, must be ready to fight for our independence. For centuries, the great powers of the world and our neighbors have regarded us as an appendage to their empires. Our history, and indeed, our recent conflict, shows that we must fight to protect the way of life we hold so dear.

“But that life itself is manifested in the freedoms of the individual citizen. Nowhere in the world can the individual intellect and work ethic of a citizen be turned into personal profit and national pride. The ability to worship who you wish, love who you want, and engage in the business which you desire – these freedoms are the cornerstone of Sylvan life and history, from the Kapilist Wars until now. This freedom, however, does not apply to those who would destabilize our Republic. Above all, a house divided amongst itself cannot hope to stand to a strong wind. We must get our own house in order – stopping the rising crime rates, enforcing the laws of this land, and returning to a stable political status quo.

“For far too long, we have been considered second class by the nations of Lira, and I dare say, by those of the world as a whole. This troubles me deeply. The Republic is not just a nation which deserves respect – it must command it. We will get the respect we deserve! Sylvakia won’t be just a regional backwater. We will be a continental superpower!”

The applause broke out before he could continue. He tried to speak, only to be drowned out by the cheers and claps from crowd. He couldn’t help but to smile.

Objekat Military Complex
Black Mountains, Sylvakia
November 2010

Down the corridors in the underground bunker which served as one of the Armed Forces primary command centers, two pairs of footsteps could be heard.

“You know, I’ve always wondering why Jaskowski kept the military so small.” Cernik said, his voice echoing along the corridors. “Increasing its size would have massive benefits to our economy. We can draw several hundred thousand young men and women into employment, not including the additional manpower required by the military-industrial complex. I was worried that it would drain our economy, but it might as well have the opposite effect after all, as long as we can foot the bill.”

“Jaskowski didn’t want the army to become too big,” replied Bernard Kornicek, the newly-appointed defense minister. “Because a strong Sylva means an angry Lunderfrau and an angry Ackesia. Both of them have always looked at the Larovans as their backyard playground, and us as their playthings. Jaskoswki was way too interested in keeping the so-called Great Powers off his back.”

“Oh yes, but now they have their own problems. And we’re on the rise,” Cernik said.

“Ackesia, despite its posturing, has its own domestic problems to deal with. And with the Velk making noise in the east, their attention is firmly focused elsewhere.” said Rudolf Hintner, the newly-appointed defense minister. “Lunderfrau proper is making some noise about our military buildup, but so far its just noise.”

Cernik smiled at that. “Let them complain, it’s not like they’ll be able to do that for much longer. Isn’t that why I’m here?” With that, he showed his ID to the guard, who opened the door to the situation room. Awaiting him were the familiar faces of the General Staff and accompanying officers. As a veteran himself, and a decorated one, he had always advocated more funding and expansion of the armed forces, something which made him popular amongst the army’s top brass who’d welcomed the change in leadership.

“Slava na Sylvakia,” Cernik began after everyone had settled down, giving the customary half greeting, half salute which he had introduced to the country upon his ascension to power. “In light of the changing international landscape, I believe that our defense apparatus is long past due some significant reform. In the view of our foes, Sylvakia is no more a harmless dog with no bite. It is time we show them otherwise.

“Two years ago, our Republic was forced to its knees, and its integral lands amputated without anesthetic. The Vlachavians and their great power backers imposed the impossible ceasefire agreement on us. This treaty will form a central part of our foreign policy from now on, as I will seek to recover what has been lost. In Grenzaria, we have almost a million Sylvans and hundreds of square kilometers territory in foreign hands. But most importantly, in Karpatya, we have over two million starving Sylvans suffering under the yoke of Vlachavian oppression who cry for liberation.

“Let us take a look at the map. With Karpatya under Vlachavian occupation, they are in a prime position to strike at our central industrial centers, or could drive south into the Viery and our farmlands. But I don’t care about the status quo ante bellum, or regaining strategic balance. If we do that, we will just be fighting again in another twenty years. No. The only way we can secure our future for the Sylvan people and nation is to destroy Vlachavia entirely. Make no mistake, gentlemen. I seek the complete and utter destruction of the Vlachavians as a sovereign nation. And after that? Then we can our attention to Grenzaria.”

Murmurs of agreement rose up from the ranks of the Generals. To most of them, this was exactly what they wanted to hear, and exactly what they had been pushing for over the past decade. However, they had to admit that the armed forces simply wasn’t strong enough for that yet.

“You – we - will have ten years to prepare for such an eventuality. I want to have an army that is capable of bringing not just the Vlachavians, but the Grenzarians to their knees. For that, you will have the necessary funding. Thankfully, while they are not obliged to assist us in the event of a preemptive offensive, the Boagans and Velkanians have agreed to provide us with a significant amount of low-interest loans. If absolutely necessary, we can double our defense budget.”

The generals around the room shared shocked but approving glances. Doubled expenditure! That was more money than they been able to utilize in decades.

“I will set up an independent commission to monitor your progress. By the end of these reforms, I want the continent to tremble at the renewed might of our military. We should have a proper strategy within this month which we will discuss in our coming meetings, so that you can properly prepare and train your units.”

“But if we suddenly start this huge build-up, won’t we alert Lunderfrau? I assure you that this will be practically impossible to hide.” The man who spoke up was generálporučík Ludwig Stejskal, who had been Cernik’s superior officer during the 2008 war.

“Ah, yes,” Cernik said. “But that’s not your concern. What do the nations of Lira care about the Larovans? They have always regarded us as a backwater, and when they do pay attention, its only to garner themselves unbalanced trade deals or to sell some antique tanks. And with the noise that Velkanika is making internationally, nobody will pay Sylvakia a second thought.”

Nods and murmurs of agreement sounded in the room. Cernik, having said all he wanted to say, thanked the staff and exited the room. War was coming to Lira again, that was for sure. But this time, it would be on his terms.

[Nova Sylva]

Zeljava Military Base
Viery Territory, Republic of Sylvakia
July 2011

Major Koloman Surovy looked out the command hatch of his tank as the formation of machines tore up dirt and grass in their wake on the endless expanse of Viery farmland. Fortunately, this base had a lot of dirt to chew up. It occurred to Surovy that with all the dirt and smoke the machines kicked up, the smoke dischargers on their turrets weren’t even really necessary.

The tank he drove was an old model – it had been old during the 2008 Karpat war, but now, it was coming up on becoming an antique. They had stopped production of this model of tank in the mid 1990s, and since then, it had only deteriorated. The 2008 war had shown just how inadequate the Vojenska had been equipped. Nobody could doubt their fighting spirit, but without the modern weapons of war, spirit got you nowhere but six feet under.

A 4x4 in military camouflage bounced across the farmlands toward the experimental model. One of the soldiers inside the motorcar waved to Surovy. When he waved back, showing he’d seen, the man held up a hand to get him to stop.

He waved again, then ducked down into the turret. “Stop!” he bawled into his headset.

“Stopping, yes, sir.” The answer was tinny but understandable. The tank clanked to a halt.

“What’s up, sir?” Sergeant Oliver Jahoda, the tank’s gunner, was insatiably curious—more than was good for him, Surovy often thought. His wide face might have been that of a three-year-old seeing his first airplane.

“I don’t know,” Surovy answered. “They’ve just sent out a car to stop the maneuvers.”

Sergeant Jahoda’s wide shoulders moved up and down in a shrug. “Maybe the powers that be have gone off the deep end. Wouldn’t surprise me a bit.” Spending his whole adult life in the Vojenska had left him endlessly cynical—not that he didn’t seem to have had a good running start beforehand. But then his green-blue eyes widened. “Or do you suppose…?”

Surovy’s mind followed the same track. “It would be sooner than I expected if so, Sergeant. When was the last time the Army delivered anything on time, let alone early?”

“I don’t know, Sir,” Jahoda replied. “But a lot of things are changing around here since Cernik took charge. He’s a man with his head on straight, that’s for damn sure.”

As the platoon came to a halt, Surovy dismounted from the tank and walked over towards the 4x4. Even from twenty meters away, the roar of the tank’s diesel engines made the conversation hard to understand. As he approached, and returned the officer who met him’s salute, the pair had to yell to hear one another.

“Sir, your gonna wanna come back to the auto shop,” the officer said with a smile. The auto shop was the nickname that the Armor officers had for the tank depot.

“Why’s that?” Surovy asked, but he had a feeling that he already knew the answer.

When the officer’s grin only widened, Surovy smiled and ran back to his tank.

Sergeant Jahoda whooped with glee when Surovy gave the order to break off from maneuvers and go back to the auto shop. “It has to be!” he said. “By God, it has to be.”

“Nothing has to be anything, Sergeant,” Surovy said. “If we haven’t seen that over the past ten years and more of this business . . .”

…Sure enough, when Surovy returned to the auto shop, there were a company’s worth of brand new, shiny tanks being unloaded from their transports. The crews and personnel of the armored battalion all surrounded the transports, and muscled and shoved one another for a good look at the new toys. All of them were smiles and laughter, like children at Christmas.

“Holy shit,” Surovy said, as he got closer. The men moved out of the way for their commander as he walked towards one of the tanks that had been unloaded already. “What a beauty she is.”

The tank that Surovy had driven in the 2008 war, and indeed, earlier today, was a copy of a Velkanikan design. It had a smooth, rounded turret that sat low in the hull, and double fuel canisters on the rear with steel sheets around the tracks and a machine gun on a small cupola atop the turret that sat beside an infrared searchlight.

The new machine, though, really made the old one show its age. Gone was the infrared searchlight, and commander’s machine gun – instead, what looked like a thermal imaging system replaced it, and a remote-control weapon system with a grenade launcher and machine gun replaced the commander’s weapon on top. He liked that better. He could shoot from inside the turret using an electronic control system. The armor around the turret looked to be a composite, rather than steel, and bricks of add-on ERA surrounded the turret and hull of the tank from front to rear. The rounded turret that had made the old model so iconic was gone – replaced by a menacing oblong shape from which the cannon protruded. And the cannon! It looked to be several calibers larger than the 122mm he was used too. What was it? It had to be at least 140mm! If he had looked at a woman with the same awe and stare as he did the new tank, his wife would have had sharp words for him.

As he climbed up and into the machine, he realized that if the outside of the tank was foreign, the interior was absolutley alien. Electronics and computers replaced the mechanical interior he was used too – and the auto loader and ammunition storage at the back of the turret seemed completely redesigned as well. Instead of storing the ammo inside the turret, which had led to a number of “decapitations” when the turret had taken hits, the ammo was now firmly and securely in the back of the tank, near the engine block.

