1914: Mud and Steel [AltHis|IC|Open]

[Tracian Empire]

1914: Mud and Steel IC Thread OOC - MAP - DISCORD OP Tracian Empire CO-OP Remnants of Exilvania "To these I turn, in these I trust, – Brother Lead and sister Steel: To his blind power I make appeal; I guard her beauty clean from rust. He spins and burns, and loves the air; He splits a skull to win my praise: But up the nobly marching days She glitters naked, cold and fair. Sweet sister, grant your soldier this, That in good fury he may feel The body where he sets his heel Quail from your downward-darting kiss." ~Siegfried Sassoon The year is 1914, and the world finds itself once more, on the brink. In Europe, the Concert which has tried to maintain the peace ever since the end of Napoleon is in disarray. The Great Powers are clashing, the balance of power is on the edge, and it seems that just a spark is needed in order to break the order of Europe forever. In Asia, old empires are crumbling, with irreconcilable visions of reform and revolution clashing as a reaction to the rising dominance of Europe. In the New World, some are dreaming of freedom, others are dreaming of unification, all while the might of the Americas is still asleep. And all over the world, the unstoppable march of technological progress has given the great powers of the world terrible weapons, that are sure to make rivers of blood flow. With diplomats increasingly unable to contain the growing tensions, it seems all but certain that the future of the world will be decided through mud and steel. General Rules 1. The OP reserves the right to be subjective and will have the final world in all matters. 2. The Co-OP will enjoy the same prerogatives in the absence of the OP. 3. All site-wide rules apply. 4. No OOC writing in the IC. 5. No godmodding, metagaming, or other similar actions 6. No flaming, trolling, or harassment in the OOC or in the IC. 7. Do not use ChatGPT or other AI tools to write your posts for you, whether in the OOC or in the IC ChatGPT can have its uses, for translation as an example, but the posts should be created through their own effort and skill Suspicion of using AI tools for the actual writing of posts can be grounds for removal from the RP. IC Rules 1. Post should be at least a few paragraphs in length. I am not going to specifically enforce character or word limits because that would be ridiculous, but some measure of effort should be put into posts. Rather than preparing a very short post, I'd recommend saving what you have written as a draft and adding things later as you get the inspiration for them. 2. The use of Chat GPT or other AI tools to write your posts for you isn't allowed. You can obviously use a variety of tools to check your writing and spelling, but there's no point to roleplaying if an AI is doing it for you. 3. Each post should contain the date or dates in which the action within it is happening. I'm not too strict with the dates, so you can advance the time by yourself in your posts, but mentioning the exact date within a post is important in order to maintain the chronological order of actions. 4. If you require any actions on behalf of an NPC, contact the OP or the CO-OP in advance. 5.In the case of warfare, the ideal situation would be for the two combatants to agree on a course of action and a result in advance. This is a role-play, which is first and foremost a form of cooperative writing and storytelling - who wins and who loses is less important than writing a good story. If an agreement can not be reached, there are two options. If the two combatants agree with it, their respective actions can be read by either the OP or the CO-OP who will then determine how that particular engagement has ended depending on the tactics involved, the situation of the two forces, and other such factors. If a fully objective decision is however requested, we will throw the dice alongside a list of potential modifiers that will be provided in advance. 6. Since the situation can change, we reserve the right to update these rules at any time - however any such update will be announced clearly and in advance in the OOC.

[Tracian Empire]

Accepted Nations Last Updated: 03.11.2024 Great Qing Empire - (大清帝國) - Tracian Empire Socialist People's Republic of France - (République Populaire Socialiste de France) - Sao Nova Europa United States of America - Intermountain States United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland - The Manticoran Empire Empire of Japan - (大日本帝國) - Lunas Legion Republic of Workers and Peasants in Italy - (Repubblica dei Lavoratori e dei Contadini in Italia) - HISPIDA Tsardom of Bulgaria -(Царство България) - NewOrderOfGermany Russian Empire - (Россійская Имперія) - Shohun Swiss Directorate - (Schweizer Direktorium) - The Orson Empire Holy Roman Republic - Great Confederacy of Commonwealth States Sublime Ottoman Caliphate -(دولتِ عَليّهٔ عُثمانيه خلافتی) - Remnants of Exilvania Iberian Republic - (República Ibérica) - New San Antonio Second Commonwealth - (Druga Rzeczpospolita) - Reverend Norv Greater Colombian Republic - (Gran República Colombiana) - Arvenia Third Mexican Empire - (Imperio Mexicano) - Malorossi Great Joseon Empire - (대조선제국) - Based Illinois Kingdom of Greece - (Βασίλειον τῆς Ἑλλάδος) - Alvosa Kingdom of Bhutan - (འབྲུག་ཡུལ) - Tottoriland Reservations Last Updated: 03.11.2024 Danish Union - Eyainevnivora

[Sao Nova Europa]

Chairman Jules Guesde spoke before a joint session of the Workers' and Peasants' Assembly, as it was customary on the 10th of January every year. "Comrades, I am proud of the progress we've made since last year. The economy has been growing and the country is becoming more prosperous. Most importantly, though, this growth elevates everyone instead of enriching the few at the expense of the working class. This is no accident; it is a result of the collective ownership of the means of production. In other nations, some produce everything and others nothing, and yet it is precisely the latter who have all the wealth, all the enjoyment, and all the privilege. In our country, the laboring classes actually enjoy the labor of their hard work. Instead of benefitting rich elites, they benefit themselves. That is the moral difference between France - and our brethen in Italy - and the rest of Europe."

The Chairman sipped a glass of water as the representatives clapped loudly. "In other countries, monarchs exercise power not due to any particular virtue, but solely due to their ancestors. We reject the idea that some persons are superior to others solely due to their ancestry. Instead, we firmly believe all men are born equal and should enjoy the same rights and opportunities. We reject the rule of the few over the many and instead believe in a socialist democracy. Not the particracy of bourgeoise states, in which voters can make a decision only once every four years and have to choose between reactionaries and conservatives. No - we believe in direct democracy, with the workers directly making decisions over matters that concern their own livelihoods. The production, wages, prices, working hours, and other matters concerning each industry are decided by the workers of that industry and not some rich businessman or some elitist aristocratic politician. That is true democracy."

"I am proud that in this country we firmly believe that it is immoral to allow poor people to die because they are too sick to afford healthcare, to allow our grandparents to be humiliated by the lack of dignified pensions, to tolerate the existence of homeless people, to send our kids to work instead of studying. I am proud that collectively we've all decided to contribute - each as much as we can afford by our labor - to a common fund to grant access to medical care for all, livable pensions for our elders, and housing for the homeless. I'm proud that France was one of the first nations to outlaw child labor, one of the first decisions taken by the Paris Commune."

"Capitalists in other countries decry our social measures as tyranny. What is tyranny, I tell you, is for working folk to go to bed hungry while the rich feast on the wealth produced by the exploitation of the working class. What is immoral is for the poor to be treated like nonhumans, denied of dignity. In France, we've defeated poverty because we replaced the exploitative system of capitalism with a moral and socially just system. The working peoples of Europe should not be fooled by the trinkets thrown at them by the elites. The occasional charity only aims to dull the masses. The working peoples of Europe must demand dignity, justice, and collective ownership of the means of production."

"It would be hypocritical to focus on Europe only though, and ignore the plight of the Oriental and Negro folk who are ruthlessly exploited by imperialist elites intent on pillaging their countries of their natural wealth. We believe in the right of self-determination for all people. We believe that the French worker has more in common with the Indian or Algerian worker than with a British or German aristocrat. We reject racialism and bigotry. We believe that the workers of the world should unite and break their chains of oppression. We should not let ultranationalism and prejudice blind us to the fact that both the European and the Oriental and the Negro are exploited by the same capitalist class. Only together can change the world, to move forward from an era of capitalist imperialism to an era of peaceful coexistence."

The Chairman sipped again his glass of water. "Now, comrades, let us move on to the agenda for this year. We aim to work together to further grow our economy by expanding our industrial and agricultural production. Scientific socialism is superior to exploitative capitalism, and we shall prove this again this year with record rates of economic growth. We shall invest in public infrastructure, for as we know investments in infrastructure contribute to higher productivity and growth, facilitate trade and connectivity, and promote economic inclusion."

"Although our healthcare system - the NHS - is the crowning jewel of healthcare systems in the world, there are areas in our country that still lack adequate access to healthcare. We shall be investing over forty million francs into the construction of new hospitals in rural areas, and into hiring more nurses and doctors. This way, we can ensure that everyone will have access to decent and affordable healthcare, regardless of where they live. We shall also be investing ten million francs into expanding educational facilities in rural areas, including hiring more teachers. These programs have of course been negotiated with, and approved by, the United Healthcare Workers and the Teachers' Union. For in our country, it is the workers themselves, through their directly elected leadership, that decide on the developments of their particular industry."

"At the same time, we will remain vigilant against both domestic and foreign menaces to the Revolution. We shall never allow our people to be chained ever again." He paused for a brief moment. "Comrades, we should look towards the future with optimism. For we are building the new society; for we are shaping the future of mankind. France shows the entire world that another future is possible; a future without exploitation and poverty; a future of equality and social justice. Thank you."

The audience got up and clapped loudly. The very next day, the transcript of the speech had been printed in newspapers all over France and had been translated into German, English, Dutch, and other European languages so that the message of the Chairman could be spread across Europe.

[New San Antonio]

17th of January, 1914. Presidential palace, Madrid. 10:41

All lawyers have an opposing counsel in their career they wish to have murdered. We all have our different reasons of course; corrupt through and through, uptight, sleazeballs, blatant liars, more pretentious than the King of England, or simply just insufferable to work with or against. Unless one’s especially crazy no one would ever act on such impulses, it simply comes with the line of work. One could say much the same about politics, as I’ve come to learn, though people are much more likely to act on those impulses.

“Union leader captured and tortured!” “Former noble stabbed and robbed!” “Officer shot in mutiny!”

I put back the three latest issues of today’s papers from my desk.

Reports like these seem to headline every newspaper currently. As I take a draw from my cigar I realize a time when that didn’t seem to happen regularly no longer exists in my memory. Born in troubled times, lived in troubled times, and most likely dead in troubled times, that is the fate of all Iberians it seems.

Iberians. Such a funny term to anyone old enough to remember the time before the term existed. Most of my life was spent before anyone used that term more than once in their life, perhaps never for some. If I told myself that fresh out of law school I’d have referred myself to a mental institute so someone could check my head.

I take another draw, hoping my troubles will float off with the smoke cloud. I remember when you didn’t import cigars from Cuba, you shipped them from Cuba. We lost that in the war with the Americans, along with Puerto Rico and the Philippines. I can only commend them for their exploding boat, a strategy clever enough to crush a nation. Those Carlists tried to march on Madrid and got very close to hanging the parliament and prime minister right there and then. The only use the “Popular Front” has ever had aside from helping French interests is stopping the Carlists turning parliament into a butcher’s shop.

“Your Excellency, prime minister Canalejas is here to see you.”

“Ah what would this country be without you ordering all the chaos for me Luis? Send him in please.”

My secretary gives a respectful nod before showing himself out of the room. Not my favorite man in the world, that would be Jesus Christ, but a sane man is a rare resource in these times. Mother always told me those who forget to count their blessings lose them.

Canalejas makes his way into my office as he always does, opening the door in the exact fashion as he’s done many times before.

“For a man who’s never been a conservative in his life you are a man of habit.”

“And for a man of God we’ve never met without wine in your glass and a cigar in your mouth.”

I feign offense and place my hand over my heart. “How low can your blows go to insult your president in such a fashion?”

We both chuckle at our verbal battle, too long have we known one another for such mild treason to matter anything to both of us. When you’ve wanted to murder and embrace another person on so many different occasions, petty insults are as normal as church every Sunday or a deadlocked vote. Or a minority government. Or a political murder. Have I perhaps gotten numb to it all already? More than likely, the wine doesn’t help either I suppose while I take another sip.

“It was so unfortunate you couldn’t have been at lunch with the Polish diplomat, such odd dishes but not ill tasting. Trying to find the best way to say no to a man squished between a murderous Eagle and a hungry Bear was a tightrope walk all on its own.”

“Oh no parliament was simply a joy today, I wouldn’t have wanted to miss the excitement for the world. A socialist leader and a conservative businessman nearly got into a brawl on the floor before the guards broke them up. There is such little difference between deputies and animals today the running off the bulls might soon be held in Madrid.”

“I’m the one up for reelection this year, so I wouldn’t be surprised if one group or another roasts me like a ham on Christmas in the public square.”

“Hah. There might be some ash left of you at least. I doubt the deputies would be satisfied till God himself can find what’s left of me.”

The banter at the beginning always helps with the disappointment that will always follow shortly after. The Polish border might be lined with gunpowder and dynamite, but in Iberia gunpowder runs in the place of water and lit matches rain from the sky.

I feel the need to right myself suddenly, as if the world was knocked out of balance. Perhaps my doctor was right when he said I need to get more sleep and drink less.

We move on to the more important matters of state, yet this feeling of nausea refuses to leave me. As if I needed any more misery in my life a headache begins to pound in my head like a worker hits railway nails.

“If you can convince the final holdovers from your party we can get the votes for the new railway between- are you alright Dato?” He puts down the papers he was holding and begins to stand up from his chair.

“It’s nothing, a stress headache that is all.” I wave away his concern, there are more important matters than the president’s headache we need to get to.

For once I put my wine glass to the side and snuff out my cigar and grab the glass of water on the far side of my desk. I couldn’t have made more than two glasses today, no? Must be a new vintage with a higher alcohol content then.

In one moment the world feels as if it has been flipped on its head.

The glass slips from my fingers and shatters on the floor. My brain feels ready to burst out of my skull, pressure building like a volcano inside my head. In a moment it feels as if a dozen elephants have stomped on my stomach, with one hundred train cars running it over one after another next. I feel more tired than I have ever felt in my life. The world seems to dim and darken at the edges.

I believe I’ve fallen onto the floor now from my chair. Dying face down seems undignified so with my remaining strength I roll myself onto my back.

Is that Canalejas in my vision? Is he calling for help? Asking me something?

Or is it an angel? Here to take me away from this mortal plane?

My thoughts swirl, whatever was in my mind has emptied out.

It all seems so silly now, a railway? A Polish ambassador? An assassination? What odd things for a dying man to worry about.

* * *

18th of January, 1914. Presidential palace, Madrid. 12:38

You were never a man I liked much Dato, nor one I liked working with, but you could be worked with at least. Agreeable people are in short supply.

Those rabid dogs from the newspapers are already here, taking their pictures and asking their questions. All of them have already come up with their own version of your death. They’ll say I killed you with my own bare hands, the royalists killed you, the communists killed you, foreign agents running rampant through Madrid, or you were struck down by God himself for snubbing the church. Fools all of them.

I told Luis to save your wine glass, we can only hope your widow will get to know what killed you.

At this point the parliament will never agree on a temporary president only four months out from the next election, not as if they can ever agree on much of anything in the first place.

With your death the dream of a peaceful resolution to Iberia’s problems dies with you. I could flee now, oil the right gears and I could be in London two days from now or New York in about a week and change. But what is more important? The Iberian dream? Or my own life?

I need to pray. Your soul doesn’t need the prayers the most Dato, but I’ll offer them anyway. Guidance is what I need, I can only hope the Lord has some for me. Who am I kidding, God wouldn’t give my soured soul a reflection of the light of heaven.

But Iberia most of all needs blessings, or a miracle, or deliverance.

[HISPIDA]

January 15, 1914: Palazzo Montecitorio, Rome, Italy.

"Centralization."

Everybody looked over to the Proletarian Consiglio of Military Affairs. He was a short man with a neatly trimmed mustache and a small pipe: empty, as smoking was prohibited in government buildings much to his dismay. Ioseb Stalin was a foreigner in Italy: a Georgian man, a veteran amongst Russian communists, and one of the first foreign revolutionaries to set foot in proletarian Italy. Still, he was nothing if not keen and shrewd; and, as a veteran bandit and survivor of the Alexanderian purges, knew how to run and streamline an unorganized militia. His Italian was rough and heavily accented, and at some points he required an interpreter, but his opinion carried weight nonetheless.

"There is a war coming," Stalin continued, chewing on his pipe. "I do not think this is news to most of you. It is only a matter of time before the powderkeg ignites, so to speak, and we need to be ready. We need to catch up with the industrialized countries of the world in just a few years. We need centralization and standardization."

"I simply do not agree with your analysis, compagno," said another man in the Direpol. He had on a wide-brimmed hat, leading to a light shadow covering his eyes and wide nose. A gray beard and wide lips decorated the unshaded part of Filippo Turati's face: he was the CdP of General Social Affairs. "A war is coming, I agree, but it is not between proletariat and bourgeoisie; it is between bourgeoisie and bourgeoisie. A war is brewing in Poland, not France or Italy. Standardization and centralization is something that must be achieved, I agree, but in such a short timescale? When war for the Republic is not on the horizon?"

"War is on the horizon!" another man said, of average height and an overweight build. No hair decorated his head which, when mixed with a strong jawline, made him look almost like a diadem-less bust. Benito Mussolini, the CdP for Foreign Affairs, was known throughout not just the government but the public at large as a warhawk; to his supporters, a committed revolutionary, and to his detractors, an adventurist at best and an unwitting counterrevolutionary at worst. "I am in agreement with comrade Stalin: standardization and centralization is necessary! More than necessary: it is the only way Italy can survive!"

"Calm yourself, Benito." Stalin chewed on his pipe a bit more. Mussolini took a deep breath and sat back down: unsure of when he had stood up.

"I am also inclined to agree with comrades Stalin and Mussolini." Nicola Bombacci was the black horse of the PCI-PCdI: wild-eyed, wild-haired, wild-beared, and wildly communist. The CdP of Economic Affairs was no stranger to the Stalin-Mussolini militarists; indeed, he was one of the first members of the government in general to side with them in the militarism debate. "I furthermore submit that with centralization and standardization comes investment in heavy industry; while our economic program has borne fruit, as you can see in the latest records of state profits and re-investments in both North and South, we should begin shifting from civilian goods to military materiel. Guns, uniforms, ammunition: more of the agricultural surplus should go towards rations."

"Enough." There was one man everybody in the room would listen to: comrade President of the Political Directory, a balding man with a well-groomed mustache and bulbous lips. Constantino Lazzari, President of both Direpol and the PCI-PCdI, stood up. "I am inclined to agree with comrades Stalin, Mussolini, and Bombacci, but as the constitution dictates this must come to a vote. All in favor of centralizing and standardizing the Red Army?"

Hands shot up. Stalin, Bombacci, Mussolini; and, finally, a visibly reluctant young man with a clean face and a large forehead.

"Ayes from Stalin, Bombacci, Mussolini, and Matteotti. All opposed?"

Only Turati.

"Very well. Comrades Stalin, Bombacci, Mussolini; I expect plans and proposals from all of you in the coming weeks. Matteotti, I want you to inform members of the SCP. Will that be all, gentlemen?"

"Yes, comrade President," a clearly elated Mussolini replied.

"Very well. I expect to see you all soon."

---

"Warmongers," Turati spat to a secretary. "Do they not see the crisis about to unfold and how we can capitalize on it through peace?! God-damned adventurists!"

It was unlike him to rant: the secretary, a young man in a suit two sizes too big, unkept short hair, small circular spectacles, and a beard that clearly hadn't been touched in a week, brought him a coffee. He thanked him with a nod.

"If I may, Proletarian Consiglio?"

"Speak."

"I believe you've made a correct analysis. I couldn't help but overhear the conversation in Direpol. If a crisis is brewing between Eastern and Central Europe, then it only reasons that there's opportunity, correct? Why foster war if we could-"

"-enough. You are not a member of government." Turati sipped his coffee. "...I apologize for my rudeness. Please, continue."

"I've been doing reading on my own, Proletarian Consiglio. 'Consciousness is something the world has to acquire, even if it does not want it.' It was Marx who said this, comrade of the proletariat. It was in a letter that I found re-published. Furthermore, industrialization in Germany is in the Ruhr and Rhine, primarily..."

"I see where you are going with this, comrade." The secretary smiled at the title. "I shall broach it with Direpol in our next session."

A soft smile from Turati.

"What is your name, comrade?"

"Amadeo, Proletarian Consiglio. Amadeo Bordiga."

