Principality of Damirez.
Nova.
The shadow of war loomed across the nation. The eerie calm that was displayed by military officials and politicians, just a sign of things to come, the moments before the storm that was to start. For some however, the storm was already there, slowly building up in strength, closer and closer to its full outbreak. And amongst these was the 9th Legion.
As with the other Legions in the Damiran Expeditionary Force, the 9th was a specialized unit, a spearhead for specific situations and battle fields, surgical scalpel that would pierce the skin of the enemy for larger, more general minded units to advance and shatter the enemy resistance. The 9th in particular was one of the Legions specialized in infiltration warfare, officially untested, but whispers could be heard about Alestra, rumours that were never confirmed by the Damiran officials.
The general tasks assigned to the unit revolved around capture and destruction of strategical objectives, either as part of a larger force, or acting independently from the main force. The methods were diverse, largely dependent on the situation at hand or on the constraints imposed upon the legion by enemy and own force requirements. But regardless of the challenge, the small unit always stood ready to perform, bearing the name of Legion, their obligation was simple, excellence.
In the coming conflict, as it seemed that there was little that could be done to avoid the clash of arms, the Legion was bound to be at the forefront of any military operations initiated by DEF. Their specific, the fact that they were in particularly familiar with the terrain of battle, all pointed out that they were to see action. Even as time slipped away and the hours until the ultimatum expired slowly passed, the Legionaries were receiving briefs after briefs to expand their knowledge on the area where they were expected to perform.
"So," the officer in command of the 9th Legion was Gustav Ney, one of the few that could honestly claim to have been part of the formation since its birth, first as a lowly officer, now as commander of the Legion and responsible towards the objective assigned to the Legion, in his hands the careful balance of price and reward. "It seems that our orders stay the same." He was talking to the officers in his inner circle, as no directive to countermand the state of preparation arrived. "Given that, I think a toast is in order."
As many other units, the Legions each had their fair share of traditions and superstitions and the 9th was no exception. During the brutal Succession Wars, the unit bled for the first time, lost men and established its own set of beliefs, such as the toast before battle. It was said, and Gustav could always confirm it, that the first commanding officer of the unit, already aware of the desolation of the battle field, invited his officers for a drink before the unit's first engagement, exposing to his subordinates two bottles of wine. One, of a common table wine, the other an expensive wine, not easily found on the market.
'This one' he was claimed to have said pointing to the bottle of fine wine, 'We'll be drinking when we all get back.' The end of the story was never told, and the question never asked. All knew that the bottle of wine was never opened and that the Legion suffered in the engagements it was submitted to, but always the promise was made and always the officers strove to fulfil it.
And now, Gustav repeated the traditional toast, his words reflecting those of his lost commander, "We're going to be drinking this one when we get back," he looked at his men, appraising each and every one of them, earning nods of acknowledgement, "All of us."
In the barracks, the waiting soldiers received their beverages of choice, be it alcohol or simple water, reminders or reason of enjoyment, a last taste before departure, the earlier words of their commander ringing in their ears. "We're loading tomorrow, I expect everybody to be in attendance," simple words to reflect the state of affair, the joke there, but the joviality missing.
As always before a campaign, the men kept to themselves at first, making calls, touching pictures or objects of faith, expressing fears and concerns as they watched the watch. But these were not raw recruits or soft men. As the clock pointed nine, the topic of the conversation switched, and the barracks exploded.
"Huuzah!" they started chanting, "We're first!" they shoved away all their concerns, the transformation almost instant. "They won't even know what hit them!" one of them commented as he started dressing. The boasting and bragging always had a role and a part in military operations, morale the element that made or broke a unit.
"I'm glad we share the same opinion," Gustav and the officers, having finished their encounter, joined the men for a few brief moments, his presence not an unexpected sight, despite the strict discipline and chain of command, the man having come to know the man as a father. A strict and rigid father, but nonetheless one that loved all his sons. "It's going to be tough," he continued, looking at the many faces around him, "It's going to push each and everyone of you to your limits and beyond," he grinned at the expressions he was seeing, "Think you're ready for it?" he made the finishing touch.