He also noticed though, with some tanging of nostalgia, that the tank smelled much different. The stench of burnt oil, worn leather, and one too-many bleach cleanings was gone, replaced by a new aroma that was both unfamiliar and foreign. The old machine was outdated, yes, but it still would hold a place in Surovy’s – and indeed, the nation’s – heart as the workhorse of the military for the last twenty years. As such, he was somewhat dismayed when they began loading the old tanks up on the transports to replace the new ones coming off. “Where are you taking our old vics?” Jahoda asked, evidently reading Surovy’s mind.

“Back to the factories,” one of the transporters said. “There is an upgrade package we are going to install. Same sensor and add-on armor this new tank has, just on the old model. It won’t be as good, but it’ll be a lot better than they were.”

Surovy nodded his head in approval. That was a very Sylvan thing to do – reuse and upgrade until it literally fell apart. As a society, Sylvans were extremely frugal, and that feeling evidently permeated into the military. The difference now, was that in Jaskowski’s era, frugal had meant no upgrades at all – now, under Cernik, all that was changing.

The Pevnost
Kralovice, Republic of Sylvakia
September 2011

Cernik’s press secretary, Jami Hradeck, was a fussy little fellow, but good at what he did. “Everything’s ready now, Mr. President,” he said. “By this time tomorrow, everyone in the Republic of Sylvakia will know you’ve signed this bill.”

“Thanks, Jami,” Vaclav Cernik said with a warm smile, and the little man blossomed under the praise. Vaclav knew Hradacek wasn’t exaggerating. In the modern age of mass media and instant news, everyone who was anyone would know what Cernik had done.

At a gesture from the communications chief, klieg lights came on in the main office of Crown Hill. President Cernik smiled at the camera. “Hello, my fellow Sylvans,” he said into the microphone in front of him. “Slava na Sylvakia.. I come to you today with important news. One year ago, I promised you that I – we – would bring this country back from the brink. As part of the fulfillment of that promise, I’m now signing one of the most important bills in this nation’s history.”

He clicked his pen and signed on the waiting line. Cameras rolled as the photographers did their job. Vaclav looked up at the camera again. “For years, successive governments have followed a policy of allowing our economy to be dictated by a select few oligarchs, without regard for the country as a whole, who look instead to line their own pockets at the expense of our nation. Ackesian companies, Lunder companies, all of them - they pay Sylvans below the minimum wage and enjoy tax-free and tariff-free trade. And for what? Because previous governments were more interested in handouts for the next election than the well-being of the Sylvan citizen. That ends today,”

“Mr. President?” A carefully prompted reporter from a national paper stuck his hand in the air. “Ask you a question, Mr. President?”

“Go right ahead.” Cernik was calm, casual, at his ease.

“Thank you, sir,” he said. “But isn’t it true that section four, article eleven of the constitution states that the central government does not have the authority to override private business? So its nationalization, therefore, is unconstitutional?”

“This bill is integral to our nation’s future,” Cernik answered. “This bill will create hundreds of thousands of jobs, lower the cost of energy for every Sylvan household, and give our nation the independence that it both needs and deserves.”

“But won’t the Supreme Court say this law is unconstitutional?” the reporter asked again.

Vaclav Cernik looked into the cameras as if looking at a target through a sniper’s scope. He had a long, lean face, a face people remembered. “Let me make this abundantly clear. I was elected to make this nation better, stronger, and more prosperous. If the Supreme Court wants to get in the way of that, I say that’s unconstitutional.”

He took no other questions. He’d said everything he had to say. The microphones went off. The bright lights faded. He leaned back in his swivel chair. It creaked. Jani Hradecek came back into the room. Before he could ask, his head of communications said, “I think that went very well, Mr. President.”

“Good.” Vaclav nodded. “Me, too. We’ve fired the first shots, now lets brace ourselves for the counter-battery.”

Kasparov, the attorney general, had got to the office faster than Vice President Saviley Sedlacek. Sedlacek was tall and blond and good-looking and very much aware of how good-looking he was. He’d headed up the National Party till the Obrana Naroda swallowed it. One look at his face and you could see he still wished things had gone the other way. Too bad, so sad, Vaclav thought. Sedlacek wasn’t so smart as he thought he was, either. He never would have taken the vice-presidential nomination if he were. The vice president of the Republic couldn’t even fart till he got permission from the president.

One year on the job, and Saviley still hadn’t figured that out. He went right on laboring under the delusion that he amounted to something. “For God’s sake, Vaclav!” he burst out now. “What the hell did you go and rile the Supreme Court for?” A Karpatyan accent filled his voice. “They’ll throw out the bill for sure on account of that, just so as they can get their own back at you.”

“Gosh, do you think so?” Vaclav sounded concerned. He watched Kasparov hide a smile.

Saviley Sedlacek, full of himself as usual, never noticed. “Think so? I’m sure of it. You did everything but wave a red cloth in their face.”

Vaclav shrugged. “It’s done now. We’ll just have to make the best of it. It may turn out all right.”

“How can it?” Saviley demanded. “Somebody’s gonna sue. You can already hear Jaskowski’s Centrists licking their chops, slobbering over the chance to make us look bad. Whatever district court gets the law’ll say it’s no goddamn good.”

“Then we’ll take it to the Supreme Court,” Kasparov said.

“They’ll tell you it’s unconstitutional, too, just like that reporter fellow said they would,” Saviley predicted. “They’re looking for a chance to neuter us. Once they get those black robes on, Supreme Court justices think they’re little tin gods. And there’s not an Obrana Naroda man among ’em.”

“I’m not too worried, Saviley,” Cernik replied, dismissively. “This is a popular bill. The people know what this country needs. And the country needs it bad. People won’t be happy if the court tosses it in the fire.”

“I tell you, those fuckers don’t care,” the vice president insisted. “Why should they? They’re in there for life. . . .” He paused. His blue eyes widened. “Or are you saying they won’t live long if they try and smother this bill? God damnit, Vaclav. This isn’t Karpatya. You aren’t at war. You can’t rightly go and shoot everyone who disagrees with you!”

Josef Kasparov snickered as Saviley left the office in a flustered storm. The attorney general was one of Vaclav’s oldest comrades, and as close to a friend as he had these days. “Stupid Saviley.” He said. “I almost feel sorry for the fool. He doesn’t even know he’s boxed out.”

“They’re all a pack of damn fools,” Vaclav said scornfully. “Saviley, Jaskowski’s people, they’re all damn fools. They proved that in 2008. If we can let the Supreme Court make a mess of this, and get them out of the way, the way forwards is open.”

“I’m just worried, is all,” Kasparov said. “Taking on the Supreme Court? It’s a huge gamble. And if we lose this one, it threatens everything we’ve worked so hard to accomplish.”

“This is a classic David versus Goliath,” Cernik replied, confidently. “People love an underdog story. And in this case, David wants to give everyone new jobs and cheaper electricity. And Goliath doesn’t. Its perfect. And I’m sure that Hradecek will get the newspapers and people to see it that way too.”

Kasparov hesitated, then asked, “So you’re sure you want one of our people filing suit against the law?”

“Hell, yes, as long as nobody can trace him back to us,” Cernik answered without hesitation. “The Centrists would take weeks to get around “to it, and I want this to happen just as fast as it can.”

“I’ll take care of it, long as you know your own mind,” the attorney general said. “You know I’ve always backed your play. I always will, too.”

“You’re a good fellow, Josef.” And Vaclav meant every word of it. “If we’re gonna do this, and do it right, I’m gonna need you at my back. Threats are gonna come from everywhere, and it’ll be up to you to sort them.”

“When we started out, and met for the first time – the first Obrana Naroda meeting in that Csongrad apartment,” Kasparov said reminiscently. “Did you ever figure, back in those days, that we’d end up here?” His wave encompassed the presidential mansion.

“Hell, yes,” Vaclav replied without hesitation. “That’s why we created this: to pay back the bastards who lost us the war—all the bastards: Jankowski and his clucks, and not to mention the Vlachavians.”

His comrade laughed. “We weren’t the the only ones. Those first few weeks after the war, a thousand different parties sprang up, and every goddamn one of ’em said it’d set the country back on the right path.”

“We’ve got some old bills to pay, you know,” he told Kasparov. “We’ve got a lot of old bills to pay. About time we started doing that, don’t you think? We’ve looked meek and mild too long already. That isn’t our proper style.”

“Had to get this bill through Congress,” the attorney general said. “One thing at a time.”

“I know. You’d best believe I do,” Vaclav said. “Pretty soon now, we have some things to tell the Vlachavians, too. Not quite yet. We’ve got to put our own house in some kind of order first. But pretty soon.”

“First we take care of this other stuff.” Kasparov was not a fiery man. He never had been. But he kept things straight. Vaclav needed somebody like that. He was shrewd enough to know it. He nodded. Kasparov went on, “Besides, the next step puts the whole country behind us, not just the people who vote our way.”

“Yeah.” Vaclav nodded again. A wolfish grin spread across his face. “And I’m looking forward to it.”

Kralovice, Republic of Sylvakia
December 2011

“Kralovice!” the conductor bawled as the train pulled into the station. “All out for Kralovice! Capital of the Sylvakian Republic! Kralovice!”

Katerina von Steuben grabbed a carpetbag and a small light suitcase from the rack above the seats. She was set for the three days she expected to be here. Once upon a time, she’d traveled in style, with enough luggage to keep an army in clothes (provided it wanted to wear the latest styles) and with a couple of maids to keep everything straight.

No more, not after she and her family had lost their entire business. The von Steubens had been the leading mining conglomerate before the 2008 war, but the majority of the company’s holdings had been in Karpatya. Karpatya, now, was in the hands of the Vlachavians, who had nationalized the graphite and rare earth metal mines that had made her family rich. She still had money, of course, and had spent a hefty chunk of it to see Vaclav Cernik and Obrana Naroda elected. But as far as she was concerned, that was an investment. An investments demanded returns.

On the train, and through life, she thought. Aloud, the way she said, “Excuse me,” couldn’t mean anything but, Get the hell out of my way. That would have done well enough for her motto. She was a tall, blond woman with a man’s determined stride. If any gray streaked the yellow—she was, after all, nearer fifty than forty—the peroxide bottle didn’t let it show. She looked younger than her years, but not enough to suit her. In her twenties, even in her thirties, she’d been strikingly beautiful, and made the most of it. Now handsome would have fit her better, except she despised that word when applied to a woman.

“Excuse me,” she said again, and all but walked up the back of a man who, by his clothes, was a drummer who hadn’t drummed up much lately. He turned and gave her a dirty look. The answering frozen contempt she aimed like an arrow from her blue eyes made him look away in a hurry, muttering to himself and shaking his head.

Most of the passengers had to go back to the baggage car to reclaim their suitcases. Katerina had all her chattels with her. She hurried out of the station to the cab stand in front of it. “Royal Hotel,” she told the driver whose auto, a domestic Tatra with a dented left fender, was first in line at the stand.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, touching a finger to the patent-leather brim of his peaked cap. “Let me put your bags in the trunk, and we’ll go.”