"Well, comrade Bordiga. How would you like to sit in a meeting instead of eavesdrop on it?"

[Intermountain States]

The National Week
Published January 11th, 1914

---

World's first scheduled winged airline service opened in Florida

St. Petersburg, Florida - On January 1st of this year, the St. Petersburg–Tampa Airboat Line (or the SPT Airboat Line) commenced operation, becoming the first scheduled regular commercial passenger services with heavier-than-air aircraft. The airline will provide regular service between St. Petersburg, Florida and neighboring Tampa across Tampa Bay, connecting the two cities from what was as much a day apart travel (2 hours by boat, 20 hours by car, and 4 to 12 hours by train) to just 23 minutes.

A Benoist XIV will be used for the airline service and SPT Airboat Line had signed a 3 month contract with the St. Petersburg Board of Trade.

Over 3,000 spectators were at the departure point, including an Italian themed band. Antony Habersack Jannus piloted the inaugural flight of the of the SPT Airboat Line with former St. Petersburg Mayor Abram Phell being the first passenger for a round trip, having won the auction for the first ticket with the final bid of $400.

Thomas Wesley Benoist, the manufacturer of the Benoist XIV airboats, commented, "Some day people will be crossing oceans on airliners like they do on steamships today." Two more Benoist airboats are planned to be added to the SPT Airboat Line, one to ferry passengers and one to train pilots. Ticket prices for one way flights are to cost $5 while freight rates are to be $5 per 100 pounds.

[Tracian Empire]

Empire of the Great Qing
大清帝國
ᡤᠣᡥᠣ ᠰᡠᠨ ᡤᡠᠯᡠᠨ

---

“When at last all the Foreign Devils
Are expelled to the very last man
The Great Qing, united, together
Will bring peace to this our land.”
Boxer poem, 1900

Somewhere in the rural areas 40 km from Hankou, Hubei Prefecture
Imperial Chinese Army, 1st Beiyang Jun, 3rd Zhen, 1st Biao, 2nd Ying, 1st Dui


As they were moving quickly through the fields, Cai could feel his own heart beating so hard that it almost felt as if it was about to jump out of his chest and straight into his throat. The two embroidered dragons on his collar, symbolizing his rank as an officer, a Zheng junxiao - or a first lieutenant, seemed more heavy than they had ever been, almost as if he was wearing the metallic ones that were reserved for the parade uniforms. They were his pride and joy, the symbol of all his hard work. The son and grandson of peasants, earning a rank that was the military equal of a sub-prefect, all without ever taking the imperial examinations. He couldn't even think of his rank without his thoughts wandering to his family, and to his childhood. His father was a farmer - he had been a tailor, and was occasionally still making traditional clothing, a skill that he had hoped to teach his children, but traditional tailors couldn't really compete with the type of clothing that you could buy from the big city and that had started to make its way even in their small village. So farming was the main work of his family. As his father's oldest son, he was expected to drop out of school as soon as possible to start helping with the plowing of the fields. The compensation program ran by the local prefecture had allowed them to get some more land so they were in no danger of starving, but it was still tough work, and monotonous work. He had always hated sewing and cutting textiles, and the work on the fields? A dreary future.

When he had been 8 years old, he had been allowed by his father to go to a school in a nearby village. Although he had to resort to farming, his father had always tried to maintain a higher social standing than his peasant neighbors, so from the start, he had the notion that his children should have at least somewhat of an education, enough to be able to properly interact with the authorities. But Cai had loved school, every moment of it. Their teacher was a young man, younger than his father - and when he had been around Cai's age at the time, he had been sent by the Emperor to study abroad in the Flower Flag Country - Huāqíguó, or America as the people there called it. Every day, after their work for class was finished, the teacher would often spend some more time telling the children of his time there, sharing fantastical stories of a country whose emperor lived in a white palace, and who was chosen not by the Heaven, but by the regular people.

Walking near the trees, the officer couldn't help but think of just how similar this land was to his home. He had been born far away from here, in a small village called Longyan in Guangdong, but if he were to close his eyes and to focus only on certain things, it felt like back then. He could almost retrace the steps from his childhood house to the small house of Uncle Zeng. An elderly, retired scholar, Uncle Zeng had been the closest thing to a "school" the village had before the nearby school was built, often helping the children of the slightly richer families with their preparations for the imperial examinations. If asked, he would even help the children who certainly had no means to attend them. Of course, now with the school and with the end of the examinations, old Uncle Zeng didn't have that much to do and spent his time writing calligraphy with that big brush of his, but he would still answer questions if asked nicely - and young Cai had a lot of questions. Zeng had been a scholar all the way in the Imperial Capital, before retiring back to his home village, and he had lived a life full with incredible events. He had, according to his stories, met both His Majesty the Emperor and the previous emperor, Emperor Muzong. He had witnessed both the wild red sheep rebels, and the misguided Boxers who had tried to fight against the foreigners with magic. He had never left China like the young teacher had, but he had met people from across half of the world. Even though there were no imperial examinations left, sometime Cai dreamed to be like Uncle Zeng, a wise scholar, knowing everything, silently and bravely serving His Majesty the Emperor. Uncle Zeng was respected in the village, and was often asked for advice - and this was going to have a great influence on his own life.

Due to his success in school, the young teacher had managed to convince his father to let him to continue to attend it - which his father eventually relented to, since the crops had been giving good yields in the last years. When he was 14, the province received an Edict from the Throne, which said that His Majesty the Emperor was seeking young, talented boys to prepare in order to become officers for the New Armies, and his teacher had apparently proposed Cai - which led to an outburst from Cai's parents. His father, having served back in the day for a while in the corrupt Green Standard Banner, wanted nothing to do with any military, and his mother, afraid to lose her child, had opposed it even further. Despite his teacher's best efforts, his father remained steady in his opposition - until he finally agreed to ask Uncle Zeng for his advice - and it was Uncle Zeng's support for this that ultimately silenced his father. So at 14, young Cai, with just a sack filled with some food and money to his name, took a horse and then an old train to the city of Luoding, where he spent a year studying in the primary school there. After a year, having passed his test, he received a scholarship from the provincial government to enroll as a military cadet in the Dong'an Military School. Life there was completely different from life in the school back home, they had to wear uniforms, the rules were strict, and alongside from Chinese, mathematics, history and English, they also started to learn the military sciences. After three years, due to his grades he was allowed to join an intermediate military school, which took him far, far away from home in Jiangsu, where he completed his education both as a civilian and as a cadet, ranking first in his cohort. His father died then, back home and learning about it, broke his heart According to the customs, he would have had to go back and mourn his father for three years - but he had felt conflicted about it. Many of his colleagues were openly dismissive of Confucian customs - superstitions, as they called them. But he couldn't pass on the opportunity. He went to a local temple and spent an entire day praying, and the next day, he was officially enrolled in the Imperial Army and had to spend 4 months in the ranks of the 1st Jiangsu Division, before, with the recommendation of his superiors, he was finally allowed to chase his dream - joining the prestigious Imperial Baoding Military Academy, even further away in Zhili.

The 18 months in Baoding had changed him completely. His pride as a soldier in the New Armies was now doubled by the pride of being an officer studying in Baoding, which had been founded by the great Li Hongzhang himself. He was thought everything an officer needed to know, and even more. The foreign languages that he had learned back in Jiangsu, English, and some little French, Polish, and German had allowed him to take part in the classes that studied foreign military tactics. Not having learned Japanese was a big issue, but he had managed to get to the supplementary classes. 18 months later, in time that felt like nothing almost, he had graduated, and was commissioned as an officer. The commander of all the New Armies, Yinchang, had personally attended the academy in order to congratulate the officers, and the moment when the Marshal had placed the golden dragons on his collars had been the proudest of his life.

After the first 6 months in the ranks as an officer he would have had the right to take a break and to back to visit his home, but ambition burned in his chest like nothing before. If he could perform two years of exceptional service, he could be recommended for the General Staff College course - and that was his current dream.

He and his unit were being transported by train to Hankou, were they were to take over the garrison duties of the unit there. Regularly moving garrison units around was important to the Throne's plans for developing a competent military apparently, and Cai could see why. It stopped units from growing complacent, it made the men get used to being far away from home, and it allowed each new unit to show their discipline and valor to the civilians. As the training song said -

"Third, on the march, never disturb the land,
For our pay and rations are from the people’s hand.
Fourth, love honor, keep a good name,
Fifth, with fellow troops, never strive for fame."

But their journey had been interrupted at a nearby railway stop, where the local government officials had called for their help. Apparently, a bandit group had violently attacked a nearby village and they were still there, so if they were to move quickly they could potentially intercept them. Banditry was unfortunately still an issue in some of the rural parts of China - it was much better than in the past, at least according to what Cai himself had read, but it hadn't been completely stamped out. China was a large land, and you could always find poor and desperate people willing to resort to desperate means. Some were doing it just for the violence, others joined radical religious cults, while a few maintained at least the appearance of doing it for "revolutionary" reasons, like the Tongmenghui. In fact, one of the main reasons for why the local Xunfangdui unit hadn't been there to stop the attack was because they had been called to another village in the opposite direction to investigate rumors of a revolutionary plot, which is why the local mayor, upon finding out that a military train was going to pass through, stopped and asked them for help.

A telegram was quickly sent to the local command, but Cai didn't want to wait. It was risky, that was for sure, but from what the survivors who had escaped from the village were telling him, the bandits weren't particularly well armed. Now, they knew where the bandits were - if they would have to wait, the bandits could potentially withdraw back towards the mountains, and disappear again. And then, in the end, he was the superior officer present here - it was his choice ultimately, without orders from his superiors. So in the end, his unit quickly disembarked, and there he was now, with his men, hiding among the trees, looking at the village through a pair of binoculars.

He could see the bandits from here, they were burning down houses, and gathering whatever loot they were able to carry - but they were too focused on their actions, and they couldn't see them. They hadn't set any sentries, and even if the trees were bereft of leaves, the snow had melted the week before, and the dark ground and the brown of the trees worked reasonably well at hiding them and their dark uniforms. He had already sent a few men under his second lieutenant to get on the other side of the village and to lie there in waiting, to make sure that the bandits couldn't escape, but as they were walking here, he had come up with another idea. Softly whispering to the sublieutenant, he explained his plan, and then selecting five of his men, he unsheathed his sword and tightly grasped his Luzi pistol with his other hand. Leaving the cover provided by the treeline, he advanced towards the village, and then as he was closing in, he shot his pistol in the air and waved his sword. The bandits, taken aback, seemed to have been initially scared, but upon seeing how few men he had, quickly gathered under the command of their leader, who, by the way in which he was shouting orders, seemed to be a deserter from back when the Green Banners had been reformed into the Xunfangdui. Those bandits who had guns opened fire one by one, without waiting for orders, and their marksmanship was clearly shabby. Pretending to be afraid, Cai turned around and began to run towards the treeline, while the bandits, without waiting for the orders of their leader, rushed towards them. As planned, when Cai and his men approached, the other soldiers left the cover of the trees and moved towards a ditch that was conveniently placed a few good feet away from the tree line. His men aimed, and hearing the orders of his sublieutenant, Cai jumped to the ground, face down, alongside the men next to him, and the fire of the Mausers of the soldiers raged through the air, as almost each of the bullets found its mark.

The bandits wavered, and tried to turn around, but that's when bullets rang off from the other side of the village - as the other part of his troop entered and took positions around the buildings. With one swift move, Cai took his cap which had fallen on the ground, grasped his sword again, and took his place at the head of his men as they climbed out of the ditch and started advancing step by step towards the village.

It was a massacre for the bandits. The soldiers had only two casualties, lightly wounded, while most of the bandits had been killed, superior numbers and superior marksmanship having carried the day. For a moment there, Cai could almost not believe it. It was certainly different from the exercises, and the smell of blood almost made him want to puke, but the sheer sense of... victory, was filling his mind. It was almost as if he had killed the bandits who had been threatening his own village, not a random one, far away from home. He wanted to scream something, to shout his victory, and his thoughts went back to his days in the academy. The first words he shouted along, and then his men followed through.

Wú huáng wànsuì, wànsuì, wànwànsuì!

[Great Confederacy of Commonwealth States]

Chapter House, Order of the Knights of the Death’s Head
Breslau
January 1st 1914, Thursday
01:23 Hours

The Diplomat's Son

The main hall of the Order House in Breslau was like something out of a Grimm fairy tale. Dark wooden panels reached up half-way the gray stone walls, its high cathedral windows showing the falling snow through stained glass. Crested banners hung between them, and the walls were decorated with paintings of both idyllic farming scenes and famous battles. What part of the walls were not covered with paintings were lined with bookcases filled with a mixture of dusty tomes and newer books. The furniture, including the bookcases, salon tables and the legs of the leather furniture, was of the same dark wood as the paneling, making the room feel more at home at a hunting lodge in a dark forest than in the middle of Breslau. Light came from two large chandeliers, but mainly from the roaring fireplace, above which hung a picture of the Order’s grand master, his eyes peering down from a great bear hat bearing a skull and crossbones.

While the room had been lively but hours before, many of the guests had left since wishing each other a happy new year. With the snow gathering outside, many were keen to be home with their families, or at least get enough sleep so they wouldn’t fall asleep in church on New Year’s Day. The officers of the 35th Division were members ex officio of the Order, but many saw it more as an extension of their work than as a true social club. Apart, of course, from the young officers, who had only their barracks to return to and who made up the bulk of what remained of the crowd. Seated around the fire, peering into the flames sat five Oberleutnants, each of them away from home for the first time, and drinking in the atmosphere of what they saw as their knightly castle.

Seated thus, all in their dress uniforms and with their Order medal still-shining on their chest, glasses of scotch and schnapps in their hand, their conversation had naturally drifted to the conduct of war, and how Germany would win any conflict, if it came down to it. As generals and field marshals, they gesticulated from their armchairs, drawing troop movements and grand strategies in the warm air.

“When France is taken, it needs to be destroyed utterly. Leaving a puppet government would not be enough, British spies would turn those cowards again in a heartbeat. We do not need to make the same mistakes as in ‘71,” explained Erich Heitmann, whose maternal grandfather had served in the army during those days. His grandfather’s frustrations spoke through him, and reflected a broader sentiment within the older generation, in society but especially the officer class.

Erich stood up, walked towards one of the bookcases and took out an atlas, which he opened on a map of France and put down on the low table, nearly brushing off a number of empty glasses.

“We would take… Champagne, Franche-Comte, and Burgundy. And Picarcy, and North Calais, to give us a path to the Channel. Brittany would become independent, as would Aquitaine, which would take Occitania. We can promise Provence to the Italians in return for their aid.”

“You forgot Corsica,” said Emil Wigram. The soft-spoken Emil never much enjoyed these conversations, but he was happy that he had finally made some friends who at least tolerated his presence. The vote had only recently been extended to Jews, whose political careers had always been limited to the professional civil service. With the vote extended, his father hoped that elected positions would soon be opened to. An advisor to the Consul of Hannover, he hoped that his son would reach new heights, which necessitated at least some military service.

“Oh… Corsica… Corsica could go to Italy.” Erich said dismissively. “Or become independent. Or we could take it as a Mediterranean base.”

“The Italians will never voluntarily betray the Triumvirate,” Hans Müller interjected. Unlike Erich, who wanted to be a career officer, Müller came from a family of store clerks. His father had scrounged enough money to send him to the academy, in the hopes that Hans would be able to vote in future. That would open up a lot of economic possibilities for the family, but that middle class upbringing had instilled in Hans a deep hatred and mistrust of communists.

“They have more reason to hate the British than to hate us, given their position in the Mediterranean and in Africa,” Erich retorted. “If we promise them Corsica and Provence, they might be inclined to swap sides. Otherwise, we invade once we are done with France.”

He continued.

“We can play these kingdoms against one another, like Caesar in Gaul. When we take Paris again, this time, there should be no room for a socialist uprising. We clean the city proper, hang the socialists, and put a puppet on the throne of what remains of France. Or burn it, and put a king in Versailles. We take their colonies too, which should give us a strong position in Africa.”

To this, Hans nodded enthusiastically. Emil noted, however, the critical frowns among the others.

“Then, we turn to Poland. Warsaw should be taken easily once France is dealt with, and Poland should be annexed into Germany. With Poland secured, we can bring Prague to heel easily enough. They can remain independent, but under our practical suzerainty. They can hold onto the Balkans for us, if the Ottomans choose the wrong side,” he said with a soft smile.

“That leaves us with Iberia,” he added, “... which will be begging for our allyship once we are masters of Europe.”

There was a short silence, but then followed a sigh.

“You are thinking again in months, not decades,” complained Alex Enzenauer. Alexander’s dad was a diplomat in Peking, expected to be elected ambassador one day, raising his family to senatorial status. While he did not say it publicly, Alex had confided in Emil a distrust for career soldiers, especially the Junkers, who he saw as too patriotic for their own good. But, Emil observed, his time in the army had nearly wiped out that distinction.

“When the war with France is over, who will we be facing?” Alexander asked rhetorically. “Britain, yes, but once Poland is taken, Russia will be a frontier, too. And make no mistake, British coin will find its way to Petersburg. Without Red France, there is no reason for them to remain our allies.”

So far the wisdom of the elder Enzenauer, Emil thought.

“And Jewish coin will find the Czar too.” Müller agreed. He then shot an apologetic look towards Emil. “I mean, the London Jews of international finance,” he explained himself, his face conveying that he thought that was much better of him. Alexander nodded at this clarification, and continued.

“So, if Poland is to be taken, we need to be taking as much as possible as to aid in a future invasion of Russia. We will not repeat Napoleon’s mistake; we will attack in early spring, and install a loyal government. With Russia truly on our side, Scandinavia will be no issue.”

“Oh yeah, Scandinavia…” Erich muttered, though Emil was pretty sure only he had heard it.

“With the whole continent on our side, and with ports in France and Norway, Britain’s overstretched navy can be overcome and we can invade,” Alex explained further. “Divide it into various kingdoms, and take its colonies for our own.”

“We might not even need ships,” Emil interjected. “According to Emil Sandt, aeroplanes will…” he tried, but Alex appeared not to have heard him, and continued.

“Asia remains an issue. But China, Japan and Korea are chafing under the British yoke. They can be made into useful allies, giving us an advantage in that theater too. If the German expatriates in South America manage to convince their governments, then the tables will be turned on the British. We can give Canada to the US in return for their aid against Britain. It’s mostly a frozen wasteland anyway, so we won’t lose much there.”

An old man’s cough coming from the door momentarily took them out of their imagined world of maps and invasions. There, the Grand Master of their Order, general Von Mackensen, was being led out towards an automobile waiting to take him home. Emil had not even noticed that the general had still been present. When he looked back, he saw Erich staring at him in awe, while Hans and Alex shook their heads.

“Of course…” Alex said, “we would need energetic leadership in the armed forces to achieve any of this.”

“You are saying?” Erich asked. Emil wondered if they were inebriated enough to come to blows again over their politics.

“Nothing,” Alex answered with a smile, clearly level-headed enough to retain his diplomacy. “However, it is clear that the army and the Reichstag are too busy squabbling over turf complete even half of these plans. We need to unite the forces of diplomacy, commerce and the army, not divide them,” Alexander explained, as if he genuinely thought he had just invented a concept. Erich nodded.

“I think we can all agree that the Reichstag lacks the ambition to do what is necessary,” he concluded.

“Speaking of a lack of ambition…” came the voice of Fritz Erich von Lewinsky. Fritz had been sitting silently the entire conversation, looking at the group over his spectacles with his hands folded in front of his mouth, betraying no emotion. Von Lewinsky came from a respected Prussian military family and he could count more generals among his ancestors than Emil could count ancestors in the first place. Even though he was in his early twenties, he sometimes sounded like he had lived an entire extra decade, having learned to play socialite and politics from an early age. He had an air of mystery around him, and even though Emil suspected it was entirely cultivated, he could not help but be enraptured if he didn’t pay attention.

“You underestimate the cowardly nature of the French. Even if we divide it into a hundred kingdoms, they will still unite against Germany if Britain calls for it. Allowing France to remain, in whatever state, while we take the war to the British would be a grave mistake. Better to annex it outright. We don’t need to burn Paris if we can turn it to our advantage.”

“Our proposals,” Hans retorted, dexterously claiming Erich’s idea as his own, “... are meant to ensure that we do not need to fight constant French rebellions. Puppet governments are much more stable.”