There was a moment of silence, but just a moment, before the reply came, "Can't be harder than basic! That's hell you know," and the entire units started laughing as the commander smiled at his soldiers.
"Then now, make sure you make me a poor man!" he spoke again, "My treat, when we get back."
The next day, the 9th Legion was the first to leave its home base towards a new destination, the men serving in the unit the first to arrive at the assembly point for what was to be the DEF contingent in the oncoming conflict.
***
Mithras.
Principality of Damirez.
Nova.
It was buys, it was always busy in Principality airports no matter the day, no matter the occasion. There was a fixation in the Damiran collective mentality about flight, the prime reason why this segment of transport alone was untouched by the environment laws that kept the air fresh and encouraged alternative power sources. It was the same reason why from the ring of airports surrounding the city, you could always see another plane departing. The airports served to insure the mobility of the millions the city housed, one link to the rest of the nation and to the world. And today was no different.
Just after the press conference following his speech in Peteh, Liviu Librescu rushed to the airport, tickets already reserved in the first flight towards Mithras. He wasn't expecting to stay in the city long and rather than take the presidential plane in a wild ride across the nation, he chose the simpler, yet nonetheless efficient method. He wasn't going to catch any rest, regardless of the accommodations, so it made little difference in the long run if he ruined his eyes pouring himself over documents and files in the presidential jet or in one owned by the many Damiran Airlines. there was much to do and so little to do it.
Andrew Wallenstein reflected the thoughts of his superior. After countless hours of debating various issues with Emilian Davout and after even further moments of interpreting the reactions to the ultimatum, he was eager for a break. Unfortunately, despite the advanced technology, despite the fact that he was de facto the second in the Ministry for Foreign affairs, he found himself relegated to the task of briefing President Librescu about the developments. The man already knew what he had to say, of this he was certain, but he couldn't help but wonder if this was some sort of test that Davout submitted him to, Librescu's eyes always attentive at his friend's 'successor' and his performance.
The young diplomat was not eager to guess the reasons for this close scrutiny from the two men, especially as they reminded him of a rather unfortunate incident that was close to ending his career. Years before, when he was still learning the tricks of the trade, he had been assigned at a rather important meeting of leaders and personalities, all went well, until that is, he discovered that his tolerance for alcohol needed to be improved upon. He was grateful that beyond a few passes at a foreign ambassador, of similar state of mind and spirit, his training held true and his state wasn't discovered. But as always, Davout knew and it took several gruelling years of heavy work to repair the damage of that single night. And now, now that the Era of Librescu was coming to an end, he was tested time and time again.
"So," the voice of the president suddenly interrupted his musings, "What do you have for me?" the man was already moving towards the awaiting cars, his security complement moving at a brisk pace to keep up with what was supposed to be an old man. Librescu left no room for greeting or formality, a common occurrence by now and one that Andrew was familiar with.
"Well," he didn't even bother to formalize the encounter as he rushed after the man, "So far we haven't received any reply from the Blackhelm Confederacy, or from the Corporation for that matter," he stopped for a second and then continued at the president's nod, "Communications with our allies have continued as expected, and preparations are complete for both answers."
"Good," Librescu commented, "Now, what about..."
***
Sarasvati.
Principality of Damirez.
Nova.
The great garden city. A place of peace and recollection, the oldest proof of the Damiran style of architecture and of the ever present need for open space.
Sprawled upon miles and miles of open space, Sarasvati was certainly one of the largest cities of The Principality, if not the largest in numbers of inhabitants, then most definitely the largest in terms of space, the density of its population much lower than say Peteh or even Mithras. It came perhaps with the history, or with the fact that the city was a place of knowledge, great libraries containing forgotten texts or universities of many kinds found here. But regardless of its heritage and legacy, Sarasvati had another function, a newer one but nonetheless important.