The Royal Hotel was a great white pile of a building, just across the river from Crown Hill. Katerina tried to figure out how many times she’d stayed there. She couldn’t; she only knew the number was large. “Afternoon, ma’am,” said the doorman. He wore a uniform gaudier and more magnificent than any the Vojenska issued.

Katerina checked in, went to her room, and unpacked. She went downstairs and had an early supper—A warm and hearty goulash with some perogi and applesauce—then returned to her room, read a novel till she got sleepy (it wasn’t very good, so she got sleepy fast), and went to bed. It was earlier than she would have fallen asleep back home. That meant she woke up at half past five the next morning. She was annoyed, but not too annoyed: it gave her a chance to bathe and to get her hair the way she wanted it before going down to breakfast.

After breakfast, she went to the lobby, picked up one of the papers on a table, and settled down to read it. She hadn’t been reading long before a man in a Sylvan Army uniform strode in. Anne put down the newspaper and got to her feet.

“Madam von Steuben?” asked the man in the butternut uniform.

“She nodded. “That’s right.”

“Slava Sylvakia!” the man said, giving the greeting that had become the norm, and then, “Come with me, please.”

When they went out the door, the doorman - a different man from the one who’d been there the day before, but wearing identical fancy dress – opened the door for the pair. The Army man, smiling a little, led Katerina to a waiting motorcar. He almost forgot to hold the door open for her, but remembered at the last minute. Then he slid in behind the wheel and drove off.

Crown Hill lay just beside Kralovice Castle, the old center of monarchical government. The grounds were full of men in camouflage uniforms, heavily armed – more so than she supposed they needed to be, but it wasn’t her place to decide policy.

“This here’s Madam von Steuben,” her driver said when they went inside.

A receptionist—male, uniformed—checked her name off a list. “She’s scheduled to see the president at nine. Why don’t you take her straight to the waiting room? It’s only half an hour.”

“She had the room outside the president’s office to herself. Too bad, she thought; she’d met some interesting people there. A few minutes before nine, the door to the office opened. A skinny little Jewish-looking fellow came out. Vaclav Cernik’s voice pursued him: “You’ll make sure we get those new jet fighters delivered, Rudolf?”

“Of course, Colonel—uh, Mr. President,” the man answered. “We’ll take care of it. Don’t worry about a thing.”

“With you in charge, I don’t,” Cernik answered.

The man tipped his hat to Katerina as he walked out. “Go on in,” he told her. “You’re next.”

“Thanks,” Katerina said, and did. Seeing Vaclav Cernik, an army man, behind a desk that had had only two civilians sitting at it up till now was a jolt. She stuck out her hand, man-fashion. “Good morning, Mr. President.”

Cernik shook hands with her, a single brisk pump, enough to show he had strength he wasn’t using. “Good morning to you as well, Madam von Steuben” he answered. Almost everyone in the Sylvan Republic knew his voice from the wireless and newsreels. It packed extra punch in person, even with just a handful of words. He pointed to a chair. “Sit down. Make yourself at home.”

Katerina did sit, and crossed her ankles. Her figure was still trim. Cernik’s eyes went to her legs, but only for a moment. He wasn’t a skirt-chaser. He’d chased power instead of women. Now he had it. Along with the rest of the country, and perhaps the continent, she wondered what he’d do with it.

“I expect you want to know why I asked you to come up to Kralovice,” he said, a lopsided grin on his long, jawlined face. He was handsome enough, not model or movie star so, but the fire burning inside him was much more prevalent and attractive than his facial features. If he’d wanted women, he could have had droves of them.

Katerina nodded. “I do, yes. But I’ll find out, won’t I? I don’t think you’ll send me back to my estate without telling me.”

“Nope. Matter of fact, I don’t intend to send you back to Eposz at all,” Featherston said. Eposz was the province bordering Grenzaria, where Katerina and the von Steubens had lived for generations.

“What…what do you intend to do with me, then?” She almost said to me.

His smile got wider, and he asked: “Parli parthoni?”

“Si, fluentemente.” Katerina answered automatically, even though, by the way Cernik pronounced the words, he didn’t speak Parthonopian himself. She returned to English to ask, “Why do you want to know that?”

“How would you like to take a trip to Ancona?” Cernik asked in return.

“Ancona? I hate the idea,” Katerina said crisply.

Cernik’s eyebrows leaped. That wasn’t the answer he’d expected. Then he realized she was joking. He barked laughter. “Cute,” he said. “Cute as hell. Now tell me straight—will you go to Parthonopia for me? I’ve got a job that needs doing, and you’re the one I can think of who’s best suited to do it.”

“Tell me what it is,” she said. “And tell me why. You’re not naming me ambassador, I gather.”

“No, I’m not doing that. You’ll go as a private citizen. But I’d rather trust you rather than the politicians I have over there now. They’re all leftovers from Jankoswki’s regime, and they aren’t a fan of my plans for Parthonopia. The bastards want to ‘keep the status quo,’ and ‘not upset the balance.’ Fools. You know what’s good for the country, and you know what’s good for you, too.”

“I . . . see.” Katerina nodded again, slowly and thoughtfully. “You want me to start sounding out one of the petty kings about an alliance, then?”

She saw she’d surprised him again. Then he laughed once more. “I already knew you were smart,” he said. “Yeah, that’s pretty much what I’ve got in mind. Alliance likely goes too far. Working arrangement is more what I figure we can do. Probably all they can do, too. They’ve got problems of their own, domestically. But this Carlo figure – he leads one of the kingdoms, you see – and I like him. He’s brash, and arrogant, and bellicose, but also determined, charismatic, and calculating. I suspect he looks at Lira in the same way that we do here.”

Katerina refreshed her memory. “Carlo…yes, he’s a brash one, for sure. I saw him at a dinner a few years back. But your analysis is correct. And he’s been building his little army for years now. What exactly did you have in mind?”

“If Carlo has designs on being more than a petty king, we should do all we can to further his agenda. A united Parthonopia would draw the ire of the rest of Lira – and more importantly, draw it away from us and the military buildup we’re going through. Furthermore, if we help him and he succeeds, he will owe us a favor. And it’s a favor I intend to collect.”

“And I’ll have full authority to negotiate as a plenipotentiary?” Katerina asked, pursing her lip. “If I’m going as a private citizen, I’ll still need something official or they won’t let me through the door.”

“Of course,” Cernik said, waving his hand, as if the simple motion of his wrist made it happen. Hell, with Obrana Naroda in charge, it probably did.

[Nova Sylva]

Ancona, Commonwealth of Parthonopia
February 2012

The Duke of Ancona studied the painting with a curious and critical eye. His pose was so languid and exquisite, Katerina von Steuben thought, that he should have been wearing knee breeches and a frock coat, not in a dinner jacket and bow tie. His perfectly refined accent only strengthened the impression of aristocratic effeteness: “Upon my word, Madam von Steuben, we surely have here an extraordinary series of contrasts, do we not?”

She brushed back a lock of pale gold hair that was tickling her cheek. “I can think of several,” she said. Starting with, why the Duke had entertained Katerina for the last month with a flurry of receptions and events, and never once spoken about her reason for visiting. But to say that out loud would have been impolite and, however often she flouted the code of an aristocratic gentlewoman, she still adhered to some of it. And so, not a hint of worry showed in her voice as she went on, “Which ones cross your mind, your Grace?”

Duke Carlo pointed to the canvas he had been examining. “First and foremost, hanging this painting – Reply of the Sylvan Kapilists to Emperor Ludwig - in this hall strikes me as making contrast enough all by itself.” He examined the painting once more, then grinned impishly. “And to think I bought this piece for only three point five million.”

“A very good deal,” Katerina replied, with less frost in her voice than she would have liked. Reply was perhaps one of the most famous Sylvan paintings in the world – definitely the most well known. The fact that it found its home in the art collection of a petty Parthonopian royal instead of the National Gallery in Kralovice was proof enough that things needed to be fixed in her maidan country. She went on, “but such important historical treasures cannot be measured by monetary value alone, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Why, of course, Madam. I didn’t buy the painting because I liked Dvorak’s brush style or color palette. It’s what it represents. A collection of nobodies from a frontier province telling the most powerful man in the world where he could stick it – pardon my language, madam – there’s something wonderfully delightful about that. And I must say, I see something of myself in those religious rebels.”

“I believe you and President Cernik have that in common, your Grace.”

“On that note, I have no doubt that there is an extraordinary amount that the President and I have in common as well. You would not find yourself in such places without the possession of certain characteristics or traits. Ways of thinking for that matter,” the Duke paused and looked back upon the artwork they were discussing, seemingly briefly in thought at that moment, “the Reply isn’t going anywhere, however, but our lunch is presumably getting cold. Come, we can talk of contrast and similarities at length, sitting down.”

Ballgown flowing behind her, Katerina followed the Parthonopian deeper into his manor. Servants came to attention as he passed them, and the royal made no move to put them at ease as he led her into a dining room that was much too big for twenty people, let alone the two of them. Nevertheless, the table was set in the perfect cotillion fashion, with a silver cusp hiding the food from the world around it. Carlo pulled out a chair for her, and she graciously accepted, as was the custom, before letting him sit and begin the meal.

“Ah, mussels fra diavolo,” Carlo said, salivating. “Yet another contrast. You see how -” he paused to take a bite - “how the sauce retains its spice even down the throat? Now wash it down with this Cabernet, and you will see what I mean about contrast. Mmmm. Perfecto.”

Katerina nodded politely, but remained silent. Carlo, for his part, broke from the near trance induced by his meal and looked back at his guest. He made a production of wiping his face, taking a sip of wine, and physically preparing himself for the conversation ahead. “Madam von Steuben. Surely you must think me mad - circumventing your meaning and purpose for being in Ancona with my talk of art, and food. Forgive me - it is the Parthonopian way. But alas, let us talk, madam.” He gestured for her to begin.

“His Excellency, President Cernik, has instructed me to negotiate an arrangement, your Grace. An arrangement regarding a united Parthonopia. It is fairly clear to all that a united Parthonopia would upset the balance of power in Lira and Olympus beyond, but us Sylvans depart with the RESP way of thinking that this restructuring of the world order is inherently negative.

“I will speak plainly. Your forces and holdings at the moment are one among many Parthonopian kingdoms and states. You lack the strength and tools necessary to unite these many kingdoms into one, but if they were, and if you did, Parthonopia would overnight become the pre-eminent land power on this continent. Us Sylvans are ready and willing to help you realize this goal. Troops, equipment, military advisors - we can help you unite Parth.