Fritz Erich smiled in that condescending way that could melt any feeling of superiority in seconds. “If we play our cards right, there doesn’t need to be a concept of France forever,” he explained. “French culture is relatively weak. It is an offshoot of German culture, but mixed with English and Italian influences which have diluted them. Rekindling German culture in the French, through imposition of our language and customs, could make them German in only two generations. Imagine, a unified German culture from the Baltics to the Pyrenees and from Marseille to Norway.”

Emil, who had traveled with his family all across Europe, could imagine such a thing, and even in the fire-warmed room, a shiver went down his spine.

The others reacted more enthused, however, and this spurred Fritz Erich on.

“The Germanic sphere is one of the strongest cultural spheres in the world. Had Germany been united, instead of the French, the Freem… the Catholic Church and the British keeping us separate, then it is entirely likely that Germany, not Britain, would have ruled the world. After all, it is the Germanic blood in England and the US which has allowed them to subjugate other people so easily.”

“Where have you read this?” Müller asked, not hiding his amazement at the theory Fritz Erich just put forward. The latter smiled, and leaned back in his armchair.

“Dr. Hermann Pohl is voming to Breslau in two weeks, to give a lecture to a small gathering. I think I can still get you on the guest list. It’s about the difference between the various Germanic races, and why the High German Empire is set to dominate Europe in the industrial age, an interesting continuation of our conversation. And who knows, perhaps…”

He stared at the group, the light of the dying fire flickering in his glasses. Keeping their gaze, he reached his hand into his collar, from where he procured a gold chain necklace. On the end sat a pendant, consisting of a red stone with a celtic knot in the form of a cross on it. He smiled mysteriously again, looked around theatrically for any onlookers, then hid the pendant back below his uniform like a closely-guarded secret.

“It might be the start of something greater.”

[Shohun]

Alexander Palace
Tsarskoye Selo, Russia
January 3, 1914

The Alexander Palace had become home for the Tsar and his family, away from the center of power in the Winter Palace, much to the chagrin of the Imperial Court. As the snow continued to fall and blanket the palace grounds, Tsar Nicholas II gazed out the window of his study, gazing out into the courtyard before he was greeted by the arrival of several of his top advisors. Moving to a conference room, the Tsar took a seat at the head of the table, as Chancellor Ivan Goremykin sat to his right, having been driven in from St. Petersburg.

Next to Kokovtsov was General Alexei Polivanov, the Minister of War, the chair over, State Councillor General Aleksey Kuropatkin, and General Paul von Rennenkampf at the end of the table. Across from them sat Foreign Minister Sergey Sazonov, with State Duma Deputy and Chairman of the Duma's Committee of Imperial Defense Alexander Guchkov and General Aleksei Brusilov to his right.

Kicking off the rather unusual meeting Deputy Guchkov began, "Your Imperial Majesty, thank you for granting us an audience here today. Before we begin the next session of the State Duma, I wanted to coordinate with Your Imperial Majesty regarding our military and foreign affairs."

"Of course, Deputy Guchkov." replied the Tsar. "I am told by the Chancellor that you have been formulating a plan for the Polish Question."

"Yes, Your Imperial Majesty." said Guchkov. "Earlier last February, I inquired with General von Rennenkampf of the Pskov Military District and General Brusilov of the Kiev Military District for the creation of updated planning for an all out offensive into Poland. In collaboration with one another, they have developed a comprehensive multi-step plan for its implementation. And with Your Imperial Majesty's approval, I would like to take the first steps towards it today."

The Tsar raised an eyebrow, looking amused. "This is not the first time someone has proposed such action. What is different now?"

"The difference, Your Imperial Majesty, lies not in the position of outside powers, but within Russia itself." replied General Kuropatkin. "Ever since the Army's disappointing performance against Japan, due to the meddling of the British and the corruption of the Western 'Zhyd', Russia has been challenged at home and abroad. We are seen as weak. Our once mighty empire considered inferior by the West and even the Orient... But now, now we have undergone reform and modernization. We have swept out the corrupt Zhyd and built our army anew. We have reinforced our alliances, and strengthened out position at home. The Russian Army is once again the strongest in the world." He gestured violently. "All we must do is show this to the world."

Guchkov nodded, continuing where the general had left off. "Your Imperial Majesty, when we succeed, you will live forever in history as one of the greatest Emperors Russia has ever seen. No one in Europe or the Orient will dare to challenge us. You will be the hero Russia needs. You will bring the country together, and then we may avenge our performance against Japan, bring the vile British to justice, and stamp out the communist threat in France and Italy. Russia will rule supreme. And the first step is with Poland - the gateway to the West."

Tsar Nicholas II was intrigued to say the least, as he considered his advisors' words. "And how do you plan to implement such an invasion?"

"A massive push into Poland from all sides with 3 million men. We will sweep in from the coast and from Ukraine while we pressure their center, before we outflank and destroy their resistance. We will reach Warsaw within a month, and the entire nation will be subjugated within two." said General Kuropatkin.

Nicholas II looked to his Minister of War. "Alexei, is this true?"

"Your Imperial Majesty, I believe that it is possible to invade Poland, however I would caution against it for now. We do not know how the British or the French will react. Or if the Chinese or Japanese would be drawn in. We can win in Poland if we commit enough resources within a reasonable timeline, but we cannot afford a war of attrition in the West, the Central Orient, and the East Orient all at once." said General Polivanov. "At the least, we would require assistance from our German and Ottoman allies, but even then, victory is not assured."

The Tsar nodded, but before the plan was squashed, Chancellor Goremykin interjected, "Your Imperial Majesty, if I may. Why not conduct a test of the enemy's resolve, before we make any certain decisions? I believe the Dnieper has frozen over in Ukraine. What if our troops happen to cross the river and due to weather conditions, accidentally enter Polish territory? It will be a test of our own capabilities, a test of the Polish, and a test of the international reaction. Then we may decide from there."

Nicholas II considered a moment before asking, "General Brusilov, can this be done?"

"Yes, Your Imperial Majesty. I can arrange for a division to set up positions along the river, and for small units to probe the Polish line."

"Very well then." replied the Tsar. "We will meet again when it is done."

Outside of Kremenchuk
Poltava Province, Russia
January 12, 1914

Atop his horse, Yesaul (Captain) Petro Krasnov of the 17th Don Cossack General Baklanov Regiment, 1st Brigade, 2nd Combined Cossack Division stared through his binoculars across the frozen Dnieper River at the Polish city that was once Kriukiv, analyzing their defensive positions before he gestured for his lieutenant to come forward. "Sotnik Liakhov! We will cross the river from the industrial district on foot and set up positions on the island to the east of Kriukiv. Send word to Lieutenant General Zhigalin that we will need the 1st Orenburg Cossack Artillery Division to provide two batteries in positions directly behind the island to provide support. Our company will move at midnight."

Captain Krasnov turned to his Staff Captain. "Podyesaul Boyko, inform the men that they are not to fire unless fired upon. I don't know what headquarters wants, but our orders are only to set up positions on the island - nothing else. We will approach from behind the island, so it is unlikely we will be spotted beforehand. I doubt the Poles will fire on us, but the men best be prepared."

Outside of Kremenchuk
Poltava Province, Russia
January 13, 1914
12 AM

As midnight came, the roughly 100 dismounted Cossacks made their way across the thick ice towards the island, bringing equipment and supplies by sled. Each lofting their M1891 Mosin-Nagant, within the hour they found themselves setting up camp on the small island, setting up their positions and even mounting a Pulyemyot Maksima M1910 machine gun overlooking the Polish side of the river.

Braving the bitter cold, Captain Krasnov once again looked out towards the Polish side under the light of the moon. If they hadn't been discovered already, the Polish in Kriukiv would be surprised to see Russians so close when they woke up in the morning.

[Alvosa]

Koinovoulio (Greek parliament), Athens.

3rd of January 1914.

It is a winter day in Athens, the new year has surprised them with snow, and the last of the celebrations are going on. King Pavlos has ordered the generals to the parliament building to discuss growing tensions in Europe.

He announces, welcome to todays session of the Koinovoilu, it is a new year and the tensions between the Triumvirate and reactionaries. With countries all over Europe, we here must choose which side to take. The Triumvirate consists of Italy France and Poland, while they oppose Germany, Russia and the Ottoman Empire.

A parliament member speaks up, “our Balkan Allies of Bulgaria and Serbia also lean towards the triumvirate, and I believe we should look towards allying with France”. Another one says “But what about Russia”. The first one responds, they support the Ottoman filth, our sworn enemies. A chant begins saying DOWN WITH THE OTTOMANS! DOWN WITH THE OTTOMANS! DOWN WITH THE OTTOMANS! The senior officials try to calm down the situation as two members begin an argument over Constaninople. “It is our destiny to reclaim the city and our old Byzantine lands”. “We do not want to risk our nation for a long dead empire”. “Even if it’s dead we can still revive it”. King Pavlos shouts, ORDER! All of you!

The debate is over, it seems I and the majority of the Koinovoilu support the Triumvirate, we will put it to vote. He continues, say, Long live the Triumvirate if you support the Triumvirate. The chorus could be heard streets away, the vote was a landslide. Greece stands with the Triumvirate in this time of crisis.

Greco Ottoman border, near mount Olympus.

The night of 6th of January 1914.

Two soldiers, Alexi and Constantine, are talking as the sun goes down at the greek military camp at the Thessaly border near mount Olympus, the mythical home of the Gods. Constantine, the older and more experienced soldier says to Alexi, I’ve heard word from Athens that we’re gonna join the French Italians and Poles if the war breaks out, that means we’ll be fighting Ottomans, Constantine says with a chill in his voice. None of them had actually been in a war before.

Alexi replied, if so, we’ll be on the frontlines, I don’t like our odds, considering the last war, she had heard bad rumors of 1897, when the Greeks got destroyed by Ottoman forces. Constantine said, we’re much better now and we’ll have foreign help, Italy is just across the sea and they say Brittania rules the waves. They will send help and we’ll beat them back to Baghdad. Alexi said, maybye we will win this.

[Great Confederacy of Commonwealth States]

Belvedere Palace, Ministry of Foreign Affairs
Vienna
January 5th 1914, Monday
09.12 Hours


The Ambassador

The approach to Belvedere Palace, through its palatial gardens and past its monumental reflection pool, was meant to strike awe into visiting foreign dignitaries. Dr. Eduard Schwartz, however, could not help but notice that it made the same impression on him, the recently-elected ambassador to Greece. The palace itself, situated on a Vienna hill, seemed to look down on him with a mixture of expectation and skepticism, something that the classical academic himself had thought when he’d looked into his hotel mirror that morning.

To his surprise, he did not even have to announce himself at the palace lobby. As soon as he entered through the open front doors, he was met by a smartly dressed young attendant, who bowed curtly before him.

“Herr Schwartz? This way, please,” he said before turning on his heels, walking away at a practiced speed where Eduard almost had to run to keep pace. The Belvedere was not a large palace, as its functions were spread over embassies all over the world. It hardly compared to the Chancery at the Hofburg or the Ministry of Internal Affairs at Schönbrunn in terms of size, but that could hardly be told from the monumental inside. As they passed hall after hall, Eduard was baffled by the sheer size of the staff, from suited men to typists and runners. The steady tick of typewriters emanated through the building, echoing on the marble construction. Eduard was led up the stairs and through an ornate hallway, where the attendant knocked twice on a large oaken door.

“The ambassador,” he simply said.

“Enter,” came the curt reply. The attendant opened the door, and gestured for Eduard to step inside. The wood-panneled room held a large oaken desk facing the door, behind which sat a man in his early fifties. His face was almost obscured, backlit was it was by two large windows looking out over the palace gardens. Behind the Ministerial Legate on the wall above him sat the world-renowned painting of Napoleon crossing the Alps; a masterful stroke of both military and diplomatic genius, which at one time had taken the Austrian empire completely off-guard. Napoleon himself seemed to look down on Count Leopold Berchtold as he attended his ministerial functions, reminding him of that very fact.

While Eduard had expected to meet with Count Berchtold that day, as to be informed of his duties before traveling to Greece, he noticed then that he was followed by a second pair of eyes, belonging to a man sitting at the short end of the desk. As soon as Eduard entered, this unknown figure stood up and paced towards him, a broad smile around his lips.

“Dr. Schwartz, congratulations on your election!” he said excitedly, shaking his hand with force and almost dragging him back towards the desk.

“Thank you, mister…” Eduard said

“Von Wangenheim. Baron von Wangenheim to outsiders, but for those chosen to the White, it’s Hans. Ambassador to Constantinople,” he added, explaining as least partially the reason for his presence. As the two approached the desk, now Count Berchtold stood up as well, reaching out to shake Eduard’s hand in turn. Where Von Wangenheim had had a strong handshake, Berchtold’s was almost limp by comparison, and he did not hold it any longer than strictly necessary.

“Thank you for coming on such short notice, Doctor. I know you have a great many things to prepare before your transition,” said the ministerial legate. Eduard nodded.

“After our meeting has concluded, I will be returning to Berlin to get my house in order,” he explained. “But luckily, I had a lot of time to prepare.”

Von Wangenheim smiled his widest smile again. “Yes, it is not common for an ambassador of senatorial rank, no less, to be elected with virtually no competition.”

At this, Eduard felt somewhat uncomfortable, and he gestured as if to push the compliment away.

“Well, one should not discount the Prince of Leiningen, who made a valiant effort. I think many felt there was hardly a point in competing, after I received my predecessor’s blessing” he explained. To this, Von Wangenheim nodded.

“Yes, Ulrich’s word holds a lot of sway in the German-Greek community,” Von Wangenheim said. “It’s where we store professors for the winter, I believe. He must have a lot of confidence in his former pupil if he recommended you for the job.”

Although Eduard was taken aback by the somewhat brash attitude of Von Wangenheim, he could not help but laugh at this joke, if only because it eased some of his anxieties going into the meeting. He’d expected a stern talking-to by the minister, especially for being inexperienced in diplomacy, but Von Wangenheim’s mannerisms made him at least feel welcome and accepted, something which he had feared going in.

“Speaking of…” Count Berchtold interjected, “did you speak with Ulrich yet?”

Eduard shook his head. “No, he only returned from Greece after Christmas, and we felt it was improper to already hand over work while the election was not yet certified.” Eduard explained, eliciting nodding from Von Wangenheim.

“And right you are. Well, perhaps we can already fill you in on a few things, especially on our… understanding,” he said.

“Understanding?” Eduard replied. Von Wangenheim nodded.

“Yes, between the Ministerial Legate, himself and me, as the ambassador to Constantinople. See, Greece is historically an important nation, as a classist such as yourself must realise. After all, it’s the birthplace of our democracy. This is why the ambassador to Greece holds an honorary diplomatic senatorial rank. Like the diplomatic senatorial rank of the ambassadors to Russia, the United Kingdom, France, China…”

“The Ottoman Empire?” Eduard filled in. Von Wangenheim smiled. “Exactly. However, Greece in recent years has left no opportunity unanswered to insult the Sultan, and they are now producing diplomatic scandals at an industrial rate. The Ottoman Empire, however, is an important German ally in the eastern Mediterranean.”

Von Wangenheim and Berchtold exchanged quick glances.

“Ulrich’s goal, then,” Berchtold continued, “... was to make sure that Greece did not put up too much of a fuss regarding the Turks. Because if we were ever forced to pick between Greece and the Ottomans, that choice would strategically be very clear.”

“Protecting Greece against itself, one might even say,” added Von Wangenheim, “... so that we can keep our diplomatic mission, in the name of our academic access to the country.”

Eduard nodded. He was baffeled by all this, quite unsure why Ulrich had not mentioned any of this during their long correspondence while he was still ambassador. Of course, Ulrich had always been careful about sharing diplomatic information, but he had more than once shown his frustrations with the Greek government and their bouts of hostility. That he had to do this in order to maintain German relations in Constantinople was new, but Eduard at least understood the playing field.

“It’s a shame too that you’re dropped into this mess at this moment too, I’m afraid,” Berchtold continued. “Because we have received reports that the Greek king has basically strong-armed his parliament into closer relations with France and Italy. We fear that this might mean future communist interference, closing Greece off to us again.”

“It would help tremendously, I think…” said von Wangenheim, “if you were to write to the Greek minister to explain the benefits of their neutrality. Nothing too forceful, but perhaps they need a reminder that we are indeed still watching them.”

“I…” Eduard said. He felt Berchtold and Von Wangenheim staring at him with anticipation, and he really did not want his first act as ambassador to be to second-guess the Ministerial Legate and one of the most important ambassadors in Germany. That was not why he even entered the elections in the first place.

“I think I can do that…” Eduard said. Von Wangenheim clapped his hands together.

"Marvelous! Marvelous, Edward. I think we will get along splendidly in the coming year. And I think it’s great to have a younger, more energetic man at the post than dear Ulrich… The old man needs his rest.” he added with a wink.

Royal Friedrich Wilhelm University
Berlin
January 5th 1914, Monday
16.20 hours

“He said that? Von Wangenheim is a bastard. A bastard, I tell you!”

Ulrich von Wilamowitz-Moellendorff paced through his new office at the Royal Friedrich Wilhelm University, gesticulating and dancing deftly between the columns of boxes stacked against the empty bookcases lining the walls. He had excused himself for the mess, stating that half of his books were still on their way from Athens to Berlin. His senatorial toga, black with a white sash for the diplomatic core and red for his chancellorship at the university, hung from a coat hanger precariously attached to the door. It reminded Eduard of his own toga, he supposed he would have to have it made in Athens.

“An understanding… His understanding of my job, yes! Aristocratic prick…”

He slumped down in his armchair, putting his cane against the armrest and beginning to rub his right leg.

“They had us waiting for half an hour in Kiel, before unloading… Took my leg right out. In the cold, too! Unbelievable…”

“So, this von Wangenheim…” Eduard tried to inform casually, but apparently Ulrich had a whole tirade prepared for him.

“He should have half his salary paid by the Sultan at this rate. His ‘job’, if you can call it that, has nothing to do with German interests. His job is to make sure that the Foreign Office never even so much as questions our relationship with the High Porte. Because Deutsche Bank has its investments in Anatolian and Syrian railways, and they fear nationalization above all else.”

Ulrich shook his head. “They would give Greece back to the Ottomans in its entirety, if that would not mean war with Britain.”

“He did seem genuinely happy for my election,” Eduard tried. He had a hard time marrying the idea of the friendly diplomat he’d met in Vienna with the bought-and-paid-for schemer that Ulrich tried to portray him as.

“Yeah he would, the snake. He’s looking for his second-place prize. Did you know that the Prince of Leiningen was his pick? It was a long shot, that boorish princely oaf has managed to alienate all but the most ardent militarists in the German community in Greece.”

Ulrich leaned over towards Eduard, beginning to whisper in a tone that sounded almost conspiratorial.

“Von Wangenheim is one of the leaders of the Junkers within the diplomatic corps. He has nothing but contempt for academics. He’s just trying to line his own pockets while placating the militarists in Berlin.”

“They did mentioned our strategic alliance…” Eduard said.

“A strategic partnership between an Olympic swimmer and the millstone around his leg, yes. If Greece, Serbia, Bulgaria and Romania unite against the Ottomans, do you think it can hold Constantinople? While the French and the British advance up from Mesopotamia? No matter, because they might do themselves in before the English cross the Eufrates. Meanwhile, the Ottomans keep antagonizing both Greece and Russia through their treatment of the Orthodox minority. So when we are forced to make the choice between the Ottomans and Russia, who would you choose? And then ask, what would Hans von Fucking Wangenheim choose?”

Eduard nodded, but he felt his heart sink into his stomach. When he put himself forward for election, he’d imagined himself as a liaison between German academia and the Greek government, just as an extension of his academic work at the University. Now, he was being sucked into a political swamp, where every act was already spoken for. He sighed heavily.

“So, what do I do, then?” Eduard asked, deflated. Ulrich nodded understandingly.

“I understand, my boy. It will take some time for you to have the freedom you’re looking for. My advice: do what Von Wangenheim asks of you, in this case. And then, do about a quarter of the things he wants, picking the least odious every time. That will keep him satisfied, while we minimize the risk of alienating the Greeks any further.”

From a drawer, Ulrich procured some paper and a pen, and began writing.

“I will also give you a list of people you can trust, and people to look out for. The prince and his lackeys, mostly, but there are some German bank fiends in Athens as well, beware of their opportunism.”