It was perhaps unorthodox for a nation to host the embassies of others in a city other than its capital, but the Damirans did it. Whether it was to prevent the never ending arguments regarding to the proper location, or simply to allow foreign representatives to immerse themselves in all that Sarasvati had to offer, a lifetime of experiences that always left one feeling that there is more that he has to see, Sarasvati was chosen to host the location of the foreign embassies.
The streets hosting the numerous foreign representatives were privy to an excellent view of the sea and access to one of the many gardens of the city and security was quite tight in an otherwise carefree city, if unobtrusive to the guests of the nation. In addition, to compensate for the fact that the embassies were not hosted in the capital, the Sarasvati centre for foreign relations was always in contact with the relevant institutions in Mithras, the personnel in authority to handle all but the greatest crisis that could emerge.
It was this why every single bureaucrat available was making himself busy in handling the huge influx of information pertaining to the latest developments. Given their position and importance, they had to make sure they were up to date with everything that moved. Not even lunch breaks, almost sacred in their own right, were filled by chatter over various subject, within the limits permitted by the location.
"So in essence," Mirabelle Dupont was a rather plain looking woman, nothing about her truly noticeable, her face and body just what one would call normal, "We're going to pull some extra hours to handle it all," but despite her appearance, the quality most endearing to her superiors was the fact that she was hard-working and quite willing to push the extra mile needed to finish a job. It was what saw her promoted twice already and what was most likely going to land her an important position in the near future should she prove to be able to handle the challenge.
"Ok," Gissele Ame was an old friend of Mirabelle, her tasks quite different from those of the other woman, the contrast in the appearances of the two making many wonder about their friendship, "But make sure you're free on friday, we're still on for that double date!"
"Yes," Mirabelle's annoyed confirmation was all that was needed for Gissele to express her enthusiasm and rapidly switch the subject, before her friend could change her mind.
"So, what's going on?" despite working in the same institution, information first reached only those that needed it and only in certain cases, such as information that was going to be made public, were they allowed to discuss it freely.
"Well, we're up to our necks in dossiers regarding the political and diplomatic implications for what we're doing," the specific use of the pronoun didn't go unnoticed, "And I finally saw Jaques puzzled."
"Oh?" they both knew Jaques, the man unflappable, jokes often made about who would withstand an earthquake better, Jaques or a city halfway across the world.
"Yes, supposedly Ixania joined as well," this was enough to make Gissele splutter, the contents of her cup, unwisely grasped in her hand at that moment, spilled all across the table. Her voice was soon to follow what her body expressed.
"The Ixanians?!" her amazement was not without just cause, the legendary Ixanian neutrality not often breached, especially not at the initiative of their own government. For skilled diplomats, the causes for that were visible, as the Ixaninas undoubtedly didn't take well to the policies of Griffincrest and especially not to the threat of having to handle them in their immediate neighbourhood. Previous events had taught the Ixanians just how well behaved such neighbours were.
"Yep, even the Ixanians," and that was a statement all in itself.
***
Mithras.
Principality of Damirez.
Nova.
There was a lot one could do to fill the moments wasted in traffic. For Librescu, unwilling as he was to disrupt the day to day life of the citizens of Mithras, those moments were usually filled by reading reports or conversing with various officials on a multitude of themes. The present was no different. Even as he listened to the animated words of Andrew Wallenstein, his eyes skimmed across reports and files on one of the laptops he had available, monitoring the outlines of the present situation. Despite the fact that he knew how the world of politics revolved and the immediate outcome that was to come, there was still a sliver of hope that he would read a message that will prevent it all. A hope that he knew was unfounded, but couldn't suppress.
"Mostly," Andrews continued to talk, "We've received messages from allies announcing their support, and confirmation from the nations of the League that all is in motion," that was to be expected, as so many of the nations of the League had asked for this very action for so long, some more vehemently than the others. "And the ministry has already started to direct the diplomatic effort with the nations that offered their support."