“While I will not pretend that the President harbors the same reasons for wanting your people under one banner as you do. It is our hope that after its unification, the -” she paused, looking for words - “fluctuations of the geopolitical realities of Lira will be to Sylvakia’s advantage.”

Carlo had sat calmly listening as she had spoken, attentively nodding his head as necessary to assure that he was providing his full attention. After concluding the proposal, there was a brief pause while she awaited the Ancona duke’s response, only to be met with a moment of silence. The look upon his face was still the one he had as he was listening, until raising his eyebrows and looking up to the ceiling with a surprised expression.

“Unification! That would be thought impossible, Signora Von Steuben, in this day and age. Lira balks at the idea of it, and I couldn’t even fathom how quickly the Guinot or Porduzi would rush to stomp out even the thought of it. Surely you’re pulling my legs? I was not expecting this, Madam,” he shook his head and retrieved his silverware to continue the meal he had put on pause for the business talk.

He looked over to her, just as his fork touched the plate, and erupted in a thunderous laughter that echoed in the hall. Placing back down the silverware and regaining his composure, he returned to his more somber gaze and leaned forward as he spoke.

“I must say, there are some very attentive people in Kralovice, perhaps a similarity to account for, that the President and I share. The more apparent similarity, however, is the possession of lofty goals. Of course there is a vision of a united Parthonopia, any attentive observer of the politics of Orthuria would have spotted the winds of that idea blowing as early as a decade ago.”

He cracked his knuckles and placed his forearms on the table. Throughout her stay in Ancona this luncheon had been the first time she had seen the nobleman hosting her cast away his apparent public facade. This was a glimpse, perhaps, of a more honest view of what Carlo dell’Ancona truly acted, as he began to ditch some of the more formal trappings of high class discourse.

“Please, let us speak plainly,” he lifted a hand as if to gesture that she does so, “I want a united Parthonopia. More importantly, the people want it as well. You are correct in saying that it would be a restructuring of the world order opposed to RESP goals, and I can agree that it is certainly not inherently negative. That is not to say it lacks disadvantages, if I were to not tread lightly while trying to reach these goals, I am liable to see occupations of the region return.”

“Signora von Steuben, I appreciate immensely the offer, and may only guess as to why our visions may align, but it would be best to not question it, yes? I must, respectfully of course, say, do you intend to hand me Parthonopia? There is a lot of work to be done, and I am thankful for your time here, but troops, ah, we are quite a ways from that. No one wants a war in Orthuria, I certainly don’t.”

“Of course not,” Katerina replied, concealing her perplexion behind her business face, a hint of her slight annoyance by Carlo’s seeming rejection slipping out with her response. It came off almost as a joke, the duke’s last line, a war in Orthuria was something of a Liran tradition, a significant one occurring regularly at least every half century. The signs of Carlo’s motives, the movement behind unification, were more than apparent and he was the most viable of contenders. Why dismiss assistance when it is offered?

They were both interrupted when a servant entered the hall and approached the two of them, stopping and standing at attention a few feet away from the table. He waited for the Duke to address him, bowing gently before informing them of his message, “My lord, the Duchess wishes to inform you that her father will arrive within the next two hours.”

With a nod of acceptance, Carlo waved him off, waiting for him to leave before returning to his discussion with Katerina. He looked upon her and nodded, “Advisors. They could certainly be of use. Equipment. I must be blunt, however, I am not fond of accepting favors. They always need to be returned, at some point, and I dread having such obligations haunt me.”

He leaned across the table and picked up her wine glass, refilling it, as well as his, with the last of the bottle of cabernet on the table. He returned the glass and took a sip of his, dramatically giving a satisfied ahh afterwards.

“A working relationship, that is another thing. We can both assist each other, obviously the President sees this as well. But, let us not rush head first into anything too, uh, too drastic. You are a graphite heiress correct? My wife, her father are quite the businessmen. One of the wealthiest in Orthuria, I owe much of my more recent accomplishments to his generosity. Maybe, I see a way that we may test this relationship of ours. If I were to be able to repay some of his generosity, perhaps…”

She raised an eyebrow. “What exactly did you have in mind?”

Prigorodki, Republic of Sylvakia
July 2012

The path up the mountain had been freshly paved, though the road through the twists and turns of the Black Mountain foothills was far from a comfortable ride. Katerina von Steuben turned to her Parthonopian business partner, Duke Egidio Massana, who looked visibly ill in the backseat of the SUV. “Don’t worry, my Lord Duke - the facility is just around the bend here. I apologize for the remoteness of the location, but mineral deposits are scarce. They aren’t called rare earth metals for nothing, after all.”

“I must confess, I thought we had mountains in Parthonopia - but they pale in comparison to what you have here, in Sylvakia.” From the look on his face, Katerina doubted that he meant the words as a compliment. She looked out the window at the rising peaks of the Black Mountains in the distance. Yes, they were impressive, all right - she could even see Mt. Kriváň in the distance, the highest peak on the Liran continent, its summit hazed by clouds and snow.

“I had other facilities that were perhaps better suited for this project of ours,” she said, “But regrettably, they were in Karpatya,” she pointed out the window, down into the valley and towards the horizon. She looked longingly at the forested valleys and winding rivers of the foothills below. The border was a mere ten kilometers away, and it still tanged her that things had changed so much. Most of her life’s work, and her family’s work for generations, had been in graphite mining in those idyllic forests. In the span of less than a month, armed conflict had cut her and her company’s net worth by almost eighty percent while Vlachavia nationalized her family's assets. The thought sickened her more than the bumpy car ride could ever do to Duke Egidio’s.

The SUV pulled up to a large, imposing mining complex that was situated in between two peaks. The forest cover that had evidently covered the valley floor was gone, replaced by piles of machinery, raw aggregates, and construction equipment. Adjacent to the mining complex was a much newer structure, which was much larger than the original mine and had obviously needed terraforming work to fit into the valley itself. Several large smokestacks protruded from its base, and an unfinished railhead led from the valley into a tunnel, which was evidently still under construction. “As you can see, construction is well under way. I spoke with the contractors this morning, and we are actually ahead of schedule. The blasting equipment you shipped in from Ancona is being put to very good use.”

“Excellent,” Egidio said. “And what about Dr. Rossi, and the other specialists we sent over? How are they holding up?”

“Fantastic. We will be meeting Dr. Rossi for a tour of the facility today, but his technical expertise has been imperative in making this project a reality for us.” Dr. Rossi was a Parthonopian national. He held three doctorate degrees - one in material sciences, another in metallurgical engineering, and a third in chemistry. He was part of a team of half a dozen such individuals that had come to Sylvakia on the direct instruction of the Duke of Ancona, Duke Carlo, whom Katerina had met with a few months before. The specialists, as well as a large financial investment by Duke Egidio, Carlo’s father in law, had made this endeavor in the Black Mountain foothills a possibility.

“As you well know, Duke, my family’s business was - is - graphite. The Steuben Mining Corporation,” she corrected herself, “sorry, the Steuben-Amalia Mining Corporation, once accounted for almost seventy percent of the world’s graphite production - and its used in everything from pencils to moderators in nuclear reactors. Vlachavia took a large chunk of that away from me - from Sylvakia - after the Karpat war, but they don’t know the business. Despite having most of my company’s old facilities, they are struggling to reach even half of the production levels we had before 2008. Anyways,”

The car pulled up to the front gate where a guard waved them through. Parking the vehicle, Katerina and Duke Egidio exited the vehicle. She handed him a hardhat and put one on herself. As the pair walked towards the new building, they were stopped by another security patrol, which checked Katerina’s ID and the VIP pass that had been issued to her guest. She didn’t chastise them for checking, even if she was the CEO - she would have rather them be on top of their game then to allow anyone they recognized to pass.

The pair walked inside the newer structure and Katerina began explaining as they entered the main production floor. “For the longest time, my company has been exclusively concerned with the extraction of graphite, rather than its applications. But thanks to your very gracious investment, as well as the, uhm, new realities that face the company, we’ve shifted gears.” They rounded a corner and approached a man in a white coat who was overlooking a clipboard. He was startled when Katerina called out to him, and took a moment to push his glasses up his nose. “Madam von Steuben,” he said, bowing, then again, in perfect Parthonopian, “Buongiorno, duca Egidio,”

“Dr. Rossi,” she offered her hand, and pleasantries were exchanged. “Could you be so kind as to give myself and Duke Egidio a tour of the plant? And provide the Duke here with a better understanding as to what we are trying to accomplish.”

“Not trying to accomplish, Madam, accomplished. We can already produce the graphene in small quantities, but with the full opening of this facility, which I expect by the end of the year, our production quotient will increase dramatically.”

Egidio looked proud of the doctor. From what Katerina understood, the Duke had paid in full for the man’s tuition in university as part of a larger donation to the Parthonopian scientific community. But, just like everything else in the world, it hadn’t been philanthropic - it had been an investment, and one that the Duke was now collecting on.

“Graphene has the potential to revolutionize the world as we see it,” Dr. Rossi continued. “It is a single layer of pure carbon atoms bonded together with sp2 bonds in a hexagonal lattice pattern. As of now it's the thinnest material known to man at one atom thick. And yet, graphene is stronger than steel and Kevlar, with a tensile strength of 150,000,000 psi. It moves electrons 10 times faster than silicon using less energy, and can absorb 2.3% of white light, which is remarkable because of its extreme thinness. This means that, once optical intensity reaches saturation fluence, saturable absorption takes place, which makes it possible to achieve full-band mode locking.”

Katerina and Duke Egidio shared a look. Neither of them understand what “saturation fluence” or “full band locking” was, but Dr. Rossi did, and that’s what mattered. “In practical terms,” Katerina interjected, “What are the applications for this?”

“Everything from microchips to body armor, madam. Even fields like biochemical engineering, filtration, and batteries can potentially be revolutionized by this material. The only thing stopping us, of course, was production - in early tests, my partners and I discovered graphene by exfoliation - we took scotch tape, peeled off a layer of graphite, dissolved the tape in chemicals, and then tested on what was left over. But this method is extremely inefficient and cannot produce the graphene in the quantity that we would need. Hence, this facility.”

“And many more like it,” Katerina added.

“Yes ma’am. With this facility, we’ve begun using chemical vapor deposition to separate graphene from graphite. In very simple terms, the process involves placing an often reusable thin metal substrate into a furnace heated to extremely high temperatures - we’re talking between 900 and 1000 degrees celsius. Decomposed methane gas that contains the necessary carbon and hydrogen is then introduced to the chamber, resulting in a reaction with the surface of the metal film substrate that leads to the formation of the graphene.”

“And the best part of all of this,” she said. “Is that we’re the only ones who know how to do it. RESP and the IPR will catch up eventually, that’s for certain, but in the time it takes them to develop their own industries from the ground up, we will be exporting the stuff by the trainload.”