Eduard waited for Ulrich to finish his list, and then rose to his feet.

“Thank you, Ulrich. We will stay in touch, I hope. Come to Athens soon, alright?” he asked.

Ulrich nodded, took Eduard by the hand, and shook it mightily, his face a mixture of pity and something that Eduard would almost describe as guilt.

“Godspeed, my boy. Oh, and Eduard, before you go, I think it is good that you meet Paul Maas. He actually needs to visit Athens this year to visit the Royal Library, and he might need some help with permissions, then. His office is down the hallway.”

To the Minister of Foreign Affairs of the Hellenic Kingdom,

Your excellency,

It has come to my attention, through reporting in local newspapers as well as through the careful study of parliamentary procedure, that the Βουλή των Ελλήνων has voted in an extraordinary proceeding to align Greece closer to France and Italy. At the behest of my government, I would launch a formal protest at this decision, which my government and I believe has been taken rashly and without diplomatic consultation.

As it stands, neutrality has strengthened the international standing of Greece, and has allowed investment from many nations to help develop the nation of the Hellenes. I fear that, should Greece align itself more closely with the interests of France and italy, German investors would be disinclined to risk investment in a nation that appears to them to be openly hostile to German interests.

What is more, I would like to stress that the foundation of the governments of France and Italy is one based, in my view, on tyrannical collectivism and populism. It is known that France, and in the case of the Mediterranean nations, Italy, seek the furthering of their so-called ‘world revolution’. Any diplomatic alignment with Italy would risk, in my view, the stability of the Royal House, while allowing foreign interference through trade unions and other agitating organizations to alter the domestic institutions of Greece.

In light of the aforementioned, I would ask His Majesty's Government to reassess its diplomatic course, and to give more weight to the merits of neutrality., Furthermore, as I am newly-elected as the ambassador from the Republic of the German Nation to Athens, I would like to cordially suggest a formal introduction to His Excellency the Minister.

Yours truly,

Dr. Eduard Schwarz, Sen.
Ambassador to Greece

[NewOrderOfGermany]

January 4th, 1914
Palace of the Tsar, Outskirts of Sofia,Bulgaria

The sun rose that morning, Tsar Ferdinand I was already awake, he had been up half the night thinking about how to increase his country's economic output,and the solution was drawing ever closer:produce and export Agricultural products from Bulgaria, to whomever is willing to trade, that way, the economic output of Bulgaria will increase. Later that day, He stood in front of a crowd, and began giving a speech. "People of Bulgaria, I have heard your cries for more pay and better infrastructure outside cities, and I have news, I have decided to ask those who work on farms to give a portion of their crops to export to willing countries, to establish trade and build strong relations with the countries that are open to trade, only then, shall we begin to slowly modernize, Glory to the Tsar and People of Bulgaria!" The crowd cheered, seemingly pleased with this, were more than willing to start giving crops and other things to export right away, like textiles, Telegrams were sent out to Nations across Europe, and a couple to Asia, hoping to establish some sort of trade.

[Shohun]

Imperial Main Headquarters
St. Petersburg, Russia
January 13, 1914

General Paul von Rennenkampf and General Aleksei Brusilov pored over the maps and war games as several aides moved pieces around the table, simulating the first days of war against the Polish Commonwealth. In the first scenario, the Poles had proved reluctant to initiate hostilities, and the combined strength of the fully mobilized Russian Army pushed deep into Poland, reaching Warsaw before they were stopped and the advance stalled - a satisfactory result that would favor the Russian military in an attritional war. The second was poor, and despite the protests of several conservative staffers, General Brusilov insisted on a simulation of a Polish pre-emptive attack, pushing into Russia before total mobilization was complete. Caught off guard, Russian forces were pushed back to Pskov before their superior numbers and the stretched Polish supply lines allowed for the push to stall out, with more and more Russian forces joining the battle by the day before being able to push the Polish back across the border - an unfavorable result that would significantly delay the war and pose a greater risk of foreign intervention. In a third scenario, Russian and German armies would invade Poland in cooperation, overwhelming the Polish defenses and similar to the first simulation, allowing for Russian forces to push deep into Poland, this time with reserves joining the battle later.

Watching silently was Grand Duke Nicholas Nikolaevich, cousin of the Tsar and commander of the St. Petersburg Military District. Deeply loyal to the throne, it was rumored that he was in line to be appointed Supreme Commander of Russian forces at the outbreak of war, and unlike some of his relatives, was a rather competent officer within the Army.

"Damn it! Run it again." said General von Rennenkampf at the conclusion of a war game going accordingly to the first scenario. "We aren't mobilizing fast enough. If we wait to fully mobilize, the Poles are ready and waiting for us. It's slowing our offensive, risking the depletion of our supplies and foreign intervention."

"Sir, could we make a move without mobilizing our reserves first?" asked a Colonel.

"Without putting the Far East and Central Asia at risk, we are looking at numerical parity with the Polish at best. 500 to 600 thousand combat troops initially, to perhaps 200 thousand Poles and an equal number after they mobilize." said General Brusilov. "And our troops are not a match for the Polish to go one to one. We would require German assistance to open another front."

"Is that not our third scenario, sir?" asked a different staff officer.

"That assumes the Germans will attack Poland first, if at all." said the Grand Duke, speaking at last. "I have heard from our intelligence and my friends within the German military that their focus is on France. The will move on Paris first, before they turn to Poland. It could be months before they are able to join us. They can tie down Polish troops, but that isn't exactly all that we are looking for."

"The problem is with our logistics, which will be complicated if the war continues past a few months." said General Brusilov. "There will come a point where we don't even have rifles or ammo to supply all of our men. That is why it is essential that we sweep through Poland so quickly that our adversaries do not have the time to even consider intervention, and so that the war is concluded in a quick and orderly manner."

The Grand Duke nodded. "I am told by my cousin, His Imperial Majesty, that General Kuropatkin has assured him that we can win in two months. Is that feasible?"

"Only in the most favorable of conditions." replied General Brusilov bluntly. "Guchkov is a warmonger who wishes to fight at any opportunity. And General Kuropatkin is looking for redemption after the embarrassment of the Japanese war."

"Then what do you think?" asked the Grand Duke.

"War with the Poles and the West is inevitable. But we are unprepared for a sustained conflict. The best case scenario is that we join forces with the Germans and the British do not intervene, allowing us to choke out the Polish in a quick conflict. Mobilization prior to the war is favorable, but it will be difficult to achieve without tipping off the Poles." said General Brusilov.

The Grand Duke stood from his chair and paced around the map. "What if we try something else? A slow and steady mobilization of forces to the Polish border, without triggering a response... Not total mobilization, but as close as we can get to readiness before the Polish can react." he continued, "A buildup of our forces on the border under the pretense of military drills. At first, a few divisions - nothing that will concern the Polish too greatly. We pull them back, and next time we send even more. Eventually the Polish will let down their guard - they can't keep their troops mobilized forever and ever. And finally when we are ready and we have declared war, then we make our move."

"It is an interesting strategy - but what if the Polish do not wait and instead strike first? We will be at a disadvantage." said General von Rennenkampf.

"That is a risk we must be willing to take. If successful, we will be able to bring hundreds of thousands of troops into the border regions without triggering Polish mobilization. If not, we will have a serious fight on our hands, but in a defensive conflict, as we saw last in 1878, we can prove more successful." replied the Grand Duke.

General Brusilov spoke with several of his aides as he considered. "I will bring this to General Polivanov, if you are able to convince the Tsar. I believe this slow approach has merit, if performed correctly. But it does not make up for our logistical shortfalls and lackluster preparation. We will not be truly ready for several years to come."

Mariinsky Palace
St. Petersburg, Russia
January 13, 1914

Within the halls of the State Council, Chancellor Goremykin sat alongside Foreign Minister Sazonov and Minister of War, General Polivanov in his office. As they smoked and sipped tea, the trio discussed the recent Council business and foreign affairs.

"The sooner we pass this armaments bill, the sooner we can increase production. We are going to need every rifle, every bullet, every shell that we can get when, not if, war breaks out." said General Polivanov. "Our preparations over the last few years have been good, but not enough. War is becoming a matter of who can produce more or who has more stockpiled. To think not too long ago the infantryman was able to make his own bullets with a fire and a mold!"

Chancellor Goremykin politely nodded, "Of course, General. We should be able to get the bill through in this next round of 'voting'." There was a slight sneer in his voice, his contempt democracy apparent.

"What are your thoughts on the Greek situation?" asked Sazonov, changing the subject.

"Greece is an minor nation not worthy of significant concern." replied Goremykin. "Their position in favor of France and Italy will not significantly alter the balance of power in the region, but we should be careful that this not become a trend. It is important that we support our Ottoman and German friends, and that we signal our resolve to support our other allies in the region."

Sazonov nodded. "The Greeks are certainly beating the war drums. We could see a conflict between the Ottomans and the Greeks in the near future."

"Yes." replied General Polivanov, before pausing. "The Greek military is certainly capable, but it would be incredibly foolish for them to initiate against the Ottomans. My concern would be the Ottomans attacking first, or the Greeks miscalculating how much support they actually have behind them."

"The Greeks should be dealt with by the Ottomans quite easily. We would just not want the Italians or the British becoming entangled in the conflict... It would be a terrible distraction from our Polish objectives." said Goremykin. "I believe it is necessary that we weigh in on the issue. Minister Sazonov, please issue an official statement from the ministry urging the Greeks to reverse course. Do not encourage the Ottomans either; of course, we would come to their aid in war, but it is best if they are not sure and tread carefully." he turned to General Polivanov. "I would like the Navy to be ready to monitor the situation. Request Admiral Grigorovich at the Naval Ministry to ready a squadron from the Black Sea Fleet to deploy upon the Tsar's orders."

"Very well sir." the General stood to call can aide, and with a salute, left the office, joined by Minister Sazonov going to prepare the statement.

Now alone, the Chancellor settled into his chair one again, staring out at the falling snow. For the old man, it was just the beginning of the year, and yet so much was ahead.

Official Statement of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs of the Russian Empire
January 13, 1914
Authorized For Public Release

In recent days, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs of the Russian Empire has been made aware of concerning developments in the Hellenic Kingdom of Greece and the Balkan Peninsula, regarding a proceeding within the Greek Government to strategically align with interests directly and militarily opposing the Great Russian Empire, the Holy Roman Republic, and the Sublime Ottoman Caliphate.

His Imperial Majesty's Government of the Russian Empire formally protests this abrupt and rash decision, contrary to diplomatic standards and the interests of peace. The Russian Empire urges the Greek Government to carefully reconsider its position, in the interest of mutual cooperation, trade, and peace in the region.

The Russian Imperial Government is fully committed to its allies and partners in the region, and will respond decisively to threats against the Kingdom of Serbia and the Kingdom of Montenegro. The Russian Empire urges the Greek Government against miscalculation and escalation.

The Russian Imperial Government shall cooperate closely with it allies on this matter, and is fully prepared to act as an arbitrator in the Greco-Ottoman dispute.

[Lunas Legion]

Kazoku Kaikan, Rokumeikan
Tokyo, Japan
17th January, 1914

There were times that Ito Hirobumi was reminded to be glad that he was no longer Prime Minister. Oh, he was still involved in politics; he had since learned in his retirement that one could never completely escape it. It was a net that wrapped you up tighter the more you fought. And he had long since learned it was a waste of energy to fight. Not that he had the energy to anymore, not at his age. He was in his seventies! That was a time to relax, not engage in the verbal swordfight called politics by some.

But this? He blew gently down his pipe, sending a waft of smoke into the air as he read this morning's edition of the Asahi Shimbun. And on the front-page was written out the details of the so-called 'Siemens Scandal', which would sink the weather-beaten ship of government that he and the others had assembled. Saionji had never liked Yamamoto; only a lack of other candidates had prevented him from blocking his candidacy. This would be the only excuse he and Hara Takashi needed to kick out the support beams.

As if to add insult to injury, this was not even Yamamoto's fault. Matsumoto Kazu had been a rising star in the navy, having served during the wars against the Russians and the Qing, but the emergence of taking bribes from Vickers and Siemens would end his career. He would, Ito assumed, be court-martialed by the Navy. They had no choice. And Yamamoto, as an ex-Navy Minister and serving admiral, was sure to be dragged down in the quagmire.

What an utter mess. His government hadn't even lasted a year! Ito shook his head.

It was early in the day yet, so the lounge of the Peer's Club was relatively empty. It had long been a habit of his to arrive early, to take advantage of the peace and quiet of the Club and the luxury of the surroundings while he digested the morning's news. A finished breakfast was swiftly whisked away from his table from one of the servants, but Ito paid the man no attention. He'd expected company sooner rather than later, given this was a known haunt of his at this hour, and given the news... It was no surprise that Saionji had come earlier than he usually would.

The grandfather clock on the wall said this was barely before nine o'clock in the morning. Saionji strode in with the energy that only a man younger than Ito could manage. Saionji gave a slight, formal bow to Ito before he spoke. "May I?" He gestured to a chair.

"Of course." Ito nodded. Saionji sat, giving a cursory glance at the newspaper on the table.

"I'm assuming you've read it." Ito asked, to which Saionji nodded.

"Of course. I thought he might last longer, but..." He smiled faintly, barely visible. Ito knew him well enough to see it. You did not work with a man for near a decade in politics and not learn to read him, even an ally. "It seems it will not be so."

"Indeed. And so we find ourselves needing to, once again, find a replacement." Ito let out the barest hint of a sigh. "None of us."

"None of us." Saionji agreed. "None of us want it. We are..."

"Above it." Ito finished. A satisfactory answer, that did not address the real reason.

"Indeed. If not us, then who? I was the only one who vehemently disagreed with Yamamoto. Makino Nobuaki? I believe I suggested him, but the others would not hear it."

"They will not hear it a second time either." Ito said. "Matsukata will serve, if we ask, given the current crisis. As would Okuma."

"Neither will have the confidence of the Diet, and they are both retired from politics." Saionji said with a slight shake of the head. "But the House of Representatives is to be elected again next year, and perhaps I can persuade Hara to support it. A caretaker Prime Minister, as long as he can command the confidence of the Diet, would suffice." Saionji looked Ito in the eye. "I hate to ask it of you, but would you serve for a another time, Ito? I have no right to ask you to. None of us do. Hara says that the Army are preparing for another attempt at arguing for expansion. And you know they'll collapse things if they don't get their way."

"I cannot, Saionji." Ito shook his head. "Perhaps if we suggest Hara serve? He can command a majority. He heads the Rikken Seiyūkai after all."

"The Army will sink him." Saionji argued. "And that is if we can persuade the others to agree."

"There are six of us. Two of us-" Ito gestured slightly to himself and then Saionji. "Would support him.I can persuade Inoue to back us. Matsukata will as well, given the crisis and the need for stability. That's four of us. Oyama has no interest in politics."

"You are ignoring Yamagata." Saionju warned. "We need his agreement. He will never support Hara. You will not win him over."

"Then we need someone that Hara will be willing to serve under as he was willing to lend his support to Yamamoto, that Yamagata will support, that neither the Army nor Navy will topple. And that is willing to serve."

The pair of old men leaned back. This was, it seemed, a most annoying series of circles to square.

[Alvosa]

Belvedere palace, German ministry of foreign affairs

Vienna

January 5th 1914


The Greek ambassador to Germany would listen to Eduard Schwartz’s case for Greek neutrality in the upcoming war. He knew that they could not take them on alone, look at 1897! But Greeces Balkan neighbors were looking to Invade the ottomans aswell, they could push back the Ottomans and with the British pushing in on the Middle Eastern front, we may not take Constantinople but get lots of new territories.

Schwartz would finish talking and he would speak up. I can understand supporting the Ottomans over us alone. But with help from Balkan Allies and the British, we will Avenge the Byzantines and humble the Ottomans. This will be our best chance in decades. And if we fail, we will go out as hero’s.

I have not yet consulted with the king the consessions we will take for neutrality, it would be a high price. Epirius maybye?
I will need to negotiate that with the king.

We may not agree with the communist ideals in Italy and France but the saying goes an enemy of youre Enemy is your friend.
I will contact the king tonight.

The morning of January 6th 1914

To Belvedere palace, Vienna.

We have received your’e complaint on our descision to ally with France, Poland and Italy against the Ottoman Empire. We have spoken with our Parliament, Generals, and diplomats on our descision. We’ll see how those German investments will pay off when you’ve lost the war. We do not agree with France and Italys communist ideals. We will do what we must to restore our former glory. When this war is over, we will halt further alignment with Italy. With Greece, Bulgaria, Serbia and the British pushing on the Ottomans Constantinople will fall. Our descision has been made. We will stand with the Triumvirate. Glory to Greece!

January 15th 1914

To the Russian ministry of Foreign affairs

We have taken your statement into consideration and we are unfortunately for you, we will still stick against the Ottomans for the good of Greece. What do we gain, missing out on our greatest opportunity to unite the Hellenes since our Independence. We see no reason to stay neutral in this war. Our position has been chosen. Glory to Greece!

[NewOrderOfGermany]

Palace of the Tsar, Ouside Sofia,Bulgaria
January 5th,1914

The Air was crisp on that very day, the plan to increase economic output by trading with foreign countries had not been started, because as it was January, they could not grow crops due to the weather, but nevertheless the Tsar was determined to help his people any way he could.

Meanwhile, The Prime Minister, Aleksandar Malinov, was busy in his office, reading the transcript of the Tsar's Speech, and he began jotting down the names of countries that may want to trade, and stowed it away in his desk, for safe keeping. Later, Malinov and the Tsar were speaking privately
"My Tsar, I hope you realize that a lot of countries may not want to trade with us." Malinov told the Tsar, And Ferdinand I, the Tsar Responded,"Nonsense Malinov, yes, while we may be a relatively new nation, it does not mean that no one will trade with us, matter of fact, I have a few telegrams I need to send, and I need you to sign off on, I cannot do this without you and the rest of the Government, the rest seem to be in favour of this trade plan, what about you?"

Malinov nodded, "Yes, My Tsar." He then stepped out and began to walk back to his office

[Malorossi]

Mexico City, January 5, 1914.

Young Anatoly Jose De Rigo... An officer who seemed inconspicuous to everyone, but his political convictions seemed interesting to Victoriano Huerta. At the end of the century, the military lobby wanted to "lead the revolution", and for this they needed a liberal officer who had no influence inside the General Staff. Of course, Huerta already then aroused suspicion in the General Staff of the Profiriat, but after the coup the rules of the game changed, and he actually became a general whose word is law. So Anatoly understood with horror his temporary role. Rumors began to reach him that the General Staff was going to admit all the failures of the junta reforms to be the fault of Jose De Rigo, and arrest him. Huerta was called, according to a report from military intelligence: the black Napoleon. "The growth of nationalism is as dangerous for Mexico as the growth of revolutionary sentiments." And so for about a year De Rigo has to maneuver between the "liberals" and the General Staff, so as not to provoke anyone to a coup. Moreover, earlier it was necessary "to be like the leader of a civilian government", but now the war is approaching, it is time to take off the masks... An anxious time...
Passing the heralds handing out newspapers, who shouted: "The Great War or how America will react to the nationalization of the oil industry, read in the new issue of the Imperial Times." Tired workers gathered around the herald, whose gaze reflected complete apathy. Crossing the market square, where the herald's cries drowned out the cries of the merchants. The smells of rotting fish and fresh meat were a local attribute, having finally reached the palace, he went inside. Emperor Felix was holding some kind of meaningless banquet, where the liberal intelligentsia and entrepreneurs from different countries gathered, who wanted to receive at least some guarantees of the inviolability of their enterprises from the emperor's shoulder. The tables were laden with wine, tequila, snacks, which clearly contrasted with the situation on the street. The Emperor sat in the center of the reception hall table and made some empty speech:"... Mexico is surrounded by enemies. Zapata and his criminal group are sponsored by France, the USA is preparing the gang of Pancho Villa and Francisco Madero for an invasion, Profirio Diaz is preparing a revolutionary army in Spain. What should we do in these conditions? Unite more strongly around those who are ready to work for the good of the Mexican Empire and my dynasty. Let us drink to a quick victory in the century-long struggle for our independence..."
After such an impulsive speech, everyone raised their glasses and goblets to the "health of the emperor." This all seemed "politeness," because at any convenient opportunity, these same people would hang the emperor on a pole.
-Victoriano Huerta is preparing my arrest and the dissolution of Congress, you understand, a military coup is being prepared... It is necessary to discuss how to counteract it, because this will inevitably lead to the beginning of a major civil war.
-This is your war. Victoriano Huerta is my close friend, he will not act outside the interests of Mexico.
-Victoriano Huerta is my protégé, and he doesn't touch you only because he needs an alliance with Germany. After the alliance becomes a reality, I'm afraid you won't be needed. He thinks of himself as Napoleon.
-My blood is sacred, Huerta will not spill it. But the Gringo radicals may well do so, we remember the fate of my grandfather...
- Power over Mexico is not held by the one whose blood is sacred, but by the one who can stand up for it. It's time to decide whose side to take in the war, the main thing is not to make a mistake, because any mistake is a gallows for all of us
- I would be ready to communicate with Francisco Madero, but behind him are Pancho Villa's radicals, this will clearly worsen the situation in the already suffering Mexico.
-Because I am weaker than Huerta, and I cannot lay claim to your power yet...That is why we need to stick together to survive in the upcoming meat grinder.