Other than Andrew's voice, only the gentle tapping of Librescu's fingers on the keyboard could be heard as he continued working. "Still no reply?" the younger man asked as he took in the focused look on Liviu's face, "There's only a few hours left," he couldn't help but state the obvious as he, just like the president, hoped for a peaceful resolution and a triumph of diplomacy over the brutal ravages of war.
"None yet," the president's voice betrayed nothing, he was already done preparing for what was to come. "Any other reports?"
"Nothing major beyond what was previously mentioned," Andrew said, "Just Griffincrest supporters pointing the finger at us," his professional cool not enough to prevent personal opinions from surfacing, "Apparently the Corporation is Snow White and they represent the capitalist way of life," he snorted at this, "Furthermore we're communists and neo imperialists!"
"Yes," a flicker of a smile passed over the president's lips, "I've read that as well. It's funny how one can mix history so."
"I suppose the body count in Griffincrest's past operations or the fact that the Corporation has no regard for a free market were swept under the carpet," Andrew scratched his chin as he spoke, "And that they accept murder as a legitimate business practice around those parts. Otherwise I don't understand the reasoning behind that statement."
"Simple propaganda," Librescu enjoyed this conversation, it allowed a moment of respite from the greater issues at hand and allowed for some simple mental exercise, "The battle of words and wits, as integral a part of a war since before the slingshot. And in this case, they're probably in on the honey making scheme."
"And this war would affect their pockets," Andrew shook his head in humourless amusement, "No matter those that died because of the Corporation, no matter the crimes they committed. It's OK as long as it doesn't affect their pockets, but once someone decides to take action, it's a bad thing. Toss in a bit of denatured fact and there you have it!"
"Pretty much," Liviu knew that Andrew wouldn't express these same views in public, he was after all well trained, but it was good to know his thoughts without the blanket of the service, it reminded him of simpler times, of moments before he was the one that made the final judgement. "That's the world of politics, especially for some."
Hours later, the conversation with Andrew was all but forgotten for the president as he surveyed the city from high above, the holographic display at his desk unexpectedly blank. He was far from content at that fact, as it represented the last piece that was required to complete the puzzle. "So," he started, looking outside, ignoring the reflection of his friend in the glass, "Not even a reply."
"Not even a squick from them," Emilian answered, "It's as if they chose to ignore the Ultimatum entirely. Same attitude as that of the Corporation," he finished, displeased at the results.
"And look where that got us," Librescu turned around, a bitter smile reflecting his feelings, "Millions on the march to war, thousands of ships arming, entire nations throwing their weight behind this." It was the outcome of his actions, expected, but the fact that the Confederacy didn't even deem to reply did not bode well. "And now, now they don't even find it necessary to open a diplomatic channel, even one to spit in our faces."
"It's their choice to make," Davout shrugged, already at peace with the thought, "That way there would have been an opportunity for later negotiations, for some sort of relation to be established when the house of cards toppled above their heads, but they chose otherwise."
"That's going to make things harder if they try to bring diplomats to the table later on," it was a simple statement, no feeling or inflection to the president's voice as he spoke it, "Since many will interpret the lack of reply as a denial to all forms of diplomacy."
"We'll see to it if the time comes," Emilian replied, "But now..."
"Indeed," the president's eyes hardened, "There's not turning back," a few choice buttons were pressed on the keyboard, a retinal scanner and a print scanner emerging from the office, "And now..."
In the silence of the office, under the vigil of the foreign minister, one of the few authorized to witness this scene, a few words were spoken by the president, with calm and clarity.
"Alea iacta est."
Across the nation, earmarked units, already in the process of preparing for a long military campaign and various degrees of mobilization received a short message. One that was shared by their brothers at sea and by the secretary of the League.
'Purple Sky.'
Day Two.