“And raking in the profits,” the Duke added.

[Nova Sylva]

Csongrad, Republic of Sylvakia
January 2013

Augustyn Binkovech looked into the mirror over the sink in his apartment. He thought he looked pretty sharp: black striped tie, white shirt, and a cream-colored wool jacket to fight the cold winter of Csongrad. Then he let out a sour laugh. How he looked wouldn’t matter any which way when he got to the political meeting for the Social Democrats tonight. Nobody there would listen to him. Nobody there ever did. He sometimes wondered why he kept going. Pigheadedness, he supposed. No, more than pigheadedness these days. He also had the feeling that somebody had to do something about Cernik and the Obrana Naroda. If the Social Democrats didn’t, if they couldn’t, he didn’t see anyone else who could. That wool jacket also concealed a shoulder holster. Nobody had tried to give him a hard time yet. But he knew he was on a Obrana list. The Party was thorough, if not always swift. Some people had already disappeared. Binkovech didn’t intend to go quietly. If the stalwarts wanted him, they would have to pay the price for him.

Out the door he went, whistling. No one lurked at the bottom of the stairs or, when he checked, out on the street. He nodded to himself. They were less likely to drop on him away from his flat, because they had more trouble knowing exactly where he was then. If they didn’t want him now, they likely wouldn’t for the rest of the day. Whistling still, he walked on toward the Social Democrat party headquarters. A couple of blocks from the headquarters, he ran into Robert Malek, who was heading in the same direction. The lawyer nodded. He had more patience with Binkovech than most local Social Democrats did.

“How goes it, Malek?” Augustyn asked. “They still haven’t decided to call you a political and run you in?”

“Not yet,” Malek answered. He was a ruddy, fleshy man with an impressive pompadour. “Of course, now that the Supreme Court is gone, they’re liable to get rid of all the others next, and then where will I be?”

“Up the creek,” Augustyn answered, and Malek ruefully nodded. Binkovech went on, “Why couldn’t people see it’s a damnfool thing to do, electing a party that said ahead of time it wouldn’t play by the rules once it got in?”

“Because too many people don’t care,” Malek said. He checked his watch. Carrying one made him on the old-fashioned side—a typical attitude for a Social Democrat. Even though each of them carried a phone with a debatebly more accurate time system, Binkovech, following fashion, preferred a wristwatch. Robert said, “We’re early. You want to stop at the bar across the street and hoist a couple?”

“Sure, why not,” Binkovech said, “Let’s hoist a couple.”

But when they turned the corner, they found a line of gray-uniformed policemen and Obrana Naroda stalwarts in camouflage pants and black balaclavas, the cops with drawn pistols—a couple of them had submachine guns or shotguns instead—and the stalwarts with bludgeons, stretched in front of the entrance to the Social Democrat meeting hall. Angry Social Democrats milled about on the sidewalk and in the street, but nobody was going inside.

“What the hell’s going on?” Binkovech said. Against a dozen policemen and twice that many stalwarts, the pistol under his left arm suddenly seemed a lot less important.

“I don’t know, but I intend to find out.” Robert Malek strode forward. In his fullest, roundest, plummiest courtroom voice, he demanded, “What is the meaning of this?”

“One of the cops pointed a submachine gun at the lawyer’s belly. Robert stopped, most abruptly. A burst from a weapon like that could cut him in half. The policeman said, “No more political meetings. That there’s our orders, and that there’s what we’re gonna make sure of.”

“But you can’t do that,” Robert protested. “It’s against every law on the books.”

“Malek . . .” Binkovech said urgently. He took his friend’s arm. Robert shook him off. “You want to listen to your friend here,” the cop said. This time, he didn’t point the submachine gun—he aimed it. “By order of the governor in the interest of public safely, all political meetings except for the Obrana Naroda’s are banned till after the election.” One of the stalwarts added, “And for as long as we feel like after that, too.” Several of his buddies laughed.

Binkovech wondered whether Robert would have a stroke right there on the spot. “Good God, are you people nuts?” the lawyer said. “I can go to Judge Adamec in the First Circuit and get an injunction to stop this nonsense in thirty seconds flat. And then I file the lawsuits.” He was plainly convinced he had the big battalions on his side. The policeman, just as plainly, was convinced he didn’t. So were the stalwarts. With a nasty grin, the one who’d spoken before said, “Judge Adamec resigned last night. Reasons of ill-health. Suffered a...very bad fall, and he’s in the hospital now.” He leered. What was going on had got through to Augustyn Binkovech a little while before. The old rules didn’t hold any more. In the new ones, Obrana Naroda held—had grabbed—all the high cards. He watched Robert Malek figure that out. Robert had been red, almost purple. Now he went deathly pale. “You wait till after the election,” he whispered. “The people won’t stand for this. They’ll throw you out.”

The policeman’s finger twitched on the trigger of the submachine gun. Robert flinched. The cop laughed. So did the Obrana Naroda stalwarts, in their crisp not-quite-uniforms. One of them said, “You don’t get it, do you? We are the people.”

“I am going to declare this here an illegal assembly,” the policeman said. “If you folks don’t disperse, we will arrest you. Jails are crowded places these days. A lot of you big talkers end up in them for a lot longer than you would expect. Run along now, or you’ll be sorry.”

Across the street and into the bar counted as dispersing. Binkovech ordered a double gin and tonic, Malek a double whiskey. “They can’t do that,” he said, tossing back the drink. “They just did,” Augustyn Binkovech observed. “Question is, what can we do about it?” Another Social Democrat who’d taken refuge in the saloon said, “We’ve got to fight back.”

“Not here,” the bartender said. “You start talking politics in here, I get in trouble. I don’t want no trouble. I don’t want no trouble with nobody. Neither does the owner. You keep quiet about that stuff or I got to throw y’all out.”

“This is how it goes,” Binkovech said.

“How what goes?” Robert asked.

“How the country goes—down the drain,” Binkovech said. “Obrana Naroda is doing its best to make sure we don’t have elections any more—or, if we do, they don’t mean anything. Its best is pretty goddamn good, too.” He spoke in a low voice, in deference to the harassed-looking barkeep. Even that was an accommodation to what Obrana Naroda had already accomplished. Robert snorted. “They won’t get away with it. And when they do lose an election, there won’t be enough jails to hold all of them, not even at the rate they’re building.”

“I hope you’re right. I hope so, but I wouldn’t count on it,” Binkovech said. “Vaclav Cernik worries me. He’s a son of a bitch, but he’s a shrewd son of a bitch. The way he went after the Supreme Court . . . People will be studying that one for the next fifty years. Pass a law that’s popular but unconstitutional, make the Court make the first move, and then land on it with both feet. Nobody much has complained since, not that I’ve heard.”

“Who would dare, with the stalwarts ready to beat you if you try?”

But Binkovech shook his head. “It’s more than that. If he’d really riled people when he did it, they would scream. They’d do more than scream. They’d stand up on their hind legs and tell him to go to hell. But they don’t. Going ahead with that nationalization project has given thousands of people jobs. It’s given millions of people hope—hope for better wages, for a better life, and for a stronger country. They care more about that than they do about whether the bill’s constitutional.”

“Nonsense,” Malek said. “What could be more important than that?”

“You’re a lawyer, Malek,” Binkovech answered patiently. “Think of ordinary people, farmers and factory hands. You ask them, they’d say not getting cheated by a foreign capitalist means a lot more to them. There are lots of them. And they vote Obrana Naroda.”

“Even assuming you’re right—which I don’t, but assuming—what are we supposed to do about it?” Robert asked. “You’ve got all the answers, so of course you’ve got that one, too, right?”

Binkovech stared down at his drink as if he’d never seen it before. He gulped the glass dry, then waved to the bartender for a refill. Only after he’d got it did he say, “Damn you, Malek.”

“Well, I love you, too,” Robert replied. “You didn’t answer my question, you know.”

“Yes, I do know that,” Binkovech said gloomily. “I also know I don’t have any answers for you. Nobody in the country has any answers for you.”

“All right. As long as we understand each other.” Robert finished his second drink, then got to his feet. “I don’t want another one after this. I just want to go home. That’s about what we have left to us these days—our homes, I mean. They’re still our castles . . . for the time being.” He slipped out the door. It had grown dark outside, but not nearly so dark as Binkovech’s mood.

What do we do? What can we do? The questions buzzed against his mind like trapped flies buzzing against a windowpane. Like the flies, he saw no way out. Even fighting the Obrana Naroda looked like a bad idea. Cernik’s followers had been fighters from the start. They were better at it than the Social Democrats.

“If we can’t fight them, and if they do whatever they please, no matter how illegal it is, to get what they want, what’s left for us?” Another good question with no good answer visible.

“Maybe he’ll go too far,” Binkovech muttered. “Maybe he’ll land us in a war with Vlachavia. That’d fix him.”

He despised the Vlachavians as much as any man in the Sylvan Republic. That he could imagine the Vlachavians in the role of savior to Sylvakia said a lot about how he felt about the Obrana Naroda. None of what it said was good.

Two tall gins were plenty to make him feel wobbly on his pins when he rose from the barstool. A fellow in overalls came in just then and sat down at the bar. He ordered a beer. As the bartender drew it for him, he said, “‘Bout time they’re shutting down those goddamn Social Democrats. With the mess they got the country into in 2008, they ought to thank the heavens they aren’t all hanging from streetlights.” That was a political opinion, too, but the barkeep didn’t tell him to keep quiet. It was, of course, a political opinion favorable to the Obrana Naroda. In Sylvakia these days, who could get in trouble for an opinion like that? If Binkovech had had another gin in him, he would have called the bartender on it. If he’d had another couple of gins in him, he would have started a fight. But if he fought with every idiot he met in a saloon, he’d end up dead before too long. He went home instead. The cops didn’t arrest him. The stalwarts didn’t pound on him. In Sylvakia these days, that counted for freedom.

[Nova Sylva]

Visegrad, Republic of Sylvakia
March 2014

The roar of jet engines was loud, and not original to Katerina von Steuben’s personal jet as it approached the airport. Katerina glanced at the machine, which roared past close enough for her to make out the Sylvan Air Force rounded painted on the fuselage. It was a newer jet, different to ones she’d ever seen in Sylvakia before. Beside her, Duke Egidio watched through his small window as the aircraft sped away. The Parthonopian said, “That must be one of the new four-point-five generation fighters I heard so much about. I have read about them, but never had the pleasure of seeing one up close. Is it of a Regnessian design?”