[Reverend Norv]

JUSTYN

IT is cold in Lwow. Icicles hang from the domes of the old Uniate churches, whose bronze has long since gone to verdigris. Snow puffs and drifts, powdery fine, through the cobblestone streets of the Old City. North of here, the smokestacks of the locomotive factories belch in fuming clouds, and men with hammers and torches build engines for trains and trucks. A few blocks away, the Christmas market in Rynok Square is going strong: housewives haggle over little carved nativity sets, and children trade their groschen for mugs of mulled cider and hot chocolate. Most of the men are still in bed, sleeping off the abundant vodka of last night's celebration for the new year.

Justyn Kohut indulged as thoroughly as anyone, but the luxury of sleep is not for him. He is awake, however sullenly: seated at his desk in his attic apartment below the eaves of a sixty-year-old building. The desk is jammed up against a dormer window, where the ceiling is too low to stand anyway. Justyn has cracked the window, despite the frigid temperature, and the icy breeze blows across his throbbing face and gently rustles the paper jammed into his most prized possession: a gleaming typewriter from a Vilnius machine shop, the best in the Commonwealth. The typewriter sits enthroned on Justyn's desk, surrounded by abandoned drafts; those papers lie strewn like corpses, mocking their author.

It is hard to write the news. It's hard to write anything, this hung over, of course. Hammers ring against the inside of Justyn's skull. Hard to write anything even when not hung over, for that matter. Justyn has tried his hand at poetry, novels, short stories; written in his father's Polish and his mother's Ukrainian. All of it was hard. The news is hard too, but at least it pays the rent.

But the news is hard in a special way: there never is any. Not anything worth writing about, at least. Justyn shoves his chair away from the desk, swings a helpless fist at the hollow air. Where did they go, those days of heroism and peril, of adventure and decision? Jozef Bem at Grochow, charging fearlessly as the Russian army begins to break and run - Emilia Plater, dying on the battlefield, heartbreaking in her beauty - Sierakowski at the Vistula, rallying his men to stand for the freedom of their home, and the freedom of the world - Dziedzik at Zborowo, gracefully returning von Bock's sword as he accepts the surrender of three hundred thousand German troops. Those days, those moments - that was news! A memory a man might hold for the rest of his life, undimmed, imperishable - if only someone like Justyn could find the right words to immortalize it.

What news does Justyn have to write? The locomotive works have hit a new benchmark of production efficiency. The rye harvest is two percent lower than last year's. The President of Iberia dies in office. The Lwow Ballet's new production of La Sylphide gets rave reviews. Read it in two minutes, forget it in an hour. So why write it at all?

Justyn closes his eyes, digs his knuckles into his temples. No, seriously: why write it at all? What's the point? What is he doing with his life?

Well, it pays the rent. Better than moving back in with Dad, and hearing every day for the rest of his life about the time the old man shook Marshal Dziedzik's hand.

But: then again. The old man did shake Dziedzik's hand. That was news. Real news.

That's the rub, Justyn thinks. That's the actual hell of it. It's not that he doesn't want to write the news. It's that he does - and there is no news to write.

He looks at the coatrack in the corner of his bedroom. A reservist's uniform hangs there: mustard-brown, with tall jackboots and a four-cornered rogatywka cap and a corporal's chevron on the arm. And four ribbons: awarded for four years' worth of major exercises. Weeks of hard work and training, working alongside the Regular Army, fighting an entire miniature war every summer.

Practicing. Practicing in case there might someday, somehow, be something worth writing about again.

Justyn flings the dormer window all the way open. The icy air blasts into his face. He feels pain; the cold takes his breath away; he knows he is alive.

He prays for a war.

* * *

KRZYSZTOF

IT is cold in the woods outside Vilnius. There is little wind; the snow lies deep and still. The horses' hooves crunch softly, beautifully, as they meander through the bare aspen trees. Two horses; two riders. Father and son.

Krzysztof Lawniczak is a short, slim man of about sixty. He wears a long shearling coat, and sits a grey mare, and rides beautifully: born in the saddle, like so many szlachta elites. His son Waldek rides just as well, but is differently attired: mustard-brown greatcoat, rogatywka, a captain's dull-bronze rank insignia. The embroidered unit patch on the shoulder of Waldek's greatcoat belongs to the Army General Staff. Father and son ride in companionable silence, content in each other's company. Once, Waldek's horse leaps a fallen tree; the young man leans forward, then back, and his body moves seamlessly with his mount's. He looks up, and Krzysztof is watching him, and the old man smiles. So Waldek smiles back.

They arrive, at length, at the end of a point of land overlooking a stream. The stream has frozen; the aspens thin; it is possible to see all the way to the edge of the forest, where the trees stop and the farmers' fallow fields begin. In the distance, the steeples and smokestacks of Vilnius are barely visible. Because of the new snow and the early morning, not a soul stirs as far as the eye can see; the snow lies thick and unbroken over all; it is quiet. The quiet of a chapel, Krzysztof thinks: a Sabbath stillness.

"We used to come here when you were a boy," Krzysztof remarks - his voice low, a respectful murmur among nature's pews. "Do you remember?"

Waldek smiles indulgently, and reins in alongside his father. "Yes," he replies. "I remember. We would ride out here and look at the woods, and the farms, and the city. You'd always say that we were looking at the country: 'Look there, Waldek, there's your country - '"

"'- isn't it beautiful?'" Krzysztof nods. "Yes, you remember." He clasps his hands on the pommel of his horse's cavalry saddle, opens his eyes wide, imagines that they are a camera lens which can capture this view forever. "Isn't it beautiful. Yes." He shakes his head. "No wonder the whole world seems to want it."

Waldek turns in the saddle and studies his father's face. Krzysztof Lawniczak has served as foreign minister in two different State Councils; he is one of the Commonwealth's most experienced diplomats; and so when Waldek sees grief tighten the corners of his father's mouth, he knows that it will not long remain Krzysztof's private grief alone. That is the nature of being the Foreign Minister, after all.

"Everyone has always wanted it," Waldek replies: the reply of the Foreign Minister's son - necessary, foreordained. "We've always defended it," Waldek says. "That has ever been our fate."

"Yes," Krzysztof agrees wearily, not looking at his son. Then he lets out a bleak, humorless chuckle. "Different now, though. The world's lost its mind. Do you know what they are talking about, in Berlin and Petersburg? What they are quite openly discussing?" Krzysztof's green eyes dart toward Waldek. "World domination. Truly, Waldek. Ruling the world. They don't want all this" - he waves toward the white, silent forest - "because it's beautiful. They don't see the forest; they only see a place on the map. They want that place on the map because it is the gateway to the west, or the gateway to the east; a stepping stone toward leadership of the Slavs, or mastery of the continent; a waystation on the path to controlling the northern hemisphere, and then the southern hemisphere." Krzysztof shakes his head. "Even our allies in Paris - they don't stand with us because they love this land enough to fight for it. Their eyes are on the world revolution. We matter to them for the same reason we matter to everyone else: because we are in a useful spot on the map." The mare of the Foreign Minister whickers; Krzysztof gently pats her neck. "A continent of lunatics, Waldek: clever men driven mad by maps."

Waldek sits his horse in silence, watching his father. After a speech like that, his next question need not even be asked aloud. Krzysztof can hear it in the silence.

"A company of Russian Cossacks crossed the Dnipro last night, near Kremenchuk," the Foreign Minister says quietly. "The commander of the city's Reserve division reported their presence three hours ago. Marshal Gedynak called me fourteen minutes later."

"A test," Waldek states succinctly.

Krzysztof nods. "We need the French and Italians to issue condemnations - loud condemnations, and now. That's my job. In Kremenchuk, the local Reserves have been activated, and the Bug Corps is moving into position for Operation Mazepa." Waldek is a General Staff officer. He knows this codename: a preemptive attack across the Dnipro, striking with the powerful Polish regular force before the Tsar can mobilize his empire's unwieldy reserves. Krzysztof sighs. "This morning, one of our Cossack officers will parlay with the Russians. If they don't withdraw, we'll kill them. And then - "

Waldek nods. "War to the knife, on all sides." He pauses. "And if the Russians do withdraw?"

"Then we earn ourselves another month or two until their next test," Krzysztof replies. "Which will be bigger, Waldek. And the one after that will be bigger still. And eventually, no matter what our allies say, the Tsar will stop backing down."

"So." Waldek pauses. "This year, then. After thirty years of preparation, the war comes this year."

His father nods. He reaches out and places a thin hand on Waldek's shoulder, and stares at the bare aspen trees, and thinks of better times. "Yes," he says very softly. "Yes, it will be this year."

Waldek nudges his horse with his knees, and horse and man draw closer to Krzysztof. My boy rides so beautifully, thinks Waldek's father, and his heart breaks with fear.

"God damn them all," the old man tells the silent forest. "Madmen and their maps."

* * *

SERHII

IT is cold in Kremenchuk when the city readies for war.

There is a difference between the Russian or German reserves and the Commonwealth Army Reserve. The Tsar and the Senate must strike a balance in arming and training their reserves. Give ordinary people too much training, or too much access to modern weaponry, and perhaps they will decide that they would rather not be ruled by the Tsar or the Senate any more. So: you put the reservists under professional officers, and stockpile their weapons in centralized armories. That way the state controls the guns, and the state gives the orders, and the people have no more power than absolutely necessary.

The Commonwealth does not have that problem. And so its reservists are volunteers, not conscripts; and they have their own officers and their own regiments; and they train nearly as hard as the Regulars; and they keep their weapons in their homes or in regimental arsenals under local control. Which is why - at dawn on 21 January, when the border guard raises the alarm and the bells begin to ring from every church steeple in Kermenchuk at once - well, Captain Serhii Kolesnyk knows exactly what he needs to do. After all, he has been preparing for this moment his entire adult life.

The bells wake him at 0710. By 0720, he is in uniform: a long mustard-brown cherkeska coat and a grey fur hat, instead of the greatcoat and rogatywka of the conventional Polish soldier - for Serhii is a Registered Cossack from a family of Registered Cossacks, and he has earned the right to wear this uniform, so he keeps it in his closet. By 0725, Serhii is armed - for his saber and pistol and carbine and ammunition are all stored in a chest under his bed. At 0750, Serhii has reported to the regimental stables - packing into a cable car on Soborna Street with dozens of other men in mustard-brown uniform, as the bells continue to clamor from every direction. By 0830, Serhii's horse is saddled and he is mounted and his company is formed up in the parade ground next to the stables - only twelve men short. By 0845, seven of the twelve missing men have arrived. At 0900, Serhii salutes Podpulkownik Haponenko, the cavalry battalion commander, and reports Cossack Company, Cavalry Battalion, 97th Reserve Regiment (Kremenchuk Division) - ready for action.

By then, three more reserve regiments have mustered at the city's other three parade grounds. Each regiment's artillery battalion is moving into prepared firing positions; the divisional staff is distributing firing solutions for the island in the middle of the frozen river - and for the eastern shore behind it. Biplanes from the Reserve division's aviation regiment have begun to circle overhead, observing Russian dispositions on the far bank of the Dnipro. The divisional headquarters has assembled in its command center on Soborna Street, where General Mietek is even now speaking by telephone with the Marshal of the Sejm. And Regular Army divisions of the Bug Corps are mustering at railheads across the southeastern Commonwealth, en route to their staging areas along the Dnipro.

But Serhii Kolesnyk isn't aware of most of this, and he has other things to worry about. Because, to his considerable surprise, Podpulkownik Haponenko does not simply return his salute. Instead, Haponenko rides up to Serhii, and in a low voice instructs the captain to turn over his company to his executive officer. General Mietek needs to see you, Captain Kolesnyk. Now.

So at 0930, Serhii Kolesnyk finds himself in the divisional command center on Soborna Street: a lovely Art Nouveau building whose tall windows are, even now, being hurriedly boarded shut. Within that building, on the left side of a heavy table already strewn with maps and telegrams, Serhii stands at attention. On the right side of the table, next to a telephone on the wall, paces a short and somewhat rotund man with uncontrollable grey hair and half-moon spectacles. General Yaakov Mietek looks like what - in civilian life - he is: a prosperous Jewish patent attorney. But he seems utterly at home in his uniform, and he casts Serhii a shrewd look over the frames of his glasses. Mietek says: "They tell me you speak Russian."

This is hardly unusual in Kremenchuk. Serhii's face does not betray his confusion. "Yes, sir."

"They also tell me," Mietek adds, "that you used to be in the Regulars. In the Expeditionary Corps."

Now it makes sense. "Yes, sir," Serhii agrees - a touch wearily.

"Stand at ease," Mietek instructs. Serhii shifts his stance and looks directly at the general. "You were an observer with the Imperial Chinese Army," Mietek says, "at Mukden. You've seen the Russians fight."

"I saw the Russians fight ten years ago, sir," Serhii warns.

"Yes, Captain Kolesnyk, of course." Mietek waves a hand. "Don't worry. You're not here to tell me what the Russians will do next. We have Major Bejski for that." A tall staff officer in the corner of the room raises his head in acknowledgment; Serhii takes in his smooth, expressionless face, and thinks: Fifth Section. "No," Mietek continues, "you're here because we need someone to go down to that island under a flag of truce, and talk to the damn fools sitting on it."

Serhii blinks, momentarily speechless. Mietek waves at the telephone on the wall. "His Excellency the Marshal of the Sejm - yes, Kolesnyk, I was about as shocked as you look, when I found myself speaking to Pan Gedynak - well, the Marshal takes the view that before we start the apocalyptic final struggle for our nation's very survival, we ought to try and see if we can talk those silly buggers off that island. You speak Russian. You've studied the Russian Army. You're even a good talker - a politician, I understand."

"I'm a district representative on the city council, sir," Serhii protests. "Hardly a statesman."

Mietek plants his hands on the table and leans forward. "You - are - what I've got, Captain Kolesnyk. Go grab a white flag and ride down to that island. This is your country calling."

Serhii swallows, and snaps to attention, and salutes. Then he hesitates. "Sir - where do I find a white flag?"

General Mietek smiles grimly. "Damned if I know, Kolesnyk. The Army doesn't make 'em."

But it turns out that the Austrian restaurant down the street from the divisional headquarters does make white flags - or at least it makes white tablecloths, and that turns out to be much the same thing. And so, just before 1100, Serhii Kolesnyk rides alone down toward the Kremenchuk waterfront - through the lines of infantry taking cover in storefronts or behind benches, and past the machine gun crews entrenching along the promenade - and he urges his reluctant horse down the steps of the quay and out onto the ice of the frozen river. In his left hand, he hoists the white tablecloth high; his right hand clenches the reins, knuckles as white as the tablecloth beneath his dark glove. Forward he rides at a slow walk, his horse's hooves crunching through the hard snow above the river ice, until he reins in at the foot of the island rising from the river's center.

"Good morning," Serhii calls in Russian - and to his own surprise, his voice sounds remarkably steady. "Captain Kolesnyk, of the Commonwealth Registered Cossacks, requests parlay with the Russian commander of this invasion. Who answers?"

* * *

THE SOVEREIGN SEJM OF THE SECOND COMMONWEALTH



"FOR OUR FREEDOM AND YOURS"

---

A Resolution

Entitled the Resolution of Admonition, 1914

Be it resolved by the Chamber of Deputies and by the Chamber of Envoys and by the Senate, joint sovereigns of the Second Commonwealth, in the Sejm assembled, that:

WHEREAS the armed forces of the Russian Empire have, upon the day preceding this Resolution, crossed the Dnipro River and occupied the lawful territory of this Commonwealth, to wit, the island of Zelenyy Ostriv, and

WHEREAS this act constitutes a violation of the territorial sovereignty of this Commonwealth, and

WHEREAS this violation represents the gravest threat to peace in Europe since the Congress of Berlin, 1884, and

WHEREAS the People of this Commonwealth, whose rights this Sejm is bound by law and duty to defend, are resolved rather to die than to compromise their liberty;

This Sejm hereby:

ADJUDGES, according to the law of nations and the traditions of all civilized peoples, that the occupation of the island of Zelenyy Ostriv by the armed forces of the Russian Empire is unlawful, and represents a military invasion of this Commonwealth by the Russian Empire, and therefore this Sejm

ADMONISHES His Highness the Tsar Nicholas Aleksandrovitch Romanov, Emperor and Autocrat of all the Russias, to withdraw his troops from the island of Zelenyy Ostriv within the fourteen days following this Resolution, which period begins on 13 January 1914 and ends on 27 January 1914, and this Sejm

RESOLVES that if His Highness the Tsar does not withdraw his troops from the aforementioned island within fourteen days, then at the stroke of midnight that inaugurates the day of 28 January 1914, a state of war will exist between the Second Commonwealth and the Russian Empire; however, this Sejm further

RESOLVES that this state of war will not take effect if His Highness the Tsar, at any time prior to 28 January 1914, accepts the request of this Sejm to begin negotiations seeking a peaceful resolution to the unlawful occupation, by the armed forces of the Russian Empire, of the island of Zelenyy Ostriv; yet notwithstanding this resolution, this Sejm

AUTHORIZES the Marshal of the Sejm, His Excellency Leszek Gedynak - upon the condition that His Majesty the Tsar should refuse to abandon his invasion of this Commonwealth prior to midnight, 28 January 1914 - to take all actions necessary to secure an absolute and final victory over the forces of the Russian Empire, and over the forces of any belligerent allies of the Russian Empire, by pursuing hostilities to any extent necessary in order to assure the lasting peace of this Commonwealth and of the European continent; and to this end, this Sejm

INVOKES the treaties of alliance that bind the Socialist People's Republic of France to defend this Commonwealth against foreign invasion, and this Sejm

EXHORTS the Republic of Workers and Peasants in Italy, should this Commonwealth be obliged to defend its borders, to honor the alliance of the Italian people with the Socialist People's Republic of France, and thereby to join France in defending this Commonwealth against Russian invasion, and this Sejm

APPEALS to the United Kingdom of Great Britain, on the basis of the longstanding friendship of the British and Polish peoples, and on the basis of the shared commitment of His Majesty's Government and this Sejm to preserve the peace of the European continent, to defend this Commonwealth against Russian invasion; and this Sejm

APPEALS to His Imperial Majesty the Emperor of the Great Qing Dynasty, on the basis of His Imperial Majesty's longstanding friendship with this Commonwealth, and on the basis of the many services that this Commonwealth has gladly done the Son of Heaven in order to advance the strength and liberty of the Middle Kingdom, to defend this Commonwealth against Russian invasion; and this Sejm

APPEALS to the United States of America, on the basis of the democratic heritage which is the common origin of this Commonwealth and of the United States, and on the basis of the service of General Kosciuszko and General Langiewicz in achieving and protecting American independence, likewise to ensure the independence of this Commonwealth, by defending this Commonwealth against Russian invasion; and this Sejm

APPEALS to the Iberian Republic, on the basis of the democratic heritage which is the common origin of this Commonwealth and of the Iberian Republic, to defend this Commonwealth against Russian invasion, and this Sejm

APPEALS to His Majesty King Pavlos of Greece, on the basis of the recent resolution of the Koinovoilu to seek an alliance with the Socialist People's Republic of France, which is in turn a treaty ally of this Commonwealth, to defend this Commonwealth against the aggression of the Russian Empire, and also to take up arms against any of belligerent allies of the Russian Empire; in return for which, this Sejm pledges its support for any objectives which His Majesty King Pavlos may assert against the Russian Empire, or against any belligerent allies of the Russian Empire, and this Sejm

ENJOINS the Holy Roman Republic of the German Nation - on the basis of the democratic heritage which is the common origin of this Commonwealth and of the Holy Roman Republic; and on the basis of the law of nations, upon the legitimacy of which both this Commonwealth and the Holy Roman Republic depend; and on the basis of the need to preserve the peace of the continent of Europe, the destruction of which means certain doom both to this Commonwealth and to the Holy Roman Republic - not to support the invasion of this Commonwealth by the Russian Empire, but rather to remain neutral, and thereby to renounce a wanton act of aggression; and this Sejm

ENJOINS the Sultan and Caliph Yusuf I Izzeddin of the Sublime Ottoman Caliphate - on the basis of the law of nations, upon the legitimacy of which both this Commonwealth and the Sublime Ottoman Caliphate depend; and on the basis of the need to preserve the peace of the continent of Europe, the destruction of which means certain doom both to this Commonwealth and to the Sublime Ottoman Caliphate - not to support the invasion of this Commonwealth by the Russian Empire, but rather to remain neutral, and thereby to renounce a wanton act of aggression; and this Sejm

ENTREATS every sovereign around the globe to condemn the invasion of this Commonwealth by the Russian Empire, and to take such actions as are within each sovereign's power to support this Commonwealth in its hour of decision, and thereby to effect the peaceful withdrawal of Russian armed forces from the borders of this Commonwealth, and thereby to preserve the peace of Europe and the law of nations, upon which every nation depends for its security and independence; for we act in this moment "For Our Freedom and Yours"; yet above all, this Sejm

RESOLVES to defend the borders of this Commonwealth, and every inch of the sacred soil of our homeland; with the support of our allies, or without; if possible by peaceful means, and if necessary by the sword; at all peril, and at any cost. For the People whose rights we protect are resolved rather to die than to part with the Golden Liberty that is their birthright; and in peace or war, this Sejm shall prove equal to their courage.

APPROVED 14 January 1914

* * *

HENYE

IT is cold in Warsaw on the day Henye Laskier starts work. Streetsweepers, mostly poor Belarusians recently arrived from the countryside, scrape snow and slush into the gutters. Henye stuffs her hands deeper into the pockets of her winter coat. A newsboy thrusts the morning paper at her: "Russian troops seize Dnipro island! Read all about it!"

"I will soon enough anyway," Henye snaps, and hurries on. Afterward, she regrets it. She felt that harsh words would make the tightness in her stomach relax, but her rebuke only made that tightness worse.

Henye's destination is the Saxon Palace: a splendid eighteenth-century neoclassical building from the First Commonwealth - elegantly simple facades, tidy internal courtyards, colonnaded loggias. A wrought-iron gate bars access to the complex, but its guards are far from ceremonial; Henye pauses as she approaches, for she is met by a pair of watchful infantrymen with loaded rifles and fixed bayonets. On their greatcoats' shoulders is a distinctive unit patch: the crossed batons of the Commonwealth Army General Staff - for the Saxon Palace is the General Staff headquarters.

"Your business?" the first soldier asks.

Henye hands him a letter. "I have a meeting with Pulkownik Sierpinski."

The soldier studies the letter, and then raises an eyebrow. Waclaw Sierpinski is the head of the Cipher Bureau; and when he is not wearing his pulkownik's uniform, he is the Commonwealth's most distinguished living mathematician. Everyone in Warsaw knows his name. "He is expecting you this early?" the soldier asks skeptically.

Henye raises her chin a little. "He is."

The two men exchange a glance. One of them waves at Henye's purse; she hands it over; the soldier glances inside, then gives it back to her. The soldiers exchange another glance.

The first guard shrugs and steps aside. "Very well. On your way, then, Pani Laskier."

Henye's letter includes directions to Sierpinski's office. She hurries across the main courtyard; she rushes down a loggia to an interior courtyard; then she knocks at an unmarked side door. After a moment, a man in civilian clothes - with inkstains on his hands - opens the door and sees Henye and wipes his hands on his trousers with embarrassment. "Ah, you must be Pani Laskier. He's waiting upstairs."

Upstairs: a remarkably tidy office with a view of the Saxon Palace's main courtyard. Bookshelves stuffed with mathematical treatises; a Persian rug; a samovar of tea; four chalkboards crammed with mathematical equations in a regular, neat hand. The desk is empty but for two pieces of paper; on the other side of that swept-clean desk is a man in his early forties, with a humorless soft face and round spectacles and the collar of his Army uniform buttoned tight across his Adam's apple. Waclaw Sierpinski stands, and makes a short bow in the Prussian fashion. "Pani Laskier, I presume."

Henye attempts a stiff curtsey. "Pan Pulkownik Sierpinski."

Sierpinski waves vaguely. "Your coat - you must feel free." Henye doffs the heavy garment and hangs it on a coatrack near the door. Sierpinski's gaze does not dwell on her; Henye is pretty enough, in a sharp-featured Jewish way, but men have never stared at her, and she prefers it that way. Instead, Sierpinski busies himself with the samovar. "Sugar with your tea?"

"No, thank you," Henye replies. Sierpinski nods and returns with two cups. The mathematicians settle themselves into chairs on either side of Sierpinski's desk.

Sierpinski seems on the verge of attempting small talk. Henye intervenes. "I come recommended," she says.

"Yes, certainly." Sierpinski stirs his tea. "Professor Stanislaw Zaremba speaks very highly of you."

"That is an honor to hear."

"It certainly is." Sierpinski inclines his head. "Though I was not aware that Professor Zaremba accepted female students at the graduate level."

From Henye, a thin smile. "Or at the undergraduate level."

"That either."

"He made an exception."

Sierpinski nods. "Well, in that case, I have no doubt of your abilities. But Pani Laskier, I must warn you that I fear I will be unable to do likewise." He leans forward. "Despite its - very considerable overlap - with the mathematical community here and in Krakow, the Cipher Bureau is not an academic organization, Pani. It is a military unit."

"I am aware," Henye replies.

"A bureau of the Fifth Section of the General Staff. A military unit."

"I am aware," Henye repeats. "But you do employ civilians."

"Yes," Sierpinski concedes. "While most of us are Reservists, some of our personnel are ineligible for military service altogether. Disability of various kinds. So they serve in a wholly civilian capacity."

"I am ineligible for military service," Henye notes. "But I can still serve, Pan Pulkownik Sierpinski. Professor Zaremba would not have recommended me otherwise."

Sierpinski sighs. "It is - a different situation, Pani. The - organizational friction - involved in making a woman a full member of the Cipher Bureau - it is not comparable to a man with a club foot." He shakes his head. "I say this without any doubt as to your talent or experience. But I am not just a mathematician. I am a commanding officer. I must consider the - the well-being of the unit."

Henye clasps her left hand in her right. She wears gloves even indoors - not uncommon for a woman of her class. This means that she can squeeze one hand with the other until it bruises, and Sierpinski cannot see. She looks him in the eye. "Then I suppose, Pan Pulkownik, that my contribution to the unit will have to outweigh any - organizational friction."

From Sierpinski, a diplomatic cough. "Pani Laskier, I really must say - again, without any doubt as to your -"

Henye stops him by taking a sheaf of papers from her purse. "Pan Pulkownik, Professor Zaremba anticipated that you might require proof of my ability to be a - a net asset to the organization. He gave me this to solve. I understand that it is one of the newer German ciphers."

Sierpinski falls silent. He reads the first page of equations. Then he reads the second. The two mathematicians sit, wordless, for seven minutes - lost in the numbers.

Then Sierpinski looks up, and for the first time, he smiles - an awkward smile showing very bad teeth. He takes off his spectacles, and shakes his head, and chuckles. "Stanislaw. God damn you."

Henye swallows. "Is there a problem?"

"No." Sierpinski taps the papers. "No, your mathematics are flawless. Even genius. The problem is that this is not a German cipher." Sierpinski lets out a bark of laughter. "This is my cipher, Pani Laskier. And I was fairly sure it could not be broken. I certainly could not have broken it."

Henye blinks rapidly several times. "Oh." She pauses. "I assure you, Doctor Sierpinski, I did not intend any - "

Sierpinski waves her words away. "Oh, never mind that. Not the point, I can assure you. The point, as Professor Zaremba clearly intended you to prove, is that if you can break my cipher, then you can break any cipher in the world." He stops - sighs - carefully puts his glasses back on. "And we may need to do exactly that, in the next six months."

"So," Henye offers hesitantly, "I hope that any organizational friction - "

"To hell with it." Sierpinski nods abruptly, ending a debate within his own mind. "Yes. To hell with all that. The Russians are crossing the Dnipro, and you can break a Sierpinski cipher. Some things matter more than other things." He stands, and offers his doughy hand; Henye clasps it with her small gloved hands, grabbing it between her palms like a woman testing the tangibility of a mirage.

Sierpinski gives her the formal handshake of an academic colleague. "Thank you for your interview, Pani Laskier. You start tomorrow."

* * *

MARIJUS

IT is cold in Harbin when Marijus Benetis wakes. His home lies at the edge of the Polish quarter: a tidy two-story house with a Chinese roof and European glass in the windows. Outside the bedroom window, in the dark predawn, Marijus watches the snow softly smother the city's Chinese buildings and its Polish apartment blocks - and the onion dome of the Ukrainian Uniate Church, and the steeple of the Catholic cathedral. A thought swims to the surface of his consciousness: it is nice, the way the snow smooths out differences. Under the snow, it all looks like one city.

Lian stirs beside him in bed. She gropes toward his hand. "Is it morning?" she asks in Dongbeihua.

Marijus smiles and replies in the same language. "Only for me. Go back to sleep, my love."

Lian sighs in agreement, and pulls the heavy quilt tight beneath her chin. Marijus gently kisses the soft black hair of his wife's head. Then he stands, and quietly gets dressed.

Off he goes down the street, crunching through the snow, squinting in the predawn gloom. Is he an incongruous figure, this westerner in his Polish soldier's mustard-brown greatcoat and rogatywka? Not so much as you might think. Note, on his shoulder, the embroidered patch showing a Chinese dragon that flies partially supported on the back of a Polish white eagle. It is the insignia of the 31st Regular Regiment (Expeditionary), which the regiment adopted after helping to rout the Taiping at Jiangnan, in 1860. Many of the other men hurrying along the street, at this ungodly hour, are similarly attired - right down to the same patch. Why? Because Harbin is the headquarters of the Commonwealth Military Mission in China, and the center of Polish business and investment in East Asia: the symbolic and physical lynchpin of the unlikely friendship between the dragon and the white eagle.

Marijus approaches his destination: a complex of long brick buildings surrounding a central parade field. A sign next to the gate of the complex proudly declares in Mandarin: "Harbin General Staff College." This is one of the Expeditionary Corps' signature initiatives with Marshal Yinchang: a kind of post-graduate education for the New Armies' finest officers, a consistent and meritocratic gatekeeping system for the General Staff. Most of the instructors are Chinese, but nearly a third are Poles - the largest group of foreign advisors. And Major Marijus Benetis is one of them.

The guards at the gate wave Marijus through. He dodges a group of Chinese officers running laps around the parade field, and ducks into one of the long brick buildings, and finds his way to his classroom. Marijus teaches an early-morning course on advanced tactics; Major Kaminski, the logistics professor, likes to joke that the first class of the day has to be tactics. "If I tried to teach train timetables at zero-six, the whole class would be snoring on their desks in five minutes."

Maybe. But it's true enough that Marijus' students always seem excited for his class. The gaslights are already burning in the classroom when he arrives, and his seminar of eighteen captains and majors are all present - though most are not seated at their desks. Instead, the students are gathered around the large map table in the center of the room. There, in three-dimensional relief, is a lovingly rendered miniature of the Battle of Kolbovichi: brass tokens representing Polish forces and nickel tokens representing Russian forces are carefully placed, showing the Commonwealth Army in the act of dividing the Russian Army and then defeating it in detail. There are three times as many nickel tokens as brass ones.

Marijus has been teaching this battle for the last two weeks. Here, on the far side of the Earth, the miniature replica of the Belarusian forests always inspires in him a vague feeling of homesickness. He thinks of Lian, of the soft fine hair at the nape of her neck, and the feeling fades.

He does not notice the way his students fall abruptly silent when he enters the room, this particular morning. Nor does Marijus notice the way his students stare at him - with uncertainty, and sympathy, and barely repressed excitement.

Marijus clears his throat, and walks up to the map - standing among the students, who do not return to their seats. "Soldiers," he says in Mandarin - honorifics like "gentlemen" have no place in this modern classroom - "we have been talking for the last three days of the role that the terrain played at Kolbovichi. Some of you have suggested that the battle would not have been possible in a different type of terrain. So as homework, I have asked our class working groups to war-game how this battle would have unfolded in marshland, hills, mountains, grasslands, or around a city." He turns to a Chinese officer. "Captain Guo, are you ready to present your findings?"

The young man simply blinks at Marijus. "Sir, I - that is - "

Marijus frowns. He looks around the classroom. He notices, belatedly, that nobody is staring at Guo's embarrassing display. For some reason, everyone is staring at Marijus.

He feels ice in his bones. "Soldiers," Marijus says - striving with all his might to keep his voice even - "what exactly seems to be the problem?"

Captain Guo steps forward. "Sir," he says hesitantly, "you haven't heard?"

Marijus clasps his gloved hands behind his back. "Evidently not." He smiles thinly, bravely. "It would appear I do not rise as early as my students."

Guo looks around the room for support, then swallows. "The newspapers say the Russians have crossed the Dnipro. Two days ago. They took an island opposite a city - " He pauses, searching for the name.

"Kremenu," supplies one of Guo's fellow students. "Kremenuk," another student promptly corrects the first.

"Kremenchuk," says Marijus hollowly. "In Ukraine. Yes."

"Your government has called for aid," says Captain Guo. "Including from the Throne."

"I am sure it has," Marijus agrees distantly. He blinks twice, and looks at Guo. "Do you believe his Imperial Majesty will answer?"

"Surely!" Guo glances around the room again, looking for agreement. Most of his classmates nod; to Marijus, some of their agreement seems more polite than sincere. "Surely," Guo repeats. "For fifty years, you have stood with us. You have helped us to grow strong, when we were weak. Now if you are weak, and we are strong - what would we be, if we did not answer your call?"

Marijus smiles. He takes a slow, steadying breath. He blinks once, hard, and the tears - thank God - do not come after all. He looks at Guo, and then his gaze moves over the whole class. "Soldiers," he says solemnly, "it has been the honor of my life to contribute, in my own small way, to the strength and liberty of this Middle Kingdom."

Captain Guo does not utter a word of reply. Instead, he clasps one hand in the other, and extends his hands in front of him, and bows crisply from the waist. Without a second's hesitation, Marijus returns the honor in kind.

After a moment, both men straighten. Marijus takes a deep breath. "Well then, Soldiers," he announces. "It appears that our studies now matter more than ever. So, Captain Guo." Marijus smiles wryly, and waves an inviting hand. "How do you think that the Battle of Kolbovichi would have unfolded, were it fought in marshland and not in forest?"

* * *


STEPAN

IT is not cold in Madrid - at least not by Polish standards, and especially not in the bedroom of Count Stepan Majewski's flat. The cast-iron radiator is, if anything, overactive. Stepan doesn't mind the heat at all - after all, it has encouraged his Spanish mistress to throw off the covers of his bed, and to lie naked on top of the sheets, where she softly glows with perspiration. The sweat isn't just from the warmth of the bedroom.

Stepan lights a cigarette and takes a drag. On the bed, Adria beckons, and Stepan walks over to her and sits down next to her and hands her the cigarette. Adria inhales, and blows a slow stream of smoke toward the bedroom window. "Ahh."

Stepan smiles, and traces a finger down the groove of her spine. Adria has dark olive skin, almost a Moorish complexion - but fiery red hair. The contrast has always aroused him. She stretches like a cat under his touch. "You are a bad man."

"Oh, there was never any doubt of that." He retrieves the cigarette. "That's why you like me."

Adria rolls onto her back. "Yes," she agrees placidly. "You are the wicked count, with the white skin and the dark hair and the pointy eyebrows and the barbarous Slavic accent." She smiles. "Delicious."

"Mm." Stepan smiles back, and leans down for a swift kiss. Then he stands, and walks to the sideboard near the window, and pours himself a brandy. He looks out the window, over the city's terracotta roofs. There are the collonaded facades of the Presidential Palace and the Congress of Deputies; there is the Polish embassy, with its lovingly tended gardens, where Stepan spends his days as a military attache. A military attache, that is, with rather unconventional duties.

Adria watches him from the bed. "You look sad, my wicked count."

Stepan chuckles. "In your company? Impossible."

Adria ignores him. "Sad for your country, or for mine?"

Stepan smiles bleakly, and turns away from the window. "Could it not be for both?"

"I suppose. I don't know which of us to pity more." Adria strokes Stepan's arm as he paces past the bed. "If there is a war with Russia, will you have to go home?"

"I don't know." That same bleak smile. "I am a soldier, Adria. I will go where they send me."

"Poor count." Adria pauses. "Do you think there will be a war?"

Stepan shoots her a shrewd glance. "Now why would I know that? Are you a spy, my dear?"

Adria bats her eyelashes. "Of course not. But you are."

"Nonsense," says Stepan, and winks. After a moment, he adds: "I think the Russians will negotiate. This time. There will be some face-saving deal. Maybe they will still be on that island in two weeks; maybe they won't. But either way, there will be negotiations ongoing, and so the declaration of war won't take effect. We'll walk back from the cliff."

"This time," Adria repeats.

"This time," Stepan agrees grimly.

Adria takes another drag on her cigarette. "I do not think," she says quietly, "that there is a way back from the cliff for us."

Stepan turns. He recognizes this tone of voice. This is the voice of Adria Lloveras, assistant private secretary to Prime Minister Canalejas - not the voice of Adria his lover. "Oh?" he says softly.

"The Old Man" - Adria's constant term for Canalejas, her way of euphemizing the fact that she passes information to a Polish agent - "is - well, I haven't seen him like this before."

Stepan raises an eyebrow - a dark, pointed eyebrow. Playing the wicked count. Adria smiles, but it doesn't last.

"My mother died of cancer," she says. "When she was told that it was terminal, she did not scream or weep. She was calm. She was kind to us, very kind; she took care of us more than we took care of her. It was like - because she knew that there was no more hope, there was no more fear. She could simply do whatever she felt was best, because the consequences were already certain." Adria looks down at her hands. "That's what the Old Man is like, now. Like he knows his days are numbered, no matter what he does, so he doesn't have to be afraid."

Stepan stops pacing. He walks over to Adria; he places his hand beneath her chin, and lifts her face. Tears shine in her eyes.

"There will be war, Stepan," she says - voice hoarse with the effort of holding back tears. "Socialists and separatists and royalists and Carlists. All the men - the men who want to hurt people, who will swear themselves to any cause that lets them do that. Any excuse - to do whatever they want." Adria shakes her head. "Pity my country, Stepan, not yours. Yours will fight for freedom. Mine will fight itself."

Stepan kneels down in front of the bed, in front of Adria. She crumples forward, her head pressed into the corner of his neck, her arms around him. He holds her.

"It's not fair," she whispers. "I did not ask to be born into these times."

Stepan kisses her red, red hair. He strokes her naked back. He wonders: is this agent handling? Or is this love? He is not sure he knows the difference anymore. He is not sure he cares.

Adria's sobbing ceases; her shoulders stop heaving beneath Stepan's arms. Stepan draws away from her: still holding her, but now face-to-face, looking into her eyes. "Adria," he says, "we do not have much time."

"I know," she sniffles. "Ay, Dios mio, I know."

"I need to speak to the Old Man." Stepan feels Adria stiffen in his arms; he squeezes her shoulders, looks deeper into her eyes. "I have been to war." Now it is Stepan's voice that sounds hoarse. "I know what it is you fear. But I can help - help this country. Help you." He takes a shuddering breath. "If you let me."

Adria reaches up a hand, and touches Stepan's cheek. "Oh, my count," she says. "Oh. You're not wicked at all."

Something snaps in Stepan: crisp, clean, final. He lays his hand over Adria's, against his face.