Katerina sent him a sour look. He’d been thinking to say something like, “How could a country as backwards as yours make a plane such as that?” Then, fortunately, he remembered his manners. Nevertheless, what wasn’t said hung in the jet liner’s pressurized air heavily. Egidio was in his mid-sixties. He paid attention to Katerina as a negotiator, and she thought, as a woman as well. The Duke had fifteen years on her, give or take a couple, and she was of the opinion that he probably scored with woman much younger than her when he felt the desire. The difference is that Katerina could see past the aristocratic background, the noble upbringing, and the flatulent wealth - she wasn’t some star-struck servant girl, after all. Most of the officers and diplomats with whom she’d dealt with in her trips back and forth to Parthonopia were close contemporaries of the elderly duke. It was a different story in Sylvakia, where Cernik had purged the top-heavy officer corps and forced many of the elderly generals who had lost the 2008 war into retirement.

The jet pressed on toward the airport. As it approached, more jet fighters flew by to examine the aircraft. All of them had the Sylvan Air Force roundel, and shared the same sleek, dangerous look. When the jet touched down and the duo disembarked, she noticed that the man in customs wore a uniform more akin to that of a military officer than a civilian bureaucrat. “You’re on the list ma’am,” then to the Duke, “Sir. If you two would follow me.”

She hesitated for a moment. Katerina wondered what sort of treatment she would have got had her name been on a different sort of list. She was just as glad not to have to find out. “Our good list, ma’am. I have tickets for you from Kralovice. We’ll get you to the station and on the magvlak as soon as we can.”

“Forgive me,” the Duke said. “My Sylvan is poor, at best. What is this word, ‘magvlak’?”

She translated for him. “It’s an abbreviation - an acronym. It means ‘magnetic train.’ It uses the power of magnetic levitation to push along a train car. Normal Diesel engines can go 200 kph, but the magvlak can go double, even triple that speed. Better yet, Steuben-Amalia is the exclusive supplier of the graphene used in its construction.”

“Meraviglioso,” the Duke replied. Normally, the trip by car or rail from Visegrad to Karpatya took almost between six to eight hours. In the magvlak, the trip was made in perfect comfort in just over an hour.

Sunset had turned to night when the train pulled into Kralovice from the south. As soon as Katerina descended to the platform, someone called her name. All she had to do was answer. As before, uniformed men whisked her and Duke Egidio away. “No waiting in the waiting room this time, either. President Vaclav Cernik saw them right away. “Congratulations,” he told Kralovice. “I’ve read every report you sent. You did a first-rate job over there, Katerina.” He stuck out his hand and gave Duke Egidio a big, friendly smile. “And I’m pleased to meet you, your Grace. Ancona” - he didn’t butcher the Parthonopian too badly - “Seems to be aligned with how we here in Kralovice see this continent.”

“Yes, I think so, too.” Egidio spoke poor Sylvan, and Katerina’s Parthonopian was even better. Nevertheless, Egidio managed to say: “Revanchism is a sweet word, is it not?”

He couldn’t have said anything better calculated to hit the Sylvan president where he lived. “Oh, yes,” Cernik said softly. “Oh, yes, indeed. None sweeter. So we will be able to count on Parthonopia when the day comes?”

“That depends,” the Duke answered. “Can we, too, count on the Republic of Sylvakia if we first find that day?”

Here was something Katerina hadn’t seen before: someone hustling Vaclav Cernik. “Like you said, that depends.” The president spoke carefully. “You start a fight with the Produese and Merraine tomorrow afternoon, we’ll have to sit out - we aren’t ready yet. You give us the time we need to prepare, and I promise, when that day comes, we will have your back.”

In Ancona, Katerina and the Parthonopians with whom she’d dealt had gone round and round over that. The RESP governments - Produese, Winst, Merraine - watched the Parthonopians as carefully as the Vlachavians, Ostphalians, and Lunders watched the Sylvans, maybe even more carefully. Duke Egidio certainly thought so. He said, “You have the advantage over us in this regard. There is no concrete policy or treaty limiting Sylvan military buildup. This is unfortunately not the case in southern Lira.”

“Well, when that day comes, you and I will rewrite those treaties and policies. Mark my words - we will redraw the map of this continent, as well.”

Kapatyan Occupation Zone, Republic of Vlachavia
May 2014

General Ionache Stanescu opened the local paper. The Vlachavian army published the paper, and it put out what the authorities occupying Karpatya wanted the people there to see. As commander of the occupying authorities in the province, Stanescu knew that did only so much good. The locals got plenty of news the paper didn’t print and the state news service didn’t broadcast. Still, if you didn’t try to keep a lid on things, what was the point of occupying at all? On page three was a picture of marching soldiers - ones that looked really good on parade, but Stanescu knew from experience that the battlefield and the parade ground were two different things. FIRST BRIGADE OF KARPATYAN INFANTRY VOLUNTEERS FOR DUTY, the headline read. The story below praised how the Karpatyans loved and praised their new Vlachavian overlords. He chuckled. If half of it was true, Stanescu’s mission here wouldn’t exist. The paper mentioned how the soldiers had exalted in taking a personal pledge of loyalty to the President of Vlachavia, Grigore Istrati.

Istrati. In 2008, Stanescu had been Istrati’s second-in-command when the President had personally commanded his forces in a stunning victory against the Sylvans. At least, that’s what the papers had said. In reality, Istrati simply had more men and more material than the Sylvans could muster. The 2008 war hadn’t been a campaign of strategic genius as much as a brute slugging match. The Vlachavians had more material - in large part thanks to their Ackesian allies - and as such had driven the Sylvans back.

These days, Stanescu had an executive officer of his own. He looked up from his desk in the outer office as Stanescu emerged from his sanctum. “What can I do for you, sir?” he asked, his accent of the purest Targoviste cosmopolitan drawl.

“Mr. Kaganovich is due here in ten minutes, isn’t that right?” Stanescu said.

“Yes, sir, at three o’clock sharp,” his XO replied. “I expect him to be right on time, too. You could set your watch by him.”

Before Stanescu could answer, he heard footsteps coming down the hall. A soldier led a tall, handsome man in somber civilian clothes into the outer office. “Here’s Lajos Kagonovich, sir,” the man in green-gray said. “He’s been searched.”

Stanescu didn’t think the unofficial representative of the Karpatyans was personally dangerous to him. He didn’t think so, but he hadn’t rescinded the order that all Karpats be searched before entering the military headquarters, either. Officially, Lajos Kagonovich had no special status whatever. But, as often happened, the official and the real had only a nodding acquaintance with each other. “Come in, Mr. Kagonovich,” Lajos said, gesturing toward his own office. “Can we get you some something to drink?”

“No, thank you,” Kagonovich said, accompanying him into the private office. His XO closed the door behind them as Stanescu waved to a seat. With a murmured, “Thank you, General,” the local sat down. Stanescu did the same. “What can I do for you today, Mr. Kagonovich?” he inquired. He was always scrupulously polite to the man who headed a resistance that did not officially exist. Despite six years of government persecution and outright suppression, feelings of national pride and identity still counted for more than anything else in Karpatya.

“You will remember, General, that I spoke to you this past fall about the possibility of programs that would give work to some of the men here who need it so badly.” Kaganovich was painfully polite to him, too. The diplomats called this sort of atmosphere ‘correct,’ which meant two sides hated each other but neither showed what it was feeling.

“Yes, sir, I do remember,” Stanescu replied. “And, I trust, you will recall I told you President Istrati disapproved of such programs. The president’s views have not changed. That means my hands are tied.”

“The problem is worse here than it was last fall,” Lajos Kagonovich said. “Some people grow impatient. Their impatience could prove a problem.”

“Are you threatening me with an uprising, Mr. Kagonovich?” Stanescu didn’t shout it. He didn’t bluster. He simply asked, as he had asked if Kagonovich wanted something to drink. And the Karpat’s unofficial leader shook his head. “Of course not, General. That would be seditious, and I am loyal to the government of the Vlachavian Republic.”

Stanescu didn’t laugh in his face, a measure of the respect he had for him. But he didn’t believe that bold assertion, either. “Are you also loyal to the Republic of Sylvakia? To the State of Karpatya?” he asked.

“I should remind you that the State of Karpatya no longer exists as a federal republic under Sylvan rule, as you very plainly know,” Kagonovich countered.

“A thing may be very plain, and yet people will not want to believe it,” Stanescu said.

“True,” Kagonovich agreed. “May I give you an example?”

“Please do,” Stanescu said, as he was no doubt supposed to.

“Thank you.” Yes, Lajos was nothing if not courteous. “That many people in Karpatya, Sylvakia, and Vlachavia alike were not happy with the repression and persecution they received at the hands of the government of the Federation of Panlarova must have been obvious to anyone who looked at the matter, and yet the rebellion that broke out here in 1988 seems to have come as a complete and utter shock to that government. If you despise people on account of what they are, can you be surprised when they in turn fail to love you?”

Lajos Kagonovich said, “My family has lived in Karpatya for generations. All we ever asked was to be left alone.”

“Mr. Kagonovich, I am a soldier. I do not make policy. I only carry it out.”

“I understand as much,” Kagonovich said. “Do you understand the desperation that makes youths reach for rifles instead of soccer balls? Or an education? Or a pretty girl?”

“I don’t know.” Stanescu had no interest in understanding a rebel’s mind. He suddenly shook his head. That wasn’t quite true. Understanding the Sylvan/Karpat might make him easier to catch, and might make other murderers easier to thwart. Somehow, though, Stanescu doubted that was what Kagonovich had in mind. Nevertheless, Kaganovich continued: “The worse the conditions in this state get, the more widespread that desperation becomes. You may see another war here, General.”

“You are in a poor position to threaten me, Mr. Kaganovich,” Stanescu said.

“I am not threatening you. I am trying to warn you,” Lajos said earnestly. “I do not want another uprising. It would be a disaster beyond compare. But if the people of Karpatya see no hope, what can you expect? They are all too likely to lash out at what they feel to be the cause of their troubles.”

“If they do, they will only bring more trouble down on their heads. They had better understand that,” Stanescu said. “Do what you can to show there are better choices than pointless revolt.”

“So long as there is a better option,” Kaganovich said. “I will. But the economic situation here is untenable. The Karpatyan economy has shrunk by nearly eight percent between 2008 and now. Families are homeless. And young boys who grew up in the ire of war are becoming men.”

Impasse. They looked at each other in silent near-sympathy. Kaganovich got to his feet. So did Stanescu. Stanescu put out his hand. Kaganovich shook it. He also shook his head. And, shaking it, he strode out of Ionache Stanescu’s office without looking back.

[Nova Sylva]

Kralovice, Republic of Sylvakia
June 2015

The cheers and applause filled the hall as Vaclav Cernik exited off to one side of the stage. There, Kasparov, the Minister of Internal Security, and Katerina von Steuben stood, each giving their own round of applause. He undid the bow tie around his neck as he approached. “Well?” He asked. “How was it?”

“Fantastic, Mr. President. You sure riled up the crowd out there,” Kasparov said.