Adria presses her cheek against Stepan's chest. "If you want to talk to the Old Man - I will tell him. And perhaps he will talk to you. I hope so." Adria falls silent; Stepan strokes her hair.

"Your question earlier," he murmurs. "Whether I would go home if there is war in the Commonwealth." Stepan kisses the top of Adria's ear. "I will not leave you."

After a moment, Adria laughs into his chest. "Oh, dear," she whispers. "You're not wicked at all."

[New San Antonio]

Workers' Solidarity
18th January 1914, Sunday Edition

Fellow proletariat we bring sad news this sorrowful day, our president has died as he lived, drunk and ineffective. His vice-ridden adventures have long been an open secret to even us common folk in Iberia, and it seems to have finally caught up to him. He was certainly no popular president but to speculate he was killed is a low only the Royalists would sink too. Perhaps he walks in heaven now far away from the mess he has left for the people of Iberia. Our condolences towards his family, but now is the time for action not chivalrous mourning.

Even on the day of his death our comrades continue to strike in the mills of Valencia, they continue to strike in the coal mines of Asturias, the mercury mines of Almadén, and the barracks of Aragon. The death of one petty politician should not stop our march, nor should it silence our calls for action in these dire times. We threw off the monarchical yoke in 1873, the time has come for us to throw off the chains we wear at the behest of the Industrialists and nobility, our chains will not fall off on their own . Even now they cling to their defunct titles to differentiate themselves from the common proletariat, we will rip them from them if we must.

There is no greater humiliation to the proud Iberian worker than to be told to quiet his protests for the death of one man. How many die in the factories and mines each day? Yet the reactionaries never stop their rebukes towards our movement. For too long the worker has quietly accepted their oppression, how much more can we take before we reach the breaking point my Ibieran brothers and sisters?

A man needs only to look over the Pyrenees and across the Mediterranean to see what can happen if the working man is willing enough to break his chains rather than wait for the chains to break themselves, for they never will. Should we wait until British guns are pointed at Lisbon? Until Prussian soldiers sit on the other side of the northern border? Till Paris and Rome burn? No my brothers and sisters, we must take our opportunity now before the reactionaries and Royalists attack us first.

Revolution is in the air, like runoff it streams down into the dirty quarters we must live, the dangerous mines we must work, the simple villages and the fields we tend, it acts not much differently to the blood that connects family. But it connects us to people we are not family with, do not know, and have never seen. It connects us in a way nothing else can, our class. We share the same dirty hands, the same dirty clothes, the filthy homes, the pitiful wages, and the shared hope for a more equal tomorrow.

Change is coming to Iberia my comrades, yet we must fight if we wish to see a change that will help more than a select few, but instead change that will help us all.

The Madrid Times
18th January 1914, Sunday Paper

President Eduardo Dato died either in the late hours of last night or just after midnight early this morning. The President’s office released a notice marking his death and notably it didn’t include any mention of a cause of death. The notice simply stated “President Dato collapsed late last night and was pronounced dead after reaching the hospital.” This ends his 6 years as President of the Iberian Republic, and only 2 months before the scheduled Presidential election.

The Congress of Deputies is not expected to elect an interim president before the election, as electoral gridlock is expected to continue until the 1915 elections. Dato was expected to push through a bill that would allow a minority government to do more of the regular functions of a proper government like new government budgets and give the government authority to approve the railway expansion project which would fully integrate all regional railways into a centralized rail system.

But with the Leftist rabble, Regionalist fools, and Royal bootlickers no work will ever get done in the Congress. It is our belief at The Madrid Times if the government ever wishes to work properly as it did before it must expel the unserious parties that have no care to properly run the government. Banning them from the 1915 elections would be even better, so that sane parties focused on developing Iberia can be elected and an actual majority government can be created.

Too long have these disruptors filled seats within our Congress stuck between dragging Iberia back into the past and breaking it apart totally. They call themselves revolutionaries or protectors while through their barbarity all they achieve is regression. It wouldn’t be surprising in the least if one of the radical parties had killed President Dato, assassinating him for some vague goal that is impossible for the fools to achieve in the first place. Every day more reports of them murdering wholesome Iberian patriots come into our office, families destroyed because of the misguided ideals of sheep being led to the slaughter.

Iberia is falling behind our fellow European nations, and even over the Atlantic the Americans enjoy a prosperity that is a dream to most of our people. For Iberia to progress sanity must return to politics so we can catch up to those who would call us backwards. Only by rejecting the Radicals and Regionalists will our nation reach its full potential.

The King's Paper
18th January 1914, Sunday Weekly

The dreaded Anarchists have finally shown their true colors, they’ve murdered president Dato! Our reporters were on the scene when the presidential guard took his corpse from the palace but who were nowhere to be seen? The Socialist rabble! Of course they would flee from the crime scene, not a single shred of decency exists within their entire lousy organization. That den of thieves and strikers have finally revealed themselves as murderers as well.

Listen to me, people of Spain, if the Communists and Anarchists come to power in the coming elections our state and its people will become little more than puppets dancing at the will of the French and Italians. They slaughtered our royal family during their wretched revolution and they won’t hesitate to slaughter any of us in just the same fashion!

Our nation has descended into insanity, how long will it take before it destroys itself with its fanciful ideals of equality, democracy, and freedom? As a people we’ve stepped too far away from the Heavenly Father’s light, and the only way for us to get back in the good graces of him is to restore his appointed monarch. We’re led by false prophets, promising us the world while only delivering degeneracy and chaos!

This sham we call democracy is a broken system, a perversion of how God intended his people to be governed. No longer shall the moral people of Spain stand for this while every day apostates commit more and more blasphemies. If our country does not change for the better soon we must launch a new Reconquista to reclaim the Iberian peninsula from the destructive forces that lead us towards ruin!

---

The Iberian Republic's response to the Commonwealth government.
Prime Minister Canalejas' Office

The Iberian government would like to extend its heartful support of the Polish state during this tense moment with the Russian Empire. The territorial integrity of all nations must be respected at all times, and for such a flagrant violation to occur is an international outrage.

More than just common democratic ideals unite our two nations, defiance in the face of seemingly overwhelming odds also unites us. Spanish and Portuguese revolutionaries fought against their cruel monarchs to protect themselves, just as the Poles have needed to fight for their very existence on more than one occasion.

The Iberian government urges the Russian Empire to return to its side of the river, and for both nations to avoid war in these turbulent times. The answer to conflict is not escalation or bloodshed, but calm and rational discussion between nations on equal terms. We also urge the rest of the international community to support dialogue instead of warfare in this tense incident.

[Malorossi]

Mexico-8 January 1914

Her Majesty Emperor Felix I of Mexico, Habsburg-Lotvrinsky, was preparing for a trip to the Holy Roman Republic. He held a meeting in his chambers, where several conservative generals were represented, headed by Victoriano Huerta. Felix did not want anyone to know for the time being, especially Antonio José de Rigo, that the great emperor was absent from Mexico, he had plans for the young and very impulsive liberal. Moreover, Victoriano would have been redundant to talk about "talking to him", this would provoke his arrest and threaten Felix's life. He did not want him to join the ranks of the Gringos. A double bed around which stood men in military uniform and pistols attached to belts. They were all preparing to begin a diplomatic trip to Germany, a country where they felt something was about to begin, and in a country that was also determined to fight American and French influence in Latin America, like themselves. Moreover, the strong dynastic connection with the famous families of Vienna did not go away. While negotiations about the behavior during the meeting were going on in the palace, at that very time an ordinary journalist from America, John Reed, arrived in the capital.
He passed through a block filled with poor people, their clothes stiff with dried sweat and their faces covered with a ruddy glow of dirt. They were landless peasants. Out of the corner of his ear he could hear the conversation of two people, one of whom had his hand on his revolver.The man with the revolver spoke in an angry tone, looking at everyone standing near him:
-I will speak on behalf of the indignant people led by Emiliano Zapato. And I will speak in a tone that is acceptable for our revolution. Your Santo-Fairucci cartel has been getting in the way of our valiant forces lately. Therefore, I declare that you have two options: either join the army of the indignant people, or die as an accomplice of the regime...
- Don't you know? We cartels don't recognize anyone's authority except our own...
The man with the revolver didn't listen to the end, turned around and left the phrase for last: "You have 2 days to think about it, if you remain silent, we will consider it a declaration of war."
John Reed approached the guy with a revolver, quietly asking:
-I want to join Zapata's people's army.
-You don't look like a Mexican, do you, Agent Gringo?
-I'm a journalist, I want to interview him.
-Journalist - he looked at me with disgust - well, it's your choice, but first we'll check you out, remember, something's not right, we'll remove you quietly according to the law of revolutionary expediency, so that not a trace of you remains

John Reed went further, through the market square where the people were already better dressed and from the squares some shouts were heard interrupting each other, to the side there was an inn in the form of a two-story wooden house with a balcony, entering which the owner lazily said:
-There's only one room left, money in advance - we're not a shelter
John Reed pulled out a $10 bill, after which the owner perked up, twirling the bill in his hand, sometimes holding it up to the light, sometimes hiding it in his pocket:
-It's not every day you see an American in our area. How did you come here, on business?
-I am a journalist.
-Well, be careful, our lands are dangerous, Gringo... oh, Americans are not welcome here.
-I saw that you had many landless peasants after the restoration of the monarchy?
-Yes, we are all making ends meet, everyone is afraid that at some point either Zapata or Diaz will take over the capital. Your room is number 4, on the second floor.
John Reed went up to the second floor, dropped his things and went to the government house. He showed the documents to the guards who stopped him, introducing himself as a journalist, and they let him in right away. In the office, topped with a Mexican flag, at an oak table opposite the portrait of the Emperor, sat Antinio Jose De Rigo. Walking up to him and sitting down at the guest chair, John Reed shook Jose De Rigo's hand:
- Hello, Mr. Jose De Rigo, I am John Reed, a freelance journalist from America.
- Nice to meet you. We haven't had guests from America for a long time, at one point we even felt a little sorry, but you yourselves must understand that America began to feel like a colony in Mexico and in order to maintain the independence of our country we decided to find alternative markets.
-When I entered Mexico City, I saw that the outskirts were flooded with a huge number of landless peasants. They are good soil for cartels. What are you going to do to solve this problem?
Jose De Rigo leaned towards John Reed:
- You see, this is an age-old problem. The rapprochement with America led to the fact that many peasant lands became the property of American companies. Before that, the French were driving them out of their lands, and before that, the Spaniards. Our government is going to put a fat point on the peasant question, making them a layer of farmers. Another problem is that most of the land is not fertile, so the problem must be solved especially delicately. I, being a liberal, am ready to agree even with conservatives on this issue that it is necessary to reconsider the distribution of land to Americans and return the land back to the hands of peasants, economically helping them get back on their feet, becoming an independent farming layer.
- I managed to talk to the people a little bit when I entered Mexico City. They are seriously afraid of the capital being captured by Zapata or Profirio Diaz. What are the chances of such an outcome?
- Mexico is of interest to the French, who are helping Zapata's gangs stay afloat, they are clearly thirsty for revenge, it is of interest to America, who are preparing an expeditionary corps led by the Madero government in exile. The Spanish Carlists want revenge, preparing Diaz's revolutionary army. We are surrounded by enemies, but this is the eternal state for Mexico, fighting for its independence. We will not retreat, so there is nothing to fear. In addition, the Holy Roman Republic can significantly help in defending our independence from the gangs
-Thank you very much for your time.
-We should thank you for not being afraid to come in such a difficult time for our country.
__________________________________________________
Vienna - January 14, 1914
The ambassador in Vienna was sorting through some documentation as usual while drinking hot tea. He was a young man from Veracruz, Diego San Mireno, who had fled for fear of being found out about his involvement in the circle of conspirators against Diaz, had received a good diplomatic education in Vienna, and then he became ambassador under the new government. However, the morning went down the drain after the embassy doorbell rang. Behind the door stood the silhouettes of ten people in long raincoats and hats, which were falling from the snow. The ambassador recognized two of them at once, Emperor Felix and Victoriano Huerta on his right shoulder. They all entered the spacious embassy building, where the ambassador began to express discontent:
-Oh, you probably don’t know, but all meetings with heads of state are always scheduled in advance, the ambassador said sarcastically.
- the world is hanging by a thread, and you, ambassadors, are all about your own, about regulations- Huerta barked indignantly.
-Wars begin and end, but diplomacy always remains... Can I put you in touch with the Chancellor?
-Let's do it faster, Felix rattled off. -We're talking about Mexico's strategic partnership with Germany.There is no need to waste precious time.

Afterwards, the ambassador sent a telegram to the Senate of Vienna: "Dear Chancellor. A delegation from Mexico City has arrived in Vienna, headed by Emperor Felix I himself. He wishes to urgently discuss the current situation and the strategic partnership between Mexico and Germany in this regard."

[Tracian Empire]

Empire of the Great Qing
大清帝國
ᡤᠣᡥᠣ ᠰᡠᠨ ᡤᡠᠯᡠᠨ

---

“China is the theatre of the greatest movement now taking place on the face of the globe… It promises nothing short of the complete renovation of the oldest, most populous and most conservative of empires. Is there a people in either hemisphere that can afford to look on with indifference?”
William Alexander Parsons Martin, US educator, 1907

Shanghai
上海
20th January, 1914
20th day, Zōuyuè, 39th year of Guangxu

A young man, dressed sharply in a Western suit, was running rapidly through the streets of Shanghai, not too far from the formal border between the Chinese city and the international concessions. For quite a while now, most of the buildings that were close to the international settlement area had been covered with large placards bearing the slogans that the Qing government had been trying to popularize, the ones most often used being "預備立憲好" - "Preparatory Constitutionalism is good", "扶清排洋" - "Support the Qing, reject the foreigners" and of course "五族大同" - "Five Races in One". They had many roles - but they were often directed at the people living in the international area, foreigners and Chinese exiles alike. While the Qing had slowly refined their repression methods, reforming their penal code, easing up on censorship, and granting amnesty to those political opponents and revolutionaries who were willing to stop opposing the dynasty and to start supporting the Qing implementation of constitutionalism, Shanghai's concessions, where the laws of the Qing held no sway, were still an area of refuge for many of those who still opposed the Throne for various reasons. The government's position had, in the past few years, started to gain support - taking advantage of the popular discontent that was directed at the very existence of the concessions and at the rights of the foreigners. It seemed, at least to some, and this was of course a position that was often indirectly supported by the dynasty - that those "revolutionaries" were being used by foreigners in order to continue to weaken China. Now, that the Emperor was finally giving up to the main requests of many - the organization of elections and the implementation of full constitutionalism, many moderates had started to give in. And yet, there were of course, many radicals, particularly the Tongmenghui, so focused on their dreams for a Han republic. So often, people on both sides were setting up placards with their own slogans, forcing both the Chinese and the concessionary authorities to put them down in an endless game of cat and mouse. Sometimes, the authorities would indirectly agree with such a slogan in which its removal was to be delayed - and this was the case with one in front of which the man stopped for a few good minutes.

The Chinese part 排英, made a lot of sense, particularly if read from right to left - 排 - pai can most often be translated to exclude, reject, or discharge, and 英 - Ying meant Britain, or British, and together, this combination of characters could be translated as "anti-British". The English translation in and of itself was good, "Exclude the British", even if he would have probably used "Reject the Brtish" or a more free translation of "Remove the British" instead. Of course, the writer had written the word poorly, with "EXOLUDE" instead of "EXCLUDE", so the man made a mental note to try to find whoever wrote it to alter it. While some considered the murals to be a form of vandalism, he was quite a fan of them - they were, in the end, a form of popular expression, just as valid as the shouts of protesters or the replies to a newspaper column.

Not long after leaving the site of the placard, the man arrived at a cafe, part European and part Chinese in its appearance and in what it serving, and even in its clientele. Some were wearing the traditional robes, the changshan, even if the Qing era limitations on clothing had been removed by the first session of the Political Advisory Council, wearing it was seen as a sort of political statement, particularly among older, conservative people. Others, despite being Chinese, were wearing full Western clothing - the mark of young, progressive, and well-educated people. Others were however wearing the recently popularized [url=https://zh.wikipedia.org/wiki/中山装#/media/File:Zhongshan_suit_from_Hong_Kong.jpg]Longsheng costume[/url], designed in Hanoi by a Chinese expatriate - it had quickly become widespread among the overseas Chinese and it had now found a place in particularly in the main treaty ports as a moderate option between the two, combining a style closer to Western Europe with the collars of the student uniforms that had become the symbol of the new generation of Chinese people. Of course, there were also those who would be eternally undecided, and combining the changshan with a western overcoat, topped with a fedora and a scarf was still a very acceptable way of dressing.

The man approached a table at which two more people were seated. One of them was a woman, who was using a fountain pen to write something down on a piece of paper, which at a more careful look would have shown that she was trying the new way of transliterating Chinese which had been created by Zhang Binglin during the meeting of the Commission on the Unification of Pronunciation - one of the greatest examples of the success of the Qing amnesties. Those who knew her would quickly recognize her as Qiu Yufang, the Wuxi-born star of the Chinese feminist movement. After a brush with death due to a cholera infection in 1904, she had survived due to one of the new hospitals that had been built by the government, and ultimately managed to convince the cabinet to reopen the Nübao - the Women's Journal, alongside Chen Xiefen, a revolutionary and feminist journalist who had been pardoned in 1911 at Kang Younwei's insistence, and had been allowed to return back to China from Japan.

On the other side of the table, drinking tea and reading a book, was a middle-aged man, wearing the Manchu qizhuang robe - the one that had inspired the creation of the changshan, under a western overcoat. Quite unassuming in his presence, the man was wearing a Christian cross on a necklace around his neck. Known by his baptism name of Vincentius, he had been born as Ying Lianzhi, a Manchu bannerman of the Hešeri clan, he was a man of contradictions. Originally preparing for a martial career, he had schooled himself in the Confucian classics since his family, affected by poverty like many of the bannermen at that time, had no money to spare. The position of his family had however allowed him, and also demanded from him to marry Shuzhong, a member of the Qing imperial clan of Aisin Gioro, and while this raised his social status, it also changed his life completely. After their engagement, Shuzhong had grown sick - and she had been successfully treated by Catholic nuns at a Catholic hospital in Beijing. This led to Ying starting to read the writings of Matteo Ricci and of the Chinese he had converted during the late Ming dynasty, and it had led to him believing that Confucianism and Christianity were syncretic and both equally important - leading to his baptism and to his eventual important position in the Catholic Church in China. In 1902, in Tianjin, he had founded the Ta Kung Pao - known in French as "L'Impartial" - a progressive and nonpartisan paper created to "help China become a modern and democratic nation", under the slogan of the Four Noes" (四不主義 ) - "No" to all political parties, no to all governments, no to all companies, and no to all people. Few papers had played such an important role in China, popularizing the use of the vernacular language in writing and of popular reforms. In 1911, Vincentius had founded the Fu-jen School for Catholic girls, and in 1913, after communications with the Pope that had been intermediated by Father Frédéric-Vincent Lebbe, he had founded the Fu Jen Catholic University in Beijing, under the patronage of Pope Pius X. His connections to the Church and to the Imperial Court had allowed him to be a great protector and supporter of the reformist journalism in China.

The young man that had just arrived took his seat and took out a newspaper from under his coat - he was in many ways, just as important as the others. Born as Huang Yuanyong, he had become known under his pen name of Huang Yuansheng. Born as the son of a scholar, he had passed the imperial jianshi examinations but had refused to follow a career as a scholar-official, instead studying abroad in Poland and Britain, and returning to take part in the educational reforms started by the Qing. Alongside Lan Gongwu and Zhang Junmai, he became part of what would be known as the "trio of youth for modern China" and the "hte outstanding trio of journalism" - starting the Young China Weekly (少年中國周刊) newspaper, the most progressive and critical newspaper in all of China, and one of the most read. In particularly, he was well known for the Yuansheng Tongxun - a special news dispatch column that covered important events from far away - his position in Shanghai allowing him to be the first to report on many of the most important international events.