“Okay, Katerina, how was it really?” the President asked.

“Nobody’s ever going to give you an award for public speaking,” she said, flatly, “But you have a good speechwriter, you said what needed to be said, and those people were glad to hear it. So all in all, Kasparov is right. It was good work.”

“I can always count on you to give it to me straight,” he replied, with what seemed like genuine respect. “And I’ve been meaning to talk to you about some things. Ride with me back to Crown Hill with me, will you?”

Von Steuben looked at Kasparov, who shrugged. “Uhm, sure, Mr. President.”

The armored limousine waited outside. “Back to Crown Hill,” he said, as him and Katerina entered the backseat. Outriders on motorcycles pulled ahead as the limo got going. They drove past the riverbank on their way. The river walk and adjoining district were neat, tidy, and clean - not like they had been seven years ago, before Cernik had taken power. But the nationalization program had put the jobless to work, and those that hadn’t jumped at the opportunity had been pushed out by police and Party stalwarts. They couldn’t abide homelessness in the capital of the Republic, no sir.

“You‘ve done some amazing work for me - for this country - Katerina. And its about time you get something in return,” Cernik said. “That alliance with Parthonopia, the arms deal with Tia Regness - all that has been your doing, and all unofficially, which makes it even more impressive. So imagine what it will be like when you have that official capacity.”

“Sir?” She asked, confused only for a second before it clicked in her mind. “Wait, are you saying -“

“If you want it, the job is yours. Hell, even if you don’t want it, because I need you in my cabinet. With Olongapek retiring, someone needs to be the new Foreign Minister, and I can’t think of anyone better than you for the job.”

“Sir,” the driver interjected, giving Katerina time to formulate a response, “There’s a wreck up ahead. We’ll have to go around.”

“Alright,” Cernik replied, but he remained fixated on Katerina and her response. Meanwhile, the limousine headed down a side street.

“Firstly, sir, I am honored. More than you know,” she said, “And of course I will accept. But won’t people see it as a conflict of interest with my corporation?”

There was a flash of headlights up ahead, and the limousine slowed to a stop.

“Get down,” he said, then again, louder, pushing her down into the seat. “Get down!”

Submachine gun fire peppered the side of the vehicle and shattered the front windshield. The driver slumped over his wheel and the horn blared and rounds impacted the vehicle’s chassis and windows. Katerina screamed. One of the outriders returned fire - the assailants were on both roofs of the adjoining side street from which the limo had turned. The wreck had been a setup - they were trying to kill him!

And then the stream of bullets punishing the limousine stopped. That meant at least one of the bastards out there had gone through a whole magazine’s worth of ammunition and needed to reload. Cernik popped up and, using his own personal sidearm, fired back out through the hole the assassins had shot in the windscreen. With a pistol, you had to aim. You couldn’t just spray bullets around and hope some of them would hit something. One of the gunmen started to grab for his face. He never finished the motion. Instead, he crumpled to the ground, the back of his head blown to red ruin as the round that killed him tore out the back.

Katerina was still screaming as Cernik slid into the driver’s seat and tossed the driver’s corpse out of the way. Submachine gun fire peppered the hull of the car again as Cernik slammed on the reverse pedal and sent the limousine reeling back the way it came. Scraping the side of a brick building before pulling back onto the main road, the limo limped back onto the main road.

“What the actual fuck!” Katerina screamed from the backseat. “What the hell is going on?”

“A botched assanination attempt,” Cernik said, perfectly calm. “They should have had our escape routes blocked, but they probably thought they could kill us in the first volley. If they had used higher caliber weapons, it might have worked, but -“

“Vaclav,” she said, not even realizing she was using his first name. “Those men just tried to kill us!”

“Yes, and they failed. So we get to kill them, instead.”

“How are you so calm about this?” She asked, angry beside herself.

“Remember back at the gala - you said I would never get an award for public speaking. You are correct. I’m not a politician, I’m an upstart colonel. But this - what just happened - that’s war,” she heard what sounded like sick, twisted pleasure in his voice. “And I’m good at war.”

Zeljava Military Base
Viery, Republic of Sylvakia

Major Koloman Surovy nearly spit his coffee as the news on the screen played out in front of him. “Oh my God,” he said. “Jesus, are you guys seeing this?” In the officers mess of one of the many dining halls of the Zeljava military base, the soldiers of Surovy’s battalion gathered around the television as the newscaster announced the special report.

“....Vice President Saviley Sedlacek has been arrested after a failed coup attempt against the sitting Sylvan President, Vaclav Cernik. While reports from Kralovice -” the Lunder reporter butchered the pronunciation - “It has been confirmed that last night, there was an attempted coup in the Sylvan capitol. It is unknown how many casualties are on either side, but it has been confirmed that the Sylvan Ministry of Defense has pledged its support to the sitting President. More on this story as it develops.”

“By Beo,” one of the officers said. “I can’t believe it. That rotten scum Sedlacek. Why would anyone want to kick our Cernik?”

Surovy looked at him curiously, but the man seemed completely serious. But then he remembered that this particular officer had been under Cernik during the 2008 war. As far as he was concerned, the President was the next Prophet incarnate and could do no wrong.

“Cernik has done a lot of good for this country,” Surovy said. “But at what cost? People getting harassed at the ballot box, political coups - none of that happened in the old Sylvakia,”

“Jesus, Koloman,” another officer said. “You sound like a Social Dem. Don’t tell me you voted for those fools,” No, Koloman thought. Though I couldn’t even if I had wanted too.

“Look, guys,” he replied. “Devil’s advocate here. I like Cernik as much as the next man - its thanks to him we’ve got all those new tanks and the pay raise, after all - but you can’t deny that he’s changing the very fabric of this country. First with that nationalization law, then the Supreme Court, then the elections, now this - once again, he’s doing a lot of good, but at what cost?”

Surovy thought he had made a pretty solid argument. “Fuck that,” the other officer replied, “You some kind of Sedlacek supporter?”

“Never mind,” Koloman replied, annoyed. “Can’t have a political conversation without being called a traitor, it seems. Enjoy your breakfast, asshole.”

Koloman stormed out of the mess hall and was evidently still in a fuzz when he reached the Auto Shop. Sergeant Jahoda was the first to notice. “Jesus, sir,” he said. “What’s got you in a tizzy?”

“People, Sergeant,” Surovy replied. “I prefer machines. Easy to break, easy to fix, and easy to diagnose the problem. Can’t say the same about people.”

[Nova Sylva]

July 2015
Csongrad, Republic of Sylvakia

The courtroom was silent save the occasional click of a camera flash as newsmen, mostly Sylvan, but some international - did their best to take pictures of the truly momentous verdict about to be delivered. The judge sat at the head of the proceedings, flanked by the national flag of Sylvakia on his right and the Party flag of Obrana Naroda on his left. The fact that the flag of the ruling party had made its way into the courtroom was further evidence of the fervor and complete and radical change that the Party and Cernik had brought to the country. Across from the judge, near the defendants' table, stood seventeen former ministers of the Sylvan government. They were a motley, diverse bunch - some old, some young - some military officers, and some ministers of either Foreign Affairs, Defense, or even Energy. Diverse as they were, all the defendants shared one thing in common - they were all either critics of Cernik's regime, or associates of the now deceased Saviley Sedlacek. The official story was that after the failed coup, Sedlacek had committed suicide. That was the official story, anyway.

In a thick Eposz accent, the judge stood and began the proceedings. "Let us begin with the national anthem," the judge said, and turned to face the flag. Placing his fist above his heart, he and the other members of the Court, as well as spectators in the rafters, began bellowing:

Sylvakia is not lost,
So long as we still live.
What the foreign force has taken from us,
We shall with sword retrieve.

March, march, Vojenska,
From sea to shining sea.
Under a blazing sky,
Sylvakia shall be free!

As noble anger leads us
to victory against the invader.
Arise, our mighty land,
for Sylvakia is not yet lost!

Augustyn Binkovech sang as loudly as the next man, and noted with a grim humor that the defendants - the seventeen men accused - sang the loudest of all. The court took their seats, and the proceedings began anew. "I believe that the plaintiff wishes to make a closing argument before the jury announces its verdict. Counselor, if you would."

The lawyer working on behalf of the state, a national prosecutor, stood, and before continuing, yelled "Slava Sylvakia!" in the general direction of the flags and the judge, coupled with a salute. "These seventeen men pose and existential threat to the continued prosperity and security of the Sylvakian Republic. The guilt of these men is not in doubt. All have signed detailed confessions of their role in the traitor Saviley Sedlacek's attempted coup against the government," the prosecutor said. "To stand against the President is to stand against the state, and to stand against the state is treason."

Binkovech, looking at the frail, sick, and seemingly starved and exhausted defendants, had no doubt that said "confessions" were in fact retrieved. When subjected to torture, men would confess to just about anything. This farce trial was one of many going on across the country - in lieu of the coup attempt, President Cernik had declared a state of emergency. The right of habeus corpus had been revoked, military men patrolled the streets of the capitol, and thousands of people, whether they had been connected to Sedlacek or not, had been arrested. It wasn't just Sedlacek's circle on display in the penguin court today - there were Social Democrats, Centrists, and members of Cernik's own party. The occupations of the accused ranged from politicians, to newspaper editors, to business oligarchs. They were diverse in many ways, united only in the fact that they had been - or were suspected of having - anti-Cernik sentiments.

"It is clear to the State, and hopefully to members of the jury, that these traitors had orchestrated a carefully planned treason against the lawful government of Sylvakia, in the interest of promoting foreign agendas and at the determent of the people and citizens of the Republic. These sentiments found harbor in the weak-souled and immoral minds of these men, who accepted bribes, sold state secrets, and actively joined in the former Vice President Sedlacek's conspiracy to overthrow the state. In light of these facts, the State recommends the maximum punishment of death by firing squad be administered on the behest of the jury. Thank you,"

"Members of the Jury," the judge said, "I am to understand that you have reached a verdict?"

More cameras flashed as the first among the jury stood, and read from an unfurled piece of paper. "It is, your honor. In the Case of the Anti-Sylvan Bloc of Traitors, we find all the defendants guilty, and recommend the maximum punishment for traitors to the State."

The gavel banged and Binkovech winced. "I hereby sentence all seventeen members of the Bloc of Traitors to death by firing squad, to be carried out tomorrow morning. Slava Sylvakia!"

[Nova Sylva]

December 2015
Kralovice, Republic of Sylvakia

Conscripts were filling out the ranks of the Sylvan army. It got stronger week by week. Sylvan fifth generation fighters could go up against anything that the TSPR or Vlachavia had, indeed, anything the world had. And the TSPR while they'd grumbled, hadn't done anything but grumble. As far as Matej Kozlovski was concerned, that would do for a miracle till a bigger one came along. President Cernik had thought it would work like this. He had been convinced that the TSPR and the other Great Powers wouldn’t do so much as lift a finger to stop Sylvakia’s remilitarization, and while many, including Kozlovsky, had been skeptical, in the end Cernik had been right.

Sylvakia was ever so much stronger than it had been. “By God, he's earned a second term for that,” Kozlovski muttered at his desk, dozens of feet down below the War Department building. Still, if they had done something, Kozlovski knew what the results would be. He walked down the tiled hallways of the War Department’s underground area until he came to a door – his own – and opened it. On the plexiglass, printed in black capitals was his unassuming title: INSPECTOR GENERAL.

Traditionally, the Inspector General’s office of any army serves a largely logistical role: overseeing the various quartermastery reports and occasionally dabbling into personnel oversight. In Sylvakia, however, the Inspector General’s office served as the chief intelligence arm of the Vojenska, overseeing and directing the network of spies, hackers, and other collection assets that made up the ever expanding conglomerate of espionage that Sylvakia was building at both home and abroad.

He locked the door behind him and took a seat at his desk, opening his briefcase and placing a collection of manilla-foldered documents on the table. Taking out a pair of wide-rimmed reading glasses, he set to work: a collection of text messages from the Vlachavian Chief of the General Staff to his mistress, the wiretap reports from the Alnaxian embassy, and a report on the capabilities of the new Tanayan surface-to-air missile system being rolled off the assembly lines.

Kozlovsky wished all the reports came straight to him. As things were, the art of intelligence collection and analytics had a turnaround time of several days before the information was disseminated to his office. He knew he couldn’t micromanage every bit of data, but the organizer within him wanted to. As long as Sylvakia stayed at peace, this didn’t matter much, but he knew that many of these valuable collection points would be slowed or even shut down at the start of any hostilities.

He drummed his fingers on the desk, taking off his glasses and polishing them with a small cloth. However much he despised Vlachavia, and he hoped that war would not come again to the Larovan region. In the 2008 war, it had been just Vlachavia versus Sylvakia. Sure, the Tanayans had sent “advisors” and a squadron of “volunteer” pilots, but had stayed neutral officially. That wouldn’t be the case the second time around. Since 2008, Vlachavia and the Tanayan Socialist People’s Republic had entered into a full-fledged military alliance. If war came again, Sylvakia would be fighting well out of its weight.

Did Vaclav Cernik see that? It seemed obvious to Kozlovsky. As far as he could tell, it seemed plain to most officers in the War Department. The trouble was, of course, that as shrewd as Cernik was, he was also impulsive, headstrong, and arrogant. Kozlovsky worried that Cernik would attempt the same headlong, aggressive tactics he had used domestically to reshape the country on the international stage, where the stakes were much, much higher.

The phone on his desk shattered his thoughts as the ring reverberated through the small office. Kozlovsky picked it up. “Inspector General’s office,” he said.

“Get here, Kozlov, Now,” the voice on the other end said, before hanging up. Only one person talked to Kozlovsky that way, and in that informality - Cernik himself. Well, so much for a lazy afternoon. Kozlovsky put his files back in the safe, turned off the lights and locked the door once more as he walked back out of the office, up the stairs, towards the elevator, into the garage, and finally to the backseat of a waiting automobile. “Pevnost,” he said, and the car began to drive.

The Pevnost was the seat of government in Kralovice, the capital city. It was a fortification dating back to the fourteenth century, where it served as the palace of the first Kings of Sylvakia. The massive riverfront complex included three palaces, a cathedral, and an imposing white limestone wall topped with towers built in a medieval renaissance style. Now, it served as the personal residence and administrative office of the Sylvan president.

The drive along the Olume river was a pleasant one, but Kozlovsky did not pay attention to the waterfront he had driven past so many times before. He only looked up from his notes when the vehicle pulled into the security checkpoint leading into the imposing complex, where his ID was checked and then checked again. A dog sniffed the government vehicle and a scanner was taken over its length before it was allowed to pass - security measures that had been put in place after the failed coup.

The vehicle stopped in front of a set of broad set of wide doors, which were opened for Kozlovsky as he placed his service cap under one arm and carried his briefcase with the other. Through a maze of corridors and hallways, opulently decorated with the history and wealth of long-dead Sylvan kings, all patrolled by fierce looking men in uniform. The uniforms, however, were not of the Vojenska sluzba, Slovakia’s armed forces; these men wore the uniforms of the Obrana Naroda party, complete with separate rank badges. It was Cernik’s private army, made up of loyal Party members, dedicated to his protection and the execution of his will.

Kozlovsky stopped in front of a door leading to Cernik’s office. The guard in front gave the customary party salute. “Slava Sylvakia!” He snapped, with a fist over his heart.

“Slava Sylvakia,” Kozlovsky replied, reading the rank on the man’s uniform. “Chief Assault Leader, I have a meeting with the President.”

“Inspector General Kozlovsky?” the Chief Assault Leader asked.

Kozlovsky nodded his assent and was allowed inside, where he found himself hurled into the mist of an ongoing argument.

“God-damnit, Admiral,” Cernik was sneering. “If you can’t do it, I’ll line you up against a wall, and find someone who can!”

Kozlosky entered as quietly as he could, and took a place on a couch on the far side of the room, sitting next to the Attorney General, who made space for him and greeted him with a quiet explanation. “The President is in a mood today.”

“Mr. President,” the Admiral, who’s nametape read NJEGOVAN, attempted to explain his position. “The TSPR Maritime Forces have over two-hundred and fifty warships. They have the largest navy on the continent, possibly in the world. To match this, we have less than sixty, most of which are of vastly inferior quality -”

“Hell, Anton, I’m not asking you to sink them all! I’m asking you to prevent three, maybe four of ‘em from sailing within spitting distance of the beach! If we can’t stop that, what are all these expensive ships good for, anyway? Maybe I should have them scrapped for tanks? Retrain your midshipmen as mechanized infantry?”

Kozlovsky leaned over and whispered into the ear of the Attorney General, Kasparov. “What is it the President is asking?”

“He wants to close the Straits between the mainland and Cromacija to all military traffic of nations not bordering the Sylvan Sea. That would mean if the ship isn’t flying a Sylvan, Vlachavian, or Parthonopian flag, it can’t make transit. Obviously the Tanayans would dispute this because -”

“Ah! Kozlovsky! Took you long enough to get here,” Cernik said. “Come here. I need your report on the assessment on our naval strength in the Istrian Sea. If we closed the straits, and the Tanayan carrier battlegroup in Vlachavia tried to reopen them by force, could we stop them? This dimwit seems to think not,” Cernik said, flinging a hand towards the direction of Njegovan, who slouched deeper into his seat. The man was visibly perspiring.

“Mr. President,” Kozlov said, “I’m sure that Admiral Njegovan possess far greater insight into our own naval capabilities, but I can say this about the TSPR Navy and their strength. The Tanayans value audacity, boldness, and courage among their captains and naval commanders. They have a rich naval tradition, and a very strong surface fleet to back it up. The Tanayan force that operates out Vlachavia includes one of their light carriers, three cruisers, five destroyers, and nine frigates. This also includes a component of naval aviation based in Vlachavia’s airstrips, able to provide cover across the entire sea, though the straits themselves would be at the very limit of their range. If the Tanayans attempted to force the straits, they would do so would boldness, straightforward action and unflinching resolve. It is almost certain, in my estimation, that it would become a blinking contest - if our Navy or theirs was willing to blink first. And I don’t think its a contest we would win - the Tanayans would not back down from a fight - its not their style, at least at a tactical level. In short, sir, any attempt by our forces to close the straights to military traffic would almost certainly induce a challenge by the TSPR which would lead either to us backing down, or a military conflict in the Straits of Cromacija.”

The room was dead quiet as Kozlovsky spoke the words, especially the last. Nobody in this room, save perhaps Cernik, believed the Sylvans could win such a conflict.

“If it's a fight they want, we’ll bloody give them one,” Cernik said with a snare. “Nobody is going to tell me what I can or can’t do with my Straits, by God.”

“If it comes to that, Kozlovsky, you think we can beat the bastards back?”

“Sir, any conflict with Tanaya in the Straits would almost certainly mean conflict over the Vlachavian border. Which means war with both -”

“I’m saying if it didn’t,” Cernik interrupted. “What if it didn’t lead to a wider conflict? What if this was a one and done scrap?”

“Sir, its extremely unlikely that -”

“You let me deal with diplomacy,” Cernik interrupted again.”Tanaya doesn’t want a war. Not with us. We’re stronger than we’ve ever been, and they know it. They might want to humble us but they wouldn’t risk a war. I know that.”

Cernik’s grasp on international relations, Kozlovsky realized, was even more brutish and uninformed than he had previously thought. He had no care for the subtle nuances of diplomacy, and was doing exactly what he had done domestically on the international stage - pushing, pushing, and pushing the limits until someone pushed back. But Kozlovsky’s job was not to set foreign policy, it was to provide an intelligence overview to help guide that policy. So he stuffed his disagreement and went along.

“If the Tanayans attempted to force the straight, and it led to a naval engagement,” Kozlovsky said, “We should leverage more than just our navy. The straits themselves are less than fifty kilometers across. Any Tanayan ships passing through would be vulnerable not just to our naval forces, but our air forces, and even some of our long-range rocket batteries. These assets, sir, not our ships, will be our largest deterrent. The Tanayans could realistically fit their entire battlegroup through the strait at once, but to do would be near suicidal. Likely, they will send three, maybe four ships through to test our resolve, and hope that we back down, with the rest in position to assist but outside the range of any shore-based defenses we would have. If push came to shove, sir, this would be an air battle as much as a naval one.

Once again, sir I should stress that I doubt the conflict would limit itself to this single theater. But geography is on our side, and I think that we have a real chance of stopping any incursion should they make it. But that’s here. There is no telling what they would do at the Vlachavian border.”

“Thanks, Kozlovsky,” Cernik said, and waved him to his seat. “Foreign Minister von Steuben is in Parthonopia this afternoon,” he continued, “signing a preliminary agreement to the Demilitarization of the Cromacijian Straits. Parthonopia will agree to be a co-signatory to the document, and while the Vlachavians will complain, that’s all they will do. With Parthonopian support on our side, the Tanayans won’t risk a larger war. No way in hell.”

“Yep,” he continued, “No way in hell they will. They’ll whine, they’ll send their official complaints, and they’ll do nothing else. Chairman Tikhomirov and his government don’t have the balls to fight us on our own ground. This, gentlemen, is where we show the Tanayans that they don’t get to push us around. We’re not a second-rate power anymore, by God, but continental players. They’ll learn to respect us, and treat us as equals, or they’ll regret it.”