And it was just one such event that was to be the topic of their conversation here. After saluting them, Huang put the newspaper on the table, and pointed out at his news column, which displayed at its title "RUSSIA INVADES ISLAND ON THE BORDER WITH POLAND, POLAND REQUESTS SUPPORT FROM THE THRONE"

"It seems that the Russians have learned nothing from their mistakes and that they are back to their old habits, just back in Europe this time.", Huang proclaimed, as the other two at the table quickly read the article. "It reminds me of all the trouble we had with the Russians on the Heilong.", the older man replied, still somewhat absentmindedly sipping his tea. A more fiery response came from the woman. "You'd think that the Russians would have better things to do than to invade other countries. It's clear for everyone to see that the days of the Russian autocracy are numbered. Even the Court, with all those iron-cap Manchu nobles wandering around the Emperor eventually came to this conclusion." Huang nodded, to show his approval, but he said nothing, waiting for the older man to say what was on his mind. "It's not like the Court came to that conclusion willingly... but it is admirable that they eventually accepted it. Still, change does not come easily. The Russian tsar has many people around him who have the same mentality as our iron cap princes.", Vincentius added. "It would also make sense that the Russians would be trying to regain control over Poland. Not too unlike the Imperial Army's expedition in Tibet in 1910."

"There are differences between the two situations however.", the younger journalist intervened. "The Emperor was forced to reassert control due to the British invasion. And while Tibetan nationalists are more certainly not content with the current state of affairs, Chinese rule over there is much more moderate than the brutal occupation of Poland by Russia the century before. There are also plans to hold elections in Tibet as part of the new parliamentary reorganization. Imperialism is still imperialism, but Tibet and China have a long history of cooperation - Russia however broke apart Poland and conquered it much like the Europeans tried to do to China or to the Turks. This reminds me that we need to find a corespondent in Lhasa."

Qiu quickly scrabbled something onto her notepad. "You should find a corespondent in Poland first. Russia breaking a treaty with Poland will no doubt remind many of Russia's occupation of the Three Northeastern Provinces. And the decision of their parliament to ask for support from the Throne is also sure to become a topic of discussion - we can't do much in Europe, but we do have quite a significant border with Russia. Do you think the Court will answer?", she asked, turning around to look at Vincentius. "One would need a lifetime to work to understand how the court works - even as a Manchu with a wife from the Aisin Gioro clan, it is a different world from ours. I do think they will however. His Majesty the Emperor has a soft spot for Poland - some of his tutors in Western education when he was young were from Poland. In that aspect, it is perhaps inauspicious for the Russians that they have decided to do this right now. In accordance with the Outline of the Constitution Compiled by Imperial Order, His Majesty the Emperor still has sole authority in foreign affairs - the Wansuiye doesn't even need to ask for the advice of the Political Advisory Council. That of course, will change once the Nineteen Articles of the draft constitution are adopted later in the year. His Imperial Majesty will however most likely listen to his advisors - and what he hears will also in part depend on what Britain will be doing."

"In regards to the treaties?", Qiu interjected. "Indeed.", came the answer from the Manchu man. "The Americans have shown some willingness to negotiate both the extraterritoriality and the concessions. Britain has so far only shown some willingness to negotiate the former. This is why the Court and the Imperial Cabinet have so far not supported the anti-British protests around the treaty ports. Liang Dunyan, the Foreign Minister, believes that by showing patience, the Anglo-Saxons can be convinced to give up their imperialist rights peacefully." Huang nodded eagerly. "And Britain is of course, the biggest foreign power left, and has good relations with Poland while opposing Russia. No matter how dear the Poles might be for how much they helped us - it would be very difficult for the Court to cooperate with the British if the British were to continue to treat us like a colony." Qiu gently grabbed the tort of her coffee cup. "Here's hoping that the British can be reasoned with. It would be horrendous for China to even have to consider collaborating with the Russian autocracy."

---

To His Excellency, Sir John Newell Jordan, Envoy Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary from the United Kingdom to the Qing Empire

Your Excellency,
I have been asked by His Majesty the Emperor and by His Excellency the Prime Minister of the Imperial Cabinet to invite you to the Forbidden City in order to discuss matters most important to both the United Kingdom and the Great Qing, regarding the extraterritoriality of British subjects within the territories of China, in the spirit expressed by Great Britain in the 1902 Sino-British Treaty, and to potentially also start negotiations regarding the status of the British concessions in China. It is of the utmost importance for the Imperial Court to reach a peaceful, equal and diplomatic agreement with Britain, with whom the Throne wishes nothing but a friendly and good relationship.

Liang Dunyan, Minister of Foreign Affairs of Imperial Cabinet of the Empire of the Great Qing

奉天诰命
ᡥᠣᠩᡨᡳᠶᠠᠨ ᡤᠣᠣᠮᡝᠨ

The Emperor, who governs with the Mandate of Heaven, declares that,

We have been informed by Our Cabinet, that now, in the 38th Year of Our Reign, soldiers of the Russian Empire have, in violation of the laws of the people, crossed the borders of the land of Poland and have occupied an island on the river they call Dìnièbó. In turn, the people of the nation of Poland, through their leading governing body of the Sejm, have vowed to defend their borders and their rights, and to go with war with the Russian Empire if the troops of the Russians do not withdraw. Furthermore, We have received the appeal of the Sejm of the peoples of Poland, in which they appeal to Us to defend them against the Russian invasion. While the situation which has lead to this appeal saddens Us, the fact that the peoples of Poland appeal to Our benevolence shows that the nation of China and the nation of the Commonwealth are united through a bond of friendship between peoples, and that the nation of the Commonwealth has its well defined role in the Tianxia.

The relations between our realm and that of Poland go back to the time of the times of Our ancestor, the blessed Kangxi Emperor, who communicated in letters with the Polish monarch Jan Sobieski. After the first nation of Poland was destroyed and occupied, many people of its lands have come to China to offer their services to the Imperial Throne, a fact which has continued after the Commonwealth has regained its independence. Ever since, the people of the Commonwealth have done the Imperial Court and the Chinese nation many services, having helped the Self-Strengthening movement that was started by Our predecessor, the righteous Tongzhi Emperor.

We have communicated with Our advisors, we have informed Our ancestors in their temples and tombs, and We have reached a decision. We have reshaped the universe, our benevolence and good deeds are everywhere, and Our people feel deep in their soul, all Our ancestors agree with Us and all the gods are moved by Us.

We ask the Emperor of Russia, to call on his subjects to withdraw beyond the river, and not to violate the borders of the Commonwealth anymore, and to maintain the state of peace between the Russian Empire and the Commonwealth. We wish for nothing more than for peace to reign all under Heaven, and We strongly believe that this is the will of the Gods. The Imperial Throne will not see a war between the Russian Empire and the Second Commonwealth favorably. We ask the Russian Emperor to allow his subjects to continue their life in friendship, love, and communication.

Proclaimed to all under the Heavens, let it be known.

[NewOrderOfGermany]

January 20th, 1914
Sofia,Bulgaria
Office of the Prime Minister


Aleksandar Malinov had just returned to his office, where his Aide came up to him and handed him a paper "If you have not heard already, Russia has taken an Island on a polish river". Malinov nodded and replied, "I know, but does the Tsar know?". The Aide replied to Malinov. "No sir, I was hoping you would take that to him and other members of the Government who do not know, and inform them of this.

Malinov sat down in his chair, holding the paper, which was blank. "I will tell the Tsar this later, there is a lot work to be done"

[Intermountain States]

January, 1914
Washington D.C,
United States of America

"Russian troops have crossed a Polish river and are occupying an island," Secretary of State Philander Knox said to President William Taft. "The Poles are calling for just about every sovereign nations to condemn the Russians while likely mobilizing their troops."

"Sounds like Europe might burst into war soon considering the complicated web of alliances there," the President said. "Hopefully cooler heads prevail and the Russians shrink back to their side of the border."

"That's not all, Mr. President," the Secretary added. "The President of Iberia also died, no official reports of cause of death but fingers are pointing at all sorts of causes.

"And knowing how the Iberian government is in gridlock, there could either be a peaceful transfer of power or at least an interim President, or that the Iberian Republic bursts into civil conflict,"

"So a border dispute that could escalate into a European wide war or an internal crisis that could boil to a civil war and could also possibly escalate to a European wide war," Taft muttered. "We can definitely assume that the French and the Italians would try and back the socialist parties in Iberia, the British may support the current government, and it's likely that the Germans could send support to the monarchists if Iberia breaks into civil war."

"Add to the already complex web of alliances and treaties, I wouldn't doubt that if the border disputes in Poland escalated to war, the potential civil conflicts in Iberia would end up being connected by happenstance," Knox said. "That being said, our priority is calling upon Russia to withdraw from an island in Poland, lest we see needless bloodshed."

"Agreed," Taft replied. "Demanding a withdrawal of Russian troops from the Zelenyy Ostriv would be in order."

The Times
Published January 17th, 1914

---

United States calls for calm, condemns Russian activities in Polish territory

District of Columbia - Tensions are brewing in Eastern Europe between the Second Commonwealth and the Russian Empire over Russian troops crossing the Dnipro River and occupying Zelenyy Ostriv, an island currently administered by Poland. The Polish government has already denounced the movement of Russian troops and declared that a state of war would be imminent between Poland and Russia if the Russian troops do not withdraw by January 28th of this year.

President William Taft announced that the United States officially condemns the movement of Russian soldiers into the island of Zelenyy Ostriv.

"Russian soldiers crossing the Dnipro River and occupying the island of Zelenny Ostriv is a blatant violation of Polish sovereignty and administration of the island," President Taft said in a recent press conference. "The United States urges Tsar Nicholas II to withdraw the soldiers from Poland before the set date of January 28th."

In addition, the Secretary of State Philander Knox had called for efforts for both the Second Commonwealth and the Russian Empire to deescalate and pursue diplomatic means. This has come as other countries have publicly called for Russian withdrawal from Zelenny Ostriv.

[Lunas Legion]

Imperial Diet Building
Tokyo, Japan
17th January, 1914

Kato Tomosaburo could always smell the salt of the sea. It did not matter how far from it he was, he could always smell it; a faint miasma, ever-present no matter how strong. It took him conscious effort to keep his foot from tapping against the richly carpeted floor of the room. Katsura had had it installed, supposedly; he'd been in the office long enough that it made sense to Kato that he would, even if the Imperial Diet Building was a temporary structure that was now over two decades old.

The white vice-admiral's uniform he wore felt wrong on his shoulders. Slightly too tight around the shoulders. The collar itched. He could all but feel the weight of the rank on his shoulders. He couldn't so much as shift around in his seat without the medals that covered his breast like scales gently clinking against one another. He sat on a wooden chair, comfortably cushioned, but what he was here for was most uncomfortable business.

Yamamoto was his superior officer. He was a vice-admiral, Yamamoto was an admiral. He might be commander of the Combined Fleet, but Yamamoto still outranked him. It made him uneasy.

Fortunately, he would not be doing this uncomfortable business alone. Saito Makoto wore the exact same white navy uniform that Kato did, but his bore the three flowers of a full admiral on his shoulders. If there was a ringleader of their little cabal, it was Saito. He had been Navy Minister since 1906. He had served under Saionji Kinmochi and Katsura Taro both. His authority was without question. If Yamamoto had designed the Six-Six Fleet that had been obliterated at Tsushima, it was Saito that had let the Imperial Japanese Navy rise like a phoenix from the ashes of that disgrace. The portly man in a suit, tie and waistcoat was not someone Kato knew well, but Saito had said he would lend more momentum to what they were about to do. Baron Takahashi Korekiyo had been Governor of the Bank of Japan until serving as Yamamoto's Minister of Finance, and Saito evidently counted him a close enough friend to bring into a plot like this.

Even if this was official navy business, having Yamamoto's Minister of Finance lent their intervention more authority. It became more than the official navy business.

Takahashi fished out and glanced down at his pocketwatch as he approached. "You arrived early, Vice-Admiral." He remarked, waiting for Saito to sit before he did so.

"It goes against everything I learned in the Navy to undermine a superior like this." Kato said, eyes briefly flicking over to Saito who nodded in approval.

"As it should, Vice-Admiral Kato. This may be official navy business, but it is also Cabinet business. I have, as your superior, delegated the Navy business to you. It is not right that I should conduct both."

Kato was not sure that it particularly mattered, but that seperation of military and civilian politics was no doubt the doing of their fourth member. Hara Takashi dressed similarly to Takahashi, but he wore a white tie instead of black and his face was more severe.

Hara gave a slight bow of deferrence in greeting. For all that he brought with him, as leader of the Rikken Seiyukai and thus controller of Yamamoto's Diet majority and Home Minister, he remained a commoner. he also brought the distant authority of the genro with him. They would not do this personally, but Hara was Ito and Saionji's successor. If he was here, it was because they had said so. "I see we are all here, then." He said. "Shall we proceed, then?"

Kato suppressed a pained grunt as he rose. His leg had never quite healed properly after Tsushima. He looked to Saito. Saito nodded curtly.

They moved as a group through the halls of the Diet building. It was not meeting today, so the halls were relatively empty, but they drew a bow of deference from everyone they passed. The Prime Minister's office was on the second floor, near the center of the building. It did not take them long to reach it. Saito knocked. A few moments passed before a suited man opened the door, briefly looking over the four of them before opening the door and stepping back.

"The Home Minister, Minister of Finance, Navy Minister and the Commander of the Combined Fleet, sir." The man bowed to them and let them enter.

The Prime Minister's office was relatively spartan. The Prime Minister himself, Yamamato Gonnohyoe, sat behind a desk, peering over a report. A handful of chairs sat in front of the desk, and there were a table and pair of armchairs in the center of the room, but the only other ornamentation were a number of empty bookcases and woodcut prints.

"Ministers. Vice-Admiral." Yamamato looked up from the paper he had been looking at, turning it over to hide the contents as he turned his attention to the group. His eyes were tired. He glanced over the group one by one. They all bowed slightly. "Is this the end, then?" He asked simply.

"I will let my colleague talk first." Saito said.

Kato swallowed. His stomach turned. He stepped forwards regardless, and spoke. "Admiral Saito is already aware of this, but due to the current scandal, both himself and yourself are to be court martialled by the Navy to be tried for your conduct, alongside vice-admiral Matsumoto Kazu. The Navy has ordered investigations into the procurement department in order to determine how far the scandal is, and has suspended Siemens and Vickers from being selected in any future procurement processes." He stepped back, and allowed himself to breathe.

Saito spoke next. "In recognition of this, Prime Minister, I am here to formally tender my resignation as Navy Minister. It is unbecoming that the Navy Minister should be under investigation for such."

"Is that what this is, then?" Yamamoto said, looking over the four of them once more. "I am expected to resign?"

"The Rikken Seiyukai cannot support a Prime Minister under court-martial, sir." Hara said, almost apologetically. "Nor can I serve as Home Minister for such."

"Nor I as Minister of Finance." Takahashi said, equally as apologetic.

"I see." Yamamoto breathed out. "Have they lined up my replacement yet, Hara?"

"Not that I am aware of, sir." Hara said. "It is a difficult situation, as you full well know."

"Of course I do." Yamamoto said, visibly steeling himself. "Very well. You can consider your message recieved, gentlemen. For the sake of the nation, I intend to remain as Prime Minister until the Emperor names my replacement. Unless you have anything else, the House of Peers demands an explanation on this never-ending scandal and Tokugawa will not be kept waiting. Good day."

Kato did not show any signs of relief as they left the office in silence. Yamamoto's government would be gone as soon as a replacement was found. Now it was up to the genro to find someone to steer Japan.

[Remnants of Exilvania]

Sublime Ottoman Caliphate
Konstatiniyye
Dolmabahçe Palace

Sometimes Yusuf hated the Palace. While the Topkapı Palace was hardly still appropriate for a moern and European Monarch, he oftentimes felt small within the great halls of the Dolmabahçe and in particular underneath the nearly 5 ton crystal chandelier. It didn't matter how often the staff and architects reassured him, he could never help feeling as though the chandelier was going to crash down onto him and bring down the entire high ceiling along with it. Luckily however, he was in the Cabinet Room this time, an adequately sized room filled with all the splendour Abdülmecid's Empire could have bought. To his left, on another one of the chairs, sat his Grand Vizier, Ahmed Muhtar Pasha, the aged Vizier's fingers drumming on the small dossier he had on the table before him, waiting.

It was just a small council that the Sultan had called for. Only the Grand Vizier and the War Minister were to meet with him, some of the most influential members of his current cabinet. He didn't need the others to discuss the currently developing situation, not yet, not when speed and decisive action was of the essence.

There was motion beyond the doors and the both of them looked up towards them. The servants at the door lowered their head, then stepped aside, opening the doors and allowing the...well built...War Minister Ahmed Izzet Pasha to enter. The somewhat rotund man's face was still reddened, no doubt from the cold temperatures currently dominating the city, snow having fallen in Konstantiniyye a few days before. He offered all the usual gestures of respect to the Sultan but Yusuf impatiently waved him off, pointing to the chair on his right.

"Thank Allah that you could make it, Minister. Take a seat, there is much to discuss."

, Yusuf said curtly, his own history in the military shining through in his manner of speech. He had been groomed from an early age by his father as a military man, commanding his first army at the tender age of...15 years of age. Of course the turbulent political situation had seen Abdülhamid II ascend to the throne but he had bided his time and now sat the throne himself, enjoying the fruits of his predecessors' works and trying to continue the modernisation and centralisation of the Ottoman Empire.

"Thank you, your Imperial Majesty. May I begin informing you that I come bringing good news?"

, Ahmed replied, gladly taking the offered seat and placing a leather suitcase on the table, withdrawing some dossiers of his own, proudly handing one to the Sultan.

"Ahmed Sharif as-Senussi has agreed to assist us in the creation of a new Corps in Libya. Provided we can ship the necessary equipment, I am confident that we can officially form the Army of the Magrehb by spring."

These were actually quite good news, particularly with the rising tensions across the world and in particular on the european continent. The Sublime Porte had long negotiated with the Senussi Order to try and integrate them more closely with its centralisation efforts and this was a milestone that had been finally reached. A milestone that would certainly make Ottoman designs on North Africa significantly easier. But they were not immediate concerns, of which Yusuf was reminded when the Grand Vizier politely coughed.

"As much as applaud the War Minister on his success, I am afraid we have much bigger problems. The Greeks have officially announced a new political course aligning them closer with the Italians and French, no doubt they are looking to try again what they attempted in 1897."

, he said, the ancient Grand Vizier, nearly 81 years old looking as though he was close to dying right then and there. He was an extremely well respected men across the Ottoman Empire, even being called Gazi, the Undefeated for his heroic defense of eastern Anatolia during the last war with the Russians, now their allies. The news caused grumbling from Ahmed Izzet, the War Minister ranting:

"Give them an inch and they seek to take a mile. We never should have granted them their independence, regardless of what the Great Powers demanded from us. It hasn't even been a century and already they try to bite off more from us instead of showing us their gratitude for not seeking to bring them back under our benevolent reign."

Yusuf, who had remained quiet so far calmly asked:

"What has happened has happened, Minister. More importantly, what can we do to convince the Greeks to back away from their current course of action?"

Ahmet furled his brows in thought at the question. It was one that was not easily answered. Most nearby Ottoman troops were holed up in their winter quarters so any shows of force along the Greek border were absolutely out of the question. A limited mobilisation? Still, the wrong season for it. Deployment of Ottoman troops from elsewhere? No, not necessary, not yet. When finally he had an idea, it was as though a lightbulb went off in his head, the Minister of War proudly smiling as he stated:

"I believe I have a solution for that. The fleet might be glad to stretch its legs beyond the Marmara Sea. A believe a few fleet exercises in the Aegean Sea would serve well in reminding the Greeks that Athens is quite coastal and quite susceptible to our artillery."

A thin smile played across all three of their lips. Yes, this would serve just fine. The Ottoman Main Fleet would begin fleet exercises in the Aegean, a clear sign to the Greeks while remaining normal enough not to draw too much attention by the Great Powers...afterall, the Aegean was even moreso the Caliphate's backwater than it was Greece's.

---

Public Statement of the Sublime Porte

---

It has come to his Imperial Majesty, Sultan Yusuf I Izzedin's attention, that russian troops have entered the Dniepr River. It is the political and spiritual belief of his Imperial Majesty and his cabinet, that this is no act of war at the current time and that the Commonwealth should exercise caution before making such significant accusations. Should the Commonwealth seek to continue its aggressive posturing towards the Russian Empire, his Imperial Majesty may see himself forced to honour standing international agreements between the Sublime Porte and the Russian Government, incurring a situation not to the favour of the Polish people.

As such, his Imperial Majesty advises the Commonwealth to stand down and allow calmer minds to use the weapons of diplomacy rather than war upon this situation